He explained to me that the word Nygah was most likely a variation of Naga, a name that was used in a number of Eastern religions. To the Hindus the Nagas were a race of serpent people that predated man. (This made me think of Howard's worms of the earth and other Mythos conventions.) In various cultures the term Naga could refer to sea serpents, many-headed dragons, or even a god of the underworld. I was also surprised to find that some authors had used the name in Mythos stories. Peter was evidently much better read than I was -- somewhat to my chagrin.

As we sat, talked, and drank, Peter questioned me about the extent of my interest in this material. I explained my literary hopes and schemes, and he seemed mildly interested. He also asked, in a casual way, whether I believed that the entities discussed in both the Mythos and De la Poer's work might be real. I replied that I did not, of course. He mentioned that there were people who believed in the actual existence of the Old Ones, and even a made a religion of sorts of it.

I found this idea amusing -- here was another case of people who couldn't separate fact from fantasy. Despite making a caustic joke about it, I felt a touch of that blank feeling again. Only this time I recognized that there was a touch of uneasiness to this odd sensation, like a fear repressed. Perhaps it was the drink, but the idea occurred to me that subconsciously I was apprehensive about this very subject. Not in any literal sense, mind you -- I was essentially a skeptic about religion and the supernatural, though I tried to keep an open mind. An agnostic rather than an atheist, if you follow me. I didn't claim to know the answers to such weighty issues, and told myself I really didn't care much. But in the dark spaces of my mind, I had this disquiet. I think I'd had it since I started reading Daemonic Voices.

Some of this may have shown on my face, for my friend began to expand upon the subject in a teasing way. He gave me examples of modern cultists, Satanists, blood drinkers, the rise of mysticism, and even a revival of Gnosticism. I was unaware of that last, and Peter took some satisfaction in telling me about a group who followed a severe form of the religion. They believed, as had many of the historical Gnostics, that the God of the Old Testament was actually the Devil, and that followers of most traditional Judeo-Christian religions were unknowingly devil-worshipers. This was surprising enough, but he went on to claim that a secretive cult that called themselves the Fraternatie Noir was in fact reputed to still exist.

I was not pleased with this information. I told Peter that it made me all the more suspicious that Daemonic Voices was part of some elaborate charade; things were fitting together too neatly for it to be an authentic document. He disagreed, asserting that he found all these supporting details rather compelling. He explained that he had been trying to unearth information about this modern secret society, and had been unable to learn very much. He wasn't even sure if it was a serious religious sect or just some exclusive clique of poseurs. Peter made light of the implied connection, saying that the cult was likely based on Bloch's Black or Dark Brotherhood. I grumbled that these fictitious orders (which I had quite forgotten about) were more black marks against the document's bona fides. Seeing my displeasure, he changed the subject to the sections in need of translation.

Peter told me he'd be happy to work on the material, advising me that he'd need time to work on the Greek, as it was written in Cyrillic, and that he also wanted to double check the Latin, much of which dealt with alchemical terminology. He asked for more photostats of the text in question, saying he wanted us to be able understand what the translations really meant. I agreed, thinking in terms of appreciating the author's meaning in context. It did not occur to me that anyone would be interested in the information as a set of instructions.

It was after getting home from Van Hooten's that I had the first disturbing dream. Somewhat the worse for drink, I had fallen into a fitful slumber within minutes of getting into bed. As with many people, bits and pieces of the day's occurrences drifted through the landscapes of my dreams. For some reason my mind kept going back to Peter's reading of the Latin section, only he was chanting it aloud in Latin, which I appeared to understand. This filled me with apprehension, and I tried to dissuade him from reading further. He resisted impatiently, only to break off suddenly. We were both startled to hear a loud, reverberant footfall, which seemed to come from a distance. The footsteps became louder and nearer, impossibly massive and filled with suggestive menace. I begged him to stop the approach of this frightful thing, but he insisted it was too late. Then his manner changed. He had been as fearful as I, but a strange and mocking smile now appeared on his face. "Don't you want to see what it looks like?" he gibed. "I know it wants to see you!" And then he laughed, his eyes gleaming with madness.

I woke up with a start, as one often does from nightmares. I was not particularly upset by the dream, but was glad it had not progressed any further. I was a bit sweaty, and I was thirsty and had a touch of headache. I got up and got some aspirin and a large plastic mug of water, which I put on my night table, sure that I would want it as the night wore on. I managed to get back to sleep, though I woke up repeatedly and sipped water. If I had any further nightmares, I didn't remember them on waking. I only had that mildly grim feeling that presages a probable hangover. I felt I was due to pay for my overindulgence.

The next day, however, I felt surprisingly well. I assumed the aspirin and water had done their work, and was glad I had been clear-headed enough to avail myself of them. After my morning ablutions, breakfast and a quantity of coffee, I was ready to get the photocopies Peter wanted. I made sure I had plenty of change for the copier and set out for the library.

I had quite a bit to do, as Peter wanted quite a number of items I had made note of, including the complete section that was supposed to comprise the material that John Dee had purportedly left out of his unnamed book. Peter had been quite taken by the reference, he thought it would be marvelous if we could prove that there had been some kind of Necronomicon, though he didn't expect find any book by that title. He speculated that the document might still exist in the British Museum, or some other archive. While I did not give any real credence to this idea, I was willing to make an effort as a nod to Peter's interests. I wanted to complete my work that day, as I wanted to spend the next week of my vacation relaxing. I also made a number of copies of the English sections that I hadn't yet made notes about, skimming through the text trying to glean items of interest.

I looked up Dr. Dee in the computer system, but found little that seemed to pertain to our subject. I did find a volume entitled Collected Notes of Doctor John Dee: Advisor to the Crown, which had been published in 1927 by The Aurora Aureate Press of London. It appeared to be in two parts; Apologia and The Outer Darkness. I could easily imagine that Dee had much to apologize for, but The Outer Darkness sounded promising. At 124 pages this could hardly be the Necronomicon or any other grand grimoire, but I thought I would look through the volume anyway.

I submitted a request to the reference librarian, the quiet bohemian I mentioned earlier. While waiting, I read the last part of Daemonic Voices again, looking to see if there was anything that I had missed. Again, I was struck by the author's odd tone, an almost schizophrenic tension between disapproval and near gloating fascination with his subject matter. It was obvious that he believed in the power of the forces and entities Azrad wrote of, and it was difficult to believe his pious admonitions against summoning those forces. Of course, he was only revealing scraps of the incantations contained in the Al-Azif, but it seemed to me reckless that he disclosed any of what he claimed was dangerous knowledge. It was as though he couldn't stop himself from doing so. Perhaps he couldn't -- after all, hadn't he destroyed himself pursuing some strange obsession?

Lost in a dark reverie about De la Poer and his motivations, if in fact the book was real, I didn't notice that the librarian had been trying to get my attention. He had now come over to my table and he informed me that the book was unavailable, as it was missing and presumed stolen. I was only slightly disappointed by this information, and would have left the situation at that, but the man informed me that it might be possible that the book could be found at the New York Public Library. I thanked him for his assistance and gathered my belongings before leaving.

The black man in the tan suit was on the bus again. He looked more haggard than previously; his face was an ashy gray, with reddened eyes encircled by purple rings. I could not help but notice, as he took a seat directly across from me. His muttered adverbs were darker than before as well.

"Cunningly, deceitfully, insidiously, perfidiously, traitorously, treacherously . . ." On and on he mumbled with restrained venom, and this time I was certain he was speaking, at least in part, to me. From time to time he would catch my eye and sneer as he gave particular emphasis to a particularly choice or unusual word. It was rather disconcerting; moreover, I began to have the feeling that he was directing these utterances at me for a definite reason.

Was he warning or accusing me of something? I could not be sure. But why? I could imagine
. . . or could I? I had a sudden irrational fear that he somehow knew about my research, and disapproved. It was ridiculous of course, but nevertheless, I felt both angry and guilty. I glared back at him -- no, through him, as though he didn't exist. He broke off from his recitation with a whispered curse. I have been told I have a remarkably cold and contemptuous stare when I'm angered. At least, I did then. I am no longer the same man.

After a few minutes the man stood up abruptly, making me think for a moment that he planned to accost me physically. I tensed, ready to fight if I had to, but then realized that his stop was approaching. He walked to the rear door, just to the right of where I was sitting. When the bus came to a halt, he stepped down into the well. He turned his head to me just as the pneumatic doors opened, and with a smile comprised of equal parts malice and pity said two words: "Initially, innocently." He then stepped through and was gone.

I twisted my head around to look out the window at him, but I couldn't see him anywhere as the bus pulled away. For some reason, this literally chilled me, a dull coldness spreading across my chest. I hadn't felt like that since I'd been in a car accident that narrowly missed being serious. I had been a passenger, of course, since I do not drive. That was the reason I had felt so helpless, I suppose -- because I was in a situation under which I had no control.

That evening I couldn't quite rid myself of a decidedly dark mood that the incident on the bus had engendered. The man's cryptic remark had set my mind to work, raising again the doubts I had regarding Daemonic Voices, although this time my concern was not that it was a simple fabrication. No, the idea that now disturbed me was that the document was somehow having a negative affect on my disposition and intellect. Was I becoming too involved in the book, was I growing obsessive and paranoid, trying to find hidden meanings in everything? Or was I just playing mind games with myself?

My mood lifted somewhat when Peter Van Hooten stopped by to pick up the additional photostats he had requested. He was dressed in Gothic fashion, wearing a long black leather trench coat despite the June heat. A miniature ankh dangled from one ear, and I was half convinced he'd darkened his eyelashes and brows with makeup. I was a bit amused by his affectations, but said nothing. I had pretensions enough of my own.

He must have noted my wry appraisal, because he felt compelled to explain that he was going out to a gothic-themed club later that evening. I assured him I had expected something of that nature, and that he seemed to be dressed appropriately for such a venue. I thought to myself that it was no odder then the punk rock look he had affected in his late teens -- only now he was over thirty, though he still looked several years younger.

I presented him with the papers, saying he needn't feel obliged to expend too much energy upon them. He averred that he had developed a great interest in them, and that it would be his pleasure to work on the translations. We chatted for a few minutes about various matters, before I mentioned the odd encounters I had experienced with the fellow on the bus. Peter joked that mild paranoia was one of the "fringe benefits" of reading Mythos fiction, and I was forced to laugh along with him.

A curious look passed over his face immediately after, however, and he asked seriously if I had had any odd dreams or nightmares. I admitted that I had the night I had been to his apartment. He pressed me for details and I recounted the brief nightmare that had awakened me. He nodded thoughtfully, claiming he had dreamed something vaguely similar, the particulars of which he could not clearly remember. He shrugged the matter off, attributing it to the effects of alcohol and suggestion on two imaginative minds, to which I concurred.

After he had left, I felt less sure. I still had a certain undefined uneasiness in my mind about the entire affair. The fact that he had had a similar dream seemed more than coincidence. I diverted myself from my dark musings by watching some acerbic British comedies on television, and then reading a science fiction adventure novel until retiring for the night. Yet still the nightmares came.

Perhaps the conversation with Peter triggered my subconscious, for after a few fragmentary dreams that I do not recall, I found myself in a dream library. This place appeared innocuous at first, but something about the long corridors of bookshelves began to wear upon my spirits. They seemed to tower over me in a leering, threatening fashion, as though they wanted me to know that they could crush me if they wished. The strangeness of the notion that these inanimate objects could bear me any animosity did not allay my fears in the dream. For I knew that the shelves were full of books, and books were full of ideas.

Some books were evil, I knew, and they laid in wait for the unwary. I increased my pace, trying to leave this maze of bookshelves behind. I seemed to walk for hours, sometimes breaking into a run as I passed certain volumes that called to me. Finally, I reached an area of tables beyond the reach of the shelves.

It dawned on me suddenly that the library was very old, and seemingly deserted. The reading tables were of heavy dark wood, with thick carved legs. Green-shaded lamps of brass lit the tables, and I sat down in this oasis of light upon a sturdy wooden chair. It made a loud squeaking sound as it scraped back across the polished stone floor. I looked around nervously, fearful that I had attracted the attention of some unnamable person or thing, but there was nothing menacing to be found. Relieved, I turned my attention back to the table, which had a few books and papers on it. The papers were blank, except for one that had the word "Notes" written in a cursive hand across the top. This seemed to interest me, and I began to look through my pockets for something with which I could write. I found an old and expensive looking fountain pen of silver. I was surprised to find it in my possession, and stared at it in some confusion, then shrugged, and unscrewed the cap.

I then began to write strange glyphs upon the paper, which seemed imbued with great meaning in the dream, though I could not consciously say what they represented. Alongside these mysterious characters, I made stylized sketches, similar to ancient Egyptian representations of gods. One was clearly of Cthulhu, one might have been Nyarlathotep, the others less distinct. I turned the sheet over and sketched a circle, much larger than the other drawings. I added radiating arms or tentacles all around, like a conventionalized depiction of the sun. This left the center still blank, and I was loath to add the details that would complete the depiction. I turned away, only to find a large book on the table, which had not been there previously.

The tome had an ancient and sinister aspect, which intimidated me to no small degree. It was thick, a thousand gilt-edged pages or more, and it was bound in cracked, yellowed leather that I found repellent for some reason. The spine and corners were of verdigrised brass, with clasp locks on the side. I was afraid to look at the raised title plate on the cover; I feared I already knew what this book was. Finally, I forced myself to look. NEKRONOMICON was inscribed in the metal in angular Roman letters; my dark intuition was fulfilled.

I turned away quickly, only to be confronted again with the uncompleted drawing. It had taken on a more ominous cast, to my eyes. I was still unwilling to finish it. At that point I became aware of a deep humming tone in the room, and knew it was coming from behind me . . . from the book!

I sat there, the tone rising in pitch and volume, struggling with the fear that haunted me like a spectre. With an effort, I forced myself to face the book again. It seemed larger, and full of mocking, sentient menace, bathed in unholy light. The locks fell open, the heavy cover sprang up like a reversed trap door, and the pages began to turn of their own accord. I glimpsed pages of incomprehensible words, images of occult import that both repulsed and tantalized me.

Finally, the pages stopped on an engraving that was akin to my unfinished sketch. The face of the "sun" was much like that of a horrendous human skull, only with three enormous, baleful eyes, and dagger-like teeth. This filled me with a palpable dread and, as I stood transfixed, staring at the image, I realized that the humming, which had reached a deafening shrillness, had ceased. Instead, I heard a ripping sound, like fabric being torn. I whirled around to see that my drawing was somehow working itself loose from the paper it was drawn on, freeing its tentacles one by one. Soon it had detached itself, and it leapt off the table towards me! Filled with a horror that it intended to affix itself to my face, I leapt aside, only to see it land on the engraving in the book. Lightning flashed about the library, white bolts followed by red afterimages. Something terrible was happening; something monstrous -- and I could do nothing to stop it!

With an inarticulate cry, I was catapulted into consciousness, but the flashes of white and red continued. It took me several confused and anxious seconds to understand that the lights were coming from outside, from the street. As the pounding of my heart lessened, I could hear the throbbing of powerful engines. They must be fire trucks, I realized, and I shakily put on a robe and slippers to investigate.

When I reached the front porch, I found my parents already there, looking out the door. The house on the opposite corner of the street was on fire, or rather it had been. It was out already; apparently, it had been a small electrical fire, my father told me. He had been out to speak with the firemen a few moments before. I could smell the smoke now, that acrid throat-stinging stench of burning wire and insulation.

I blurted out that I had dreamed that something was happening, and was glad to find that there was no longer any danger. My parents concurred that there was nothing to worry about and went back up to bed. Despite my relief, I was still somewhat shaken. I went into the kitchen and poured myself a glass of milk to help calm myself. As I sat there slowly drinking the milk, I reflected that some of the elements of my dream could be explained by the fire. The strange tone could be due to the sirens, and the lightning no more than the trucks' flashing lights. The feeling of danger and menace was no doubt a subconscious warning that there was something amiss going on around me. The rest of it could be explained away by my continuing misgivings about the Daemonic Voices project and Peter Van Hooten's query about nightmares. So I told myself, but in the back of my mind, I did not really believe it. I slept very little that night.

In the week that followed, I didn't spend much time working on the De la Poer material, even by the light of day I found the undertaking had lost its appeal. I occupied myself in other matters, passing time by watching television or listening to music. Van Hooten had most of the material, in any event. I wrote little, and did not take up my sketchbook, feeling a vague uneasiness about these activities. The possibility that I might find myself imitating my actions of the dream persisted at the edges of my mind, a fear that I might somehow call up more nightmares -- or something worse.

Peter called that Thursday, saying that his work on the translations was going well. I begged off from an invitation to see the work in progress, as I was going to be entertaining a weekend guest. This was a fellow Peter found annoying, otherwise he would have had me bring him over to his apartment for a get-together. Secretly, I was pleased by this happenstance.

The visit of my guest (still a good and loyal friend) was a happy one. We talked and laughed over old times and whiled away the hours watching videotapes of old science fiction and superhero films, even cartoons. It was a chance to act like the sophomoric youths we had once been, and I found it refreshing. We did briefly discuss my recent library researches, as my friend always encouraged me to write, and wanted to know if I was working on anything. He seemed interested, although he had no real taste for horror. Upon learning that Van Hooten (we often referred to our old schoolmates by their last names) was involved in translating the work he assumed a dubious expression. I thought this was just their long-standing mutual disfavor, but apparently he had heard some of the unpleasant rumors about Peter. He cautioned me to careful not to allow myself to be drawn into any questionable situations. I assured him that nothing of the sort would occur, and the subject was dropped in preference of more amusing topics.

My spirits were much improved, and my sleep undisturbed by dreams during and immediately after my friend's visit. It was not until the following Monday night (I worked Tuesdays through Saturdays) that I had any unpleasant thoughts, and that was just due to the fact that my vacation was over and I was obliged to return to work the next day. That night I did have a mildly disagreeable dream, but it was about some work-related matter that had occurred while I was away. I remember waking around four o'clock in the morning and groaning in disgusted irritation after looking at the time.

That week at work was fairly busy. Things had gone undone and slightly awry in my absence, though it hadn't taken any prescience to anticipate that detail. Most people find work piled up for them when they get back from vacation. I was being additionally hampered now as a few of the individuals in other departments which I was dependent upon were also taking early vacations, and their replacements were not getting their assignments done in a timely fashion. This consequently was forcing me to work late, which I disliked because the trains and buses ran less frequently after eleven PM, and if I missed my connections it could add as much as an hour to my travel time.

Needless to say, I was unable to get any real work done on either my research or fiction. I did jot down ideas for several stories that had nothing to do with the Mythos, truthfully I was avoiding the subject as much as possible. I also wasn't sleeping well. I think I was subconsciously afraid of what I might dream; though I had convinced myself that my misgivings were nonsensical.

That Thursday I received the message that Peter wanted me to go to his apartment for a reading of the translations. Dutifully I called him, and he enthusiastically urged that I come over Saturday night after work. He excitedly told me he had found on "Invocation to N'Gatrés" that was very interesting and had every appearance of authenticity. I agreed, though I warned him that I would likely be late, due to the difficulties I was encountering. He countered that he did not mind at all, he would leave the doors open for me to come in without having to knock or disturb his landlords.

I had a nightmare again that night, unsurprisingly enough. The details are hazy now, but I remember it seemed to combine elements of both previous nightmares; I was trying to stop Peter Van Hooten from completing some eldritch invocation or ritual that I had initiated, but now feared. But it did not seem to have the power the earlier dreams had possessed; no real horror, only a kind of grim inevitability. I had a variation on it the next night as well, and I ignored them both. I wish I hadn't -- I wish I had taken them as the warnings they were, and that I had passed the warning on to Peter. But I didn't, and he probably would not have listened if I had.

Saturday night came, and as I had anticipated, I was made to wait while others dawdled. One of the benefits of working the three to eleven shift at my place of employment is that if the work was finished, no one objected to leaving a few minutes early. Conversely, one could not leave until the work was entirely finished. I suspected that my colleagues had stretched matters out so that they would receive overtime, which did not go into effect until thirty minutes past the hour. I called Peter to let him know that I was being delayed. The telephone rang a number of times, and his recorded message came on. I started to leave a message, but Peter picked up the phone.

He seemed a bit anxious, though he assured me it was all right. He wanted to be sure I was coming, and asked if I minded if he "started without me." I assumed this to mean if I objected to him indulging in drinking while he waited, and I told him to feel free to do so. If I had realized what he actually intended, I would have begged him not to do anything until I got there, and done my best to dissuade him from any such actions when I had arrived. It honestly never occurred to me at that point what he had in mind. I should have paid attention to my dreams.

Of course, I missed my usual train by a good fifteen minutes. However, it was a Saturday night, and I reasoned I shouldn't have to wait too long. I was wrong in my assumption, and waited twenty minutes for another. There was trouble on the line, it appeared, and the train was packed full despite the hour. The trip was slow, as the train was pressed into local service. I just missed the bus for Peter's house as I exited the subway, adding nearly a half-hour to my delay.

By the time I got off the bus in Peter's neighborhood, I was over an hour later than I had expected. It was past 1:30 in the morning as I walked through the empty streets. Making my way carefully down the unlit driveway of the house, in the darkness his open cellar doors looked all the more like the doors to a crypt -- unervingly so. The image of Cthulhu's black and sunken lair also went through my mind, an extravagant dramatization of such a mundane entrance, I know. I was "spooking" myself, I thought. With a definite feeling of reluctance, I descended the stairs.

The inner door was open a crack, as Peter had promised. Nevertheless, I knocked softly first -- there was no answer. I pushed the door open, and saw that the light inside was dim and smoky. It was cold in the apartment, despite the fact Peter had no air conditioner. There was a strange feeling, a vibration in the air that literally made my hair stand on end. I don't know if you've ever had that feeling, but now I understand why it is called horrorpilation. Something was wrong, I knew -- something was very wrong. Something unnatural.

My ears seemed to be ringing, but I thought I heard whispered voices towards the back of the apartment. Coughing a little from the heavy smoke or incense, I called out Peter's name. There was a pause and then I heard Peter's voice respond.

"Jack? Jackson, is that you?" His voice seemed strained, fearful. It seemed to be coming from behind the curtain that separated the "bedroom" area from the rest of the apartment.

"Peter, is everything ok? Should I come back there?" I heard more whispering, it sounded like Peter was arguing with some one. Suddenly he yelled out desperately.

"Jack! Don't come back here, get out! Get out of here -- it's too late!" He then launched into a frenzied exclamation in what sounded like Latin. A choking scream followed, which froze me in my tracks for a moment. I looked around the apartment for a weapon, but could find nothing at hand in the darkness. Finally, I seized up the lamp from his desk, pulling the wire out of the wall. Then I heard Peter's voice again, oddly altered.

"Come in, Jackson Palmer. See the fruits of your labor. Quickly, while you still can!"

Was Peter having a joke on me? Could he be playing some stupid game? Angry now, I ripped aside the curtain, lamp raised before me like a cudgel.

Some ropy thing whipped the lamp out of my hand. I jumped back, not quite in time to avoid a stinging impact to my right temple. My head swimming, I scanned the room for Peter or possible assailants. What I saw was something I can't really explain. In the middle of the room there was a concentration of smoke or mist, which seemed to rotate clockwise like a slowly clearing drain. There was a lambent violet glow in the center of the cloud, which silhouetted a number of dark tendrils, which were rapidly being drawn back inside it. A rushing sound of wind, like a hurricane, was audible as the cloud thing dwindled away to nothing.

After getting my breath back, I noticed a figure on the floor, arms outstretched. I rushed over, thinking to aid my friend. What I saw made my senses reel, the room sway. It was Peter, all right, but there was nothing I or anyone else could do for him. His head was gone.

I don't remember the details of what happened next. The police told me I roused Peter's aged landlords, pounding on their door hysterically. The police were called, and Peter Van Hooten's headless body was duly discovered. I was brought to the station house and I was permitted to call my parents. My father later told me that the officers investigating the case half- suspected at first that I was involved in Peter's death -- which is true enough, but not in the way that they meant.

After investigating matters, however, I was quickly eliminated as a suspect. You see the head was cut off with unusual precision, and there was hardly any blood. The medical examiner believed that Peter had been dead for at least two hours before I arrived. He had thought more from the temperature of the body, but it was known I had spoken to him at about 11:25. The answering machine verified that, as Peter had forgotten to stop the machine, and the conversation was recorded, along with the time and date it was received. The authorities believe he was killed shortly after that call by person or persons unknown. They suspect he had become involved with drug dealers who operated in the clubs he frequented, or possibly he offended other individuals. One detective was quite interested in the possibility that cultists were involved, and asked me many questions about the Fraternatie Noir group Peter had supposedly run across.

I didn't try to convince them of what I had seen, I knew it was pointless. Oh, I babbled about N'Gatrés and sundry horrors at first, but they assured me that was due to shock and the hallucinogens Peter had apparently mixed in with his incense. Sometimes I almost believe it.

I have never been the same since. I didn't seem physically injured at the time, other than a odd welt on my right temple. (There's no visible scar, but it still feels oddly cold from time to time, and it remains pale when my face is flushed.) But my health has deteriorated from that point. I am a ghost, weak and unable carry out my former responsibilities. And I am still plagued by nightmares.

Often I am forced to visit that dream library, or to relive the night of Peter's death in much greater detail than I saw. I believe I know what happen to him; he called up something more powerful than he suspected, and though he managed to send it back from whence it came, it was too late for him. He was a good friend in the end; he gave his life to save me, though his own was probably forfeit the moment he opened that doorway into the beyond. The police could not know, or even consider a supernatural (or non-terrestrial) explanation for poor Peter's cold body. But it was cold in that apartment, and the touch of that thing freezing -- that mark on my head was frostbite. I think it grabbed him and bit his head off, carefully. It wasn't an act of hunger or rage, the hellish thing wanted his head. That's what my dreams tell me.

If you recall the passage I quoted, N'Gatrés (or whatever name the accursed thing might answer to) wanted eyes to see with and mouths to speak with. In my nightmares Peter's head, supported by one of those hateful, snakelike tentacles, comes and tells me things. Sometimes I know it is not him, as it claims he is happy as the instrument of his god, and that I could join him and live forever probing the wonders and mysteries of the multi-dimensioned universe. It's not terribly convincing, for the "wonders" he speaks of are more often than not repellent, and from time to time Peter's real personality comes through and he warns me against these entreaties, before being cut off. He needn't worry; I am not tempted.

Are these nightmares real? I don't know anymore. I only know I will not explore further the mysteries behind the Mythos. I won't. I did give in and try to find the Daemonic Voices again, because the police took all the notes Peter had as evidence. It's been stolen. But at any rate, it's now believed to have been a complete fraud. A hoax. Lindsey St. Simon (if that was his real name) has vanished, causing the British Museum more than a little embarrassment. I suspect a darker reason behind his disappearance, but who would take me seriously? They have no idea of the truth, and perhaps it's just as well.

What about the Collected Notes of Doctor John Dee? What was The Outer Darkness? I've never gone to the New York Public Library to check -- and it's not in the Queens computer file anymore. You can try to find it if you like, but I'd advise against it. If it's just more of his nonsense about angels and the Enochian language you'll be disappointed. If it contains secrets of the Al-Azif, you and the rest of the world may be in mortal danger. So, though I hate with a passion the destruction of books, if you do find it and the damned thing is real, I say BURN IT!

AUTHOR'S NOTE: The entity Djir-Ahmin is my "arabicized" variant of Gary Griffith's Jeramin, and appears with his permission.

Created: March 12, 1999; Updated: August 9, 2004