Look, I don’t write this down because I think you can save yourself. But as an excuse for what you must do next if you even want to try.
First, let me tell you; I understand.
When you go to Providence, you go to the Lovecraft Museum and library. End of story. The place is magnificent. Situated in the back of the John Hays Public Library, it comprises the largest collection of Howard’s personal effects, journals, drawings, and every book he owned in his life. Even the naughty ones. Of which, not to be too judgy of the eldritch-bard, but he did have some bizarre tastes.
I was there, once, late into the night, on my last visit, picking through this very selection. The Lovecraft museum is in the basement, it’s windowless and tends to be quite dark. The building itself once was a church transported brick by brick from Europe in the 17th century. On land again, whoever ordered the twenty-boat shipment was not to be found. That, in itself, a mystery that has never been solved. The stones sat at the docks for ten years before the Rhode Island Governor made the decision to erect the building. It’s gone from governmental offices, to Brown university classrooms, to finally its current condition; library.
I was engaged in taking notes on a particularly bawdy tale when it dawned on me how late it was. See, time tends to slip by on me sometimes. Days can pass when I am enraptured with a project. Thankful this event was not as negative as that but I had certainly gotten a nice start on this project. But, alas, somehow when I went to exit the building I found that, one; it was past midnight, and two; I was locked up tight in the building till morning.
I guess I could have called the nonemergency line for the police department, but as a bibliophile, this was not a bad set of circumstances of which I certainly planned on having a laugh with the head librarian about when he came in later.
Also being a sufferer of insomnia, normally, I was also certain I could make best use of my current predicament by returning to my research. So I did.
Upon doing just that I was shocked to find this same figure, the one in the picture above, sitting on the book I hauled off the shelf earlier.
You see, it wears the ancient tattoo symbols of a Pict warrior? Those symbols mean it fights for Gods whose names humans long ago forgot how to pronounce. The symbol of the moon is a clue as to why I was finding it when I was.
Baffled, I approached and upon doing so the thing turned and growled.
I say growled because what other sound could the thing have made before it brandished its spear at me and leapt off the table? I was beyond shocked. An icy sludge filled my body. I couldn’t move, but I could watch as it dove landing on my oxford-clad foot whereupon it began to stab me over and over again, each time issuing that same high-pitched grunt.
When the pain finally broke through my stupor and I regained control of my leg if not my whole body, I did the only rational thing one could have done in that situation and kicked the foul being off.
In shock I watched it flip in mid-air and land back on the page I was reading. It growled and I was certain it was going to leap again, this time instead of damaging my foot it would go for my throat and that would be it for me. I turned to run but the damage done already prevented use of the foot, which was perfect not moments ago, and I fell flat onto my face in extreme agony.
I turned, sobbing, and just happened to grab a newspaper collected in a bamboo holder as to defend myself. I brandished it like a sword and the idea struck me that ultimately saved my life. I pulled my trusty zippo out of my coat pocket and lit the pages on fire. I lit all that pages on fire.
No one knows who ordered those stones sent from England, but everyone in Providence knows who burned down the Lovecraft Museum, me. And If you want to protect your family; be ready to do whatever it takes.
Write to me at any time, just remember to include my DOC number or the penal system will just toss your note in the trash.