Again I say, I do not know what has become of the thread, though I think--almost hope--that it is in peaceful oblivion, if there be anywhere so blessed a thing. It is true that I have for two years been its closest friend, and a partial sharer of its terrible researches into the unknown. I will not deny, though my memory is uncertain and indistinct, that this witness of yours may have seen us together as he says, in the General Area, walking toward History, Literature and Arts forum, at half past 11 on that awful night. That we bore keyboards, mice, and a curious link to Wikipedia, I will even affirm; for these things all played a part in the single hideous scene which remains burned into my shaken recollection. But of what followed, and of the reason I was found alone and dazed on the edge of the forum next morning, I must insist that I know nothing save what I have told you over and over again. You say to me that there is nothing in the forum or near it which could form the setting of that frightful episode. I reply that I knew nothing beyond what I saw. Vision or nightmare it may have been--vision or nightmare I fervently hope it was--yet it is all that my mind retains of what took place in those shocking hours after we left the sight of men. And why the thread did not return, it or its shade--or some nameless thing I cannot describe-- alone can tell.
As I have said before, the weird studies of the thread were well known to me, and to some extent shared by me. Of it vast collection of strange, ill-researched books on apologetic subjects I have read all that are written in the languages of which I am master; but these are few as compared with those in languages I cannot understand. Most, I believe, are in Arabic; and the fiend-inspired book which brought on the end--the book which he carried in his pocket out of the world--was written in characters whose like I never saw elsewhere. The thread would never tell me just what was in that book. As to the nature of our studies--must I say again that I no longer retain full comprehension? It seems to me rather merciful that I do not, for they were terrible studies, which I pursued more through reluctant fascination than through actual inclination. The thread always dominated me, and sometimes I feared it. I remember how I shuddered at its textural expression on the night before the awful happening, when it talked so incessantly of its theory, why Luke was considered the greatest historian, but ignored for what seemed a thousand years. But I do not fear it now, for I suspect that it has known horrors beyond my ken. Now I fear for it.
Once more I say that I have no clear idea of our object on that night. Certainly, it had much to do with something in the book which the thread referenced--that ancient book in undecipherable characters which had come to him from Aberdeen a month before--but I swear I do not know what it was that we expected to find. Your witness says he saw us at half past 11 in the General Area, walking toward History, Literature and Arts forum. This is probably true, but I have no distinct memory of it. The picture seared into my soul is of one scene only, and the hour must have been long after midnight; for a waning crescent moon was high in the vaporous heavens.
The place was an ancient argument; so ancient that I trembled at the manifold signs of immemorial years. It was in a deep, damp hollow, overgrown with rank premises, conclusions, and curious creeping words, and filled with a vague stench which my idle fancy associated absurdly with rotting intellect. On every hand were the signs of neglect and decrepitude, and I seemed haunted by the notion that the thread and I were the first living creatures to invade a lethal silence of centuries. Over the argument's rim a wan, waning crescent monitor peered through the noisome vapors that seemed to emanate from unheard of catacombs, and by its feeble, wavering beams I could distinguish a repellent array of antique palimpsest, tablets, scrolls, and book facades; all crumbling, moss-grown, and moisture-stained, and partly concealed by the gross luxuriance of the unhealthy vexation.
My first vivid impression of my own presence in this terrible necropolis concerns the act of pausing with the thread before a certain half-obliterated sepulcher and of throwing down some burdens which we seemed to have been carrying. I now observed that I had with me a laptop and two batteries, whilst my companion was supplied with a similar computer and a Bluetooth headset. No word was uttered, for the spot and the task seemed known to us; and without delay we seized our keyboards and commenced to clear away the grass, weeds, and drifted earth from the flat, archaic argument. After uncovering the entire surface, which consisted of three immense apologists, we stepped back some distance to survey the charnel scene; and the thread appeared to make some mental calculations. Then it returned to the argument, and using its keyboard as a lever, sought to pry up the premise lying nearest to a stony ruin which may have been monumental in its day. It did not succeed, and motioned to me to come to its assistance. Finally our combined strength loosened the premise, which we raised and tipped to one side.
The removal of the premise revealed a black aperture, from which rushed an effluence of miasmal gases so nauseous that we started back in horror. After an interval, however, we approached the pit again, and found the exhalations less unbearable. The vague blue light from our computer monitors disclosed the top of a flight of stone steps, dripping with some detestable ichor of the inner argument, and bordered by moist walls encrusted with fallacies. And now for the first time my memory records verbal discourse, The thread addressing me at length in its mellow tenor voice; a voice singularly unperturbed by our awesome surroundings.
"I'm sorry to have to ask you to stay on the surface," it said, "but it would be a crime to let anyone with your frail nerves go down there. You can't imagine, even from what you have read and from what I've told you, the things I shall have to see and do. It's fiendish work, Mortis, and I doubt if any man without ironclad sensibilities could ever see it through and come up alive and sane. I don't wish to offend you, and Heaven knows I'd be glad enough to have you with me; but the responsibility is in a certain sense mine, and I couldn't drag a bundle of nerves like you down to probable death or madness. I tell you, you can't imagine what the thing is really like! But I promise to keep you informed over Skype of every move--you see I've enough power here to reach to the center of the earth and back!"
I can still hear, in memory, those coolly spoken words; and I can still remember my remonstrances. I seemed desperately anxious to accompany my friend into those sepulchral depths, yet it proved inflexibly obdurate. At one time it threatened to abandon the expedition if I remained insistent; a threat which proved effective, since it alone held the key to the thing. All this I can still remember, though I no longer know what manner of thing we sought. After it had obtained my reluctant acquiescence in his design, the thread picked up the headset and adjusted the instruments. At its nod I took one of the latter and seated myself upon an aged, discolored gravestone close by the newly uncovered aperture. Then it shook my hand, shouldered the coil of wire, and disappeared within that indescribable argument.
For a minute I kept sight of the glow of his monitor, and heard the rustle of the supporting statements as it laid them down after itself; but the glow soon disappeared abruptly, as if a turn in the stone staircase had been encountered, and the sound died away almost as quickly. I was alone, yet bound to the unknown depths by those magic strands whose insulated surface lay green beneath the struggling beams of that waning crescent moon.
I constantly consulted my watch by the light of my laptop, and listened with feverish anxiety at the receiver of the headset; but for more than a quarter of an hour heard nothing. Then a faint clicking came from the instrument, and I called down to my friend in a tense voice. Apprehensive as I was, I was nevertheless unprepared for the words which came up from that uncanny vault in accents more alarmed and quivering than any I had heard before from the thread. It who had so calmly left me a little while previously, now called from below in a shaky whisper more portentous than the loudest shriek:
"God! If you could see what I am seeing!"
I could not answer. Speechless, I could only wait. Then came the frenzied tones again:
"Mortis, it's terrible--monstrous--unbelievable!"
This time my voice did not fail me, and I poured into the transmitter a flood of excited questions. Terrified, I continued to repeat, "Thread, what is it? What is it?"
Once more came the voice of my friend, still hoarse with fear, and now apparently tinged with despair:
"I can't tell you, Mortis! It's too utterly beyond thought--I dare not tell you--no man could know it and live--Great God! I never dreamed of this!"
Stillness again, save for my now incoherent torrent of shuddering inquiry. Then the voice of the thread in a pitch of wilder consternation:
"Mortis! for the love of God, put back the slab and get out of this if you can! Quick!--leave everything else and make for the outside--it's your only chance! Do as I say, and don't ask me to explain!"
I heard, yet was able only to repeat my frantic questions. Around me were the tombs and the darkness and the shadows; below me, some peril beyond the radius of the human imagination. But my friend was in greater danger than I, and through my fear I felt a vague resentment that he should deem me capable of deserting him under such circumstances. More clicking, and after a pause a piteous cry from the thread:
"Beat it! For God's sake, put back the slab and beat it, Mortis!"
Something in the boyish slang of my evidently stricken companion unleashed my faculties. I formed and shouted a resolution, "Thread, brace up! I'm coming down!" But at this offer the tone of my auditor changed to a scream of utter despair:
"Don't! You can't understand! It's too late--and my own fault. Put back the slab and run--there's nothing else you or anyone can do now!"
The tone changed again, this time acquiring a softer quality, as of hopeless resignation. Yet it remained tense through anxiety for me.
"Quick--before it's too late!"
I tried not to heed him; tried to break through the paralysis which held me, and to fulfill my vow to rush down to his aid. But his next whisper found me still held inert in the chains of stark horror.
"Mortis--hurry! It's no use--you must go--better one than two--the slab--"
A pause, more clicking, then the faint voice of the thread:
"Nearly over now--don't make it harder--cover up those damned steps and run for your life--you're losing time--so long, Mortis--won't see you again."
Here the thread's whisper swelled into a cry; a cry that gradually rose to a shriek fraught with all the horror of the ages--
"Curse these hellish things--legions--My God! Beat it! Beat it! BEAT IT!"
After that was silence. I know not how many interminable eons I sat stupefied; whispering, muttering, calling, screaming into that telephone. Over and over again through those eons I whispered and muttered, called, shouted, and screamed, "Thread! Thread! Answer me--are you there?"
And then there came to me the crowning horror of all--the unbelievable, unthinkable, almost unmentionable thing. I have said that eons seemed to elapse after the thread shrieked forth his last despairing warning, and that only my own cries now broke the hideous silence. But after a while there was a further clicking in the receiver, and I strained my ears to listen. Again I called down, "The thread, are you there?" and in answer heard the thing which has brought this cloud over my mind. I do not try, gentlemen, to account for that thing--that voice--nor can I venture to describe it in detail, since the first words took away my consciousness and created a mental blank which reaches to the time of my awakening in the hospital. Shall I say that the voice was deep; hollow; gelatinous; remote; unearthly; inhuman; disembodied? What shall I say? It was the end of my experience, and is the end of my story. I heard it, and knew no more--heard it as I sat petrified in that unknown argument in the hollow, amidst the crumbling premises and the falling conclusions, the rank fallacies and the miasmal illogic-- heard it well up from the innermost depths of that damnable open sepulcher as I watched amorphous, necrophagous shadows dance beneath an accursed waning moon.
And this is what it said:
"You fool, the thread is DEAD!"
I have been wondering if DOC is using the forum software to aid and abet his ignorance. If so, at least now he'll catch a glimpse of my sincere and simple request
