Chapter 7: The House on Birch Street

"I may be here, but I'm doing this under protest," Peter grumbled as they drove off from June's house. "It was bad timing that Diana wasn't at work when I called. We should have spoken with her first."

Mozzie grimaced. "Who knows what valuable evidence would be destroyed if we wait?"

The three of them had met at eight o'clock. Neal had never broken into a place before. Was he going in as a cat burglar or a spy? What was the appropriate look for his first foray into the unexplored territory of clandestine reconnaissance? Leonard Nimoy on Mission Impossible was a good role model, so Neal opted for a black turtleneck and pants. Mozzie was wearing a worn leather jacket and a baseball cap. Peter also wore jeans and a jacket.

Neal felt a rush of excitement as they pulled away from the curb in Mozzie's Hornet Sportabout. Peter was fretting about the consequences, but Mozzie ignored him and Nea was too excited to care. When they arrived at the abandoned house on Birch Street, Mozzie parked across the street behind a station wagon. They'd all brought binoculars. They spent a few minutes scanning the windows for any sign of activity before leaving the car. No lights were on.

"The coast is clear," Mozzie announced gleefully. Neal was quickly acquiring a picture of what Mozzie the activist was like.

"How will we get in?" Peter asked uneasily. "Break a window?"

Mozzie winced. "Have you no finesse? Don't tell me this is your first time to sneak into a place." He reached into a jacket pocket and pulled out a small tool.

"Is that a lock pick?" Neal asked, staring at it with curiosity.

He nodded. "One of many I have. I'll go first and give you a signal when you can approach."

"What kind of signal?" Peter demanded as they got out and crouched behind the car.

"I'll hoot like an owl."

"Why would an owl hoot by the front door of a house?" Neal asked. "Couldn't you just give a tug to the brim of your cap?"

Ignoring him, Mozzie stood up and strolled toward the front door of the house, whistling a tune as he walked. Peter watched the street nervously. He was probably scanning for police cars. "How I let him talk us into this, I'll never understand."

Mozzie knocked on the front door then casually leaned against it, with his right side next to the doorknob. Was he using the lock pick? If so, he was very good at it. Neal craned his neck to get a better look.

Peter's frown deepened. "I saw a phone booth down the street. You wait here and I'll try Diana—"

"He's waving to us! He must have decided to forego the owl hoot." Neal took off and after a second, Peter tossed aside caution, joining him in a dash for the door.

Their leader scanned the street as they approached. "No fuzz around. Quick before someone drives by." When Peter started to put his hand to the doorknob, Mozzie jerked it away. "Gloves!" he hissed in an angry whisper.

Mozzie had reminded them to bring gloves when they finalized their plans. Neal hastily pulled out a pair and slipped them on. His first break-in and he'd almost committed a classic novice mistake.

Peter opened the door. It creaked ominously, freezing them all in place. They waited anxiously, listening intently for any sound. The wind had strengthened. It blew through the broken window panes, causing the house to groan and rattle. Gusts echoed through the rooms. What had been exhilaration turned into tense anticipation. Neal couldn't define why precisely, but the house didn't simply feel creepy. It was evil.

When they crept inside, Neal shuddered as the feeling grew stronger. Was someone or something lurking within? He had the strong impression they were being watched.

He glanced over at the others. They didn't appear to sense it. Just his imagination. Neal took a deep breath to calm his nerves. No one was waiting in the dark.

Peter nudged him. "Any visions?"

Neal shook his head. Mozzie had switched on his flashlight and was exploring the front hallway. They got out their flashlights and followed him. The rooms on the ground floor were empty of furniture. The wood plank floors were covered in dust. Gigantic cobwebs floor seemed designed to ensnare them. Unbidden, the image of Shelob, guardian of Cirith Ungol sprang to his mind. As a teenager, he'd been fascinated by the Lord of the Rings. He'd drawn illustrations of that monstrous spider. Now he wished he hadn't.

A scattering of footprints in the rooms could be detected in the dust. Prints of small clawed paws. Rats most likely. Or zoogs. Neal looked around for eyes but didn't see anything. Was that a faint scurrying or were his ears playing tricks on him?

Even more disturbing were the large clawed prints accompanied by serpentine tails. Judging by the length of the stride, the animals must be about five feet tall, but they could have been much taller. They appeared to walk upright. The tails, if tails they were, appeared to be hairless. One print was particularly disturbing. Were those spines? Neal pointed them out to Peter and asked for his opinion. Although the house appeared to be empty they were keeping their voices low.

"I don't know what kind of animal could have made it," Peter said. "The animal must either be built very low to the ground or have a very long tail."

Mozzie urged them forward. "We don't want to dally. Zoology lessons can wait. Unless"—he cast a sharp glance at Neal—"Were they made by your ghast?"

"Don't call that thing mine, and no, they couldn't have been. Ghasts don't have tails and their legs end in hooves, more like a deer than anything else I suppose."

"I've been looking for hoof prints," Peter said. "So far I haven't seen any."

"The stairs are covered with footprints. We may find them there. Follow me!" Mozzie darted ahead to the staircase and began sneaking upstairs. Neal adopted his furtive crouch, although he felt self-conscious about it. He felt better when he saw Peter was also sneaking. The atmosphere was getting to him too.

A few faded photographs of people wearing old-fashioned clothes hung on the walls. Some of the portraits appeared to date back to the nineteenth century. The wallpaper was so coated with grime, it was difficult to recognize the original design. The staircase must have once been elegant. The baluster and handrails had been carved to resemble tree branches with acorns for the newels.

There were a few claw prints of varying sizes on the stairs. No hoof prints. Neal relaxed a bit until he remembered that any ghast hidden within a man wouldn't have left telltale prints.

The rooms on the second floor were also empty. Neal stopped at one window to scan the street below.

"See anything?" Peter asked.

"I don't think so. For just a moment I thought I saw a dark shape but it disappeared."

Mozzie was urging them to continue. "Only one floor to go."

They returned to the staircase. Peter shone his flashlight up the stairs onto the third floor. The face of an animal peeking around the corner was illuminated briefly in the light. Peter gasped and put a hand on Neal's arm. "Was that what you saw Saturday night?"

"This time there's no doubt! That had to be a zoog." Neal stared at the spot, hoping to see it again. "It looked just like the illustration in the Necronomicon."

Mozzie's face flushed with excitement. "My first space alien! A momentous day. Neal, my boy, you've made my dreams come true."

"How dangerous did Lavinia say zoogs were?" Peter asked uneasily.

"She didn't. She tried to convince me I hadn't seen one."

"It didn't look scary," Mozzie said, pushing past Peter. "It's probably terrified of us and is now hiding in a corner. There will be no talk of leaving till we've thoroughly cased out the top floor." He ran up the stairs.

"Case out?" repeated Peter, raising a brow. "Was Mozzie a burglar in a former life?"

"He became addicted to It Takes a Thief when it was on the air. He used to study Robert Wagner's every move. He said cosmologists and thieves have much in common. That may have been when he learned how to pick locks." Neal paused before continuing up the stairs. "How do you want to handle it? Do you think we should leave?"

Peter hesitated. "I'd rather not proceed, but Mozzie will refuse to go with us. If we should succeed in finding the zoog, we can chase it into a room, shut the door, and return with the police."

On the third floor, they fanned out in different directions to speed up the search. The rooms Neal checked were as empty as the ones on the lower floor. He scanned high and low with his flashlight but couldn't find any trace of the zoog. Could it climb walls? Or did it simply poof away like the soapstone starfish? The zoog seemed smaller than the one on Saturday night, but his memory may have been faulty.

Mozzie called out from the end of the hallway. "I found a locked room! Ergo, something important must be inside."

"No ergo's allowed," Peter said firmly as they joined Mozzie in the back. "We didn't find the zoog. It's time to leave."

But Mozzie ignored him. Pulling out his lock pick, he had the door open in a few seconds. Plainly, knowing how to use a lock pick was an essential skill Neal had neglected. How difficult could it be? If Mozzie wanted him to stare into that armillary sphere again, he'd have to fork over some lock-picking lessons first.

Peter scowled but walked through the open door into the space beyond. Neal followed close behind. When they entered the room, a soft thud was heard on the staircase.

"That may be the zoog!" Mozzie scurried off to check, urging them to continue their investigation.

The room was about twice the size of the others. It was papered in faded crimson damask with only a few traces of the original vibrant colors still evident. A number of footprints were on the floor. The lone window had all of its panes intact. The room was devoid of furniture except for a card table which had been set up in the center. On the table was the book they'd seen the ghast carry into the house.

Slam!

Neal jumped at the sound of the door closing. A gust of wind must have blown it shut. Would he be able to hear Mozzie behind a closed door? Neal didn't want to take the risk and went over to open it. When he turned the door handle, the knob spun uselessly in his grasp. Neal pushed on the door while turning the knob, but the door wouldn't budge.

"Here, let me help." Peter crouched in front of the knob. After a minute, he shook his head. "It's come loose. Mozzie will need to open it from the other side."

They called out to Mozzie, but when he returned, his efforts to open the door were also fruitless. The door was sealed fast.

"Why won't it open?" Neal demanded, frustrated.

"I don't know!" Mozzie yelled back, sounding equally upset. "It worked easily the first time, but now it's jammed."

"I don't want to be stuck in here all night," Peter warned. "Do something!"

"I am doing something but I can't get it open."

Neal ran to the window. The view was discouraging. "We're up too high to jump, and there's no ledge we could stand on. If there were curtains, we could make a rope, but there aren't any."

"This isn't an Errol Flynn movie," Peter said impatiently. "In the real world, no one uses curtains for a ladder."

"It's a moot point since we don't have any." Neal returned to the door. "Still nothing, Mozz?"

"Stand back," Peter ordered. "I'll break the door down." He hurled himself against the door, but the door was too strong. Just their luck. In a decrepit house with everything rotting and decayed, they were confined behind the one solid piece of wood in the house.

Neal lent his weight and together they attacked the door. Mozzie even tried on his side. But all they had to show for it were several bruised shoulders.

"You'll have to go to the police," Peter told Mozzie, rubbing his arm. "Tell them to come rescue us."

"Me? I can't go to the police! I'll become a cog in their system."

Peter exhaled slowly, apparently counting to ten. "Stop thinking of the cops as the bad guys. They're our friends and we need them. You got us into this mess. You need to get us out."

"Your lady cop friend won't be there. It's late at night. You want me to accost strangers about what happened? I'd sooner fly to Jupiter than do that."

"Wait a minute. I think I have a solution," Neal reached into his pocket for his wallet. He opened it, hoping he'd still find it there, and exhaled in relief when he pulled out her business card. "Diana gave me her home telephone number, instructing me to only call her in emergencies. This qualifies. Do you have a pen?"

"Hold on. I think so," Neal could hear fumbling sounds through the door. "Okay, give me the number."

Neal read it off to him and Mozzie promised to call from the nearest payphone. They heard his footsteps fade away.

Peter grimaced. "This is the last time I ever let him talk me into doing something."

Neal wasn't about to defend him, not now. Peter would cool off later. Probably. "As long as we're stuck here, we might as well look around."

Peter nodded. "Let's start with the book on that table."

Ever since he'd entered the room, Neal had felt drawn to the ancient book even as he dreaded approaching it. At first the crisis of being locked in suppressed any other thoughts, but now the feeling could no longer be denied. The wind whistled through chinks in the window frame, sounding eerily reminiscent of the ebony pipe played by the yellow-masked priest on the frozen Plateau of Leng.

He shuddered and glanced over at Peter who was already studying the cover. He didn't seem to notice the wind. Neal swallowed down the fear bubbling up inside him. This was nonsense. It was just a book, wasn't it?

He strode forward, willing himself to ignore the ghostly whispers emanating from the tome. Peter pointed to a word embossed into the cover in a flowing script. The strokes glinted faintly. "Do you know what this says?"

"Azathoth." Although he spoke in a low voice, the name appeared to reverberate through the chamber.

Peter looked at him with surprise. "Azathoth? That's not the way it's written in the Necronomicon."

"It is in the script of the appendices. It's one of the few words I've been able to decipher so far." Neal bent over the book to examine it more closely. "The leather binding appears at least as ancient as the Necronomicon."

Peter nodded. "We're not leaving without that book. It cries out to be analyzed."

Neal glanced at him sharply. Surely Peter used the term figuratively. "You don't hear any voices, do you?"

"From the book?" Peter started to laugh then stopped when he saw Neal's expression. "You do?"

"Must be nerves . . . or the wind. Forget it." Although he attempted to make Peter dismiss it, Neal knew he wouldn't. What was it Lavinia had said? Books were more dangerous than zoogs, than ghasts, than anything else. Did she have this book in mind? The words of the priest on the Plateau of Leng echoed in his head. You will come again when I call.

He steeled himself to watch as Peter opened the book. The cover was surprisingly heavy as if the book was resisting being opened. The paper appeared to be a type of parchment. The frontispiece had one large illustration which covered almost the entire page. A rounded mass of writhing tentacles and in the center one large eye. It looked vaguely human but there was something off about it. As Neal studied it more closely, he realized the pupil was not perfectly round but was drawn with five cone-shaped hooks.

Slowly the tentacles began to pulsate. The eye locked on him, its hooks extending outward and upward . . .

"Stop it. Now!" Peter gave a rough shake to his shoulder.

Neal stepped away, disoriented. The room was shifting around him. "What happened?"

"You were starting to sway." Peter was eyeing him with concern. "Were you having a vision?"

Wiping his brow, Neal slowed down his breathing. He slanted a wary glance at the illustration. It now looked quite ordinary. "Sorry, the atmosphere must have been getting to me. My imagination went haywire for a moment."

"Do you need to sit down?"

"No, I'm fine."

"You don't look it," Peter said bluntly. "What did you see?"

"For a moment the eye in that illustration appeared to come alive. The pupil had hooks." Neal forced out a chuckle. "Crazy stuff. Ignore what I said."

Peter frowned and stared at the image. "It doesn't have that effect on me, but if it starts to happen again, let me know about it."

Neal nodded absently. "Is it just me or does this drawing look like one of the illustrations for Azathoth in the Necronomicon?"

"I noticed the resemblance as well, and did you notice the mark just below the bottom tentacles?" Peter pointed to it with his finger.

Neal focused on the book again. Underneath the drawing—he dared not stare into the drawing itself—was a small glyph—the symbol of a starfish with tadpole-like appendages. "The same symbol we've seen elsewhere. Is this the symbol for Azathoth?"

"It's hard not to believe that's the case."

Neal was dumbfounded by the implication. What were they saying? That the artisan who made Peter's artifact knew about Azathoth? Was the god being worshipped in those ancient times? And what did that signify about the armillary sphere? Had the cult once owned it?

Peter turned to the next page. The parchment was filled with a list of words—names perhaps—written in large scrawls and apparently in blood because of the dark carmine color of what was used for ink.

Peter and he were both speaking in hushed tones, although Neal didn't know why. Who was around to hear them?

Neal watched Peter slowly leaf through the pages. There were altogether well over two hundred pages containing writing. About half as many at the back of the book were blank. The earliest page was written in hieratic—the cursive script of ancient Egypt. Subsequent pages had Greek, Arabic, Chinese, Sanskrit, Cyrillic, Old Norse runes . . . There was even a page in Anglo-Saxon. Each line contained only a few words and was written by a different hand.

Neal turned to the last page which was written in English. They both studied it. "The book is likely used as a form of registration," Peter remarked. "The people signed up for a secret society or a cult."

"I agree. These are obviously assumed names: Lies With Rats, Raven's Claw, Black Shark."

"We're not that far from campus. If we only had this one page to go on, I'd suspect it was part of a fraternity hazing ritual," Peter mused. "A few years ago the university had to clamp down on abusive hazing practices. But all these different languages, especially the ancient ones . . ." He shook his head as his words trailed off.

Perhaps this is a hazing ritual for a Mensa fraternity?" Neal suggested.

Peter chuckled. "Do you belong to Mensa?"

Neal shook his head.

"You surprise me. Surely you'd qualify."

"At Oxford, they tried to persuade me to join, but I wasn't interested. The Linguistics Society was the only one I was interested in." Neal stopped to listen. "What was that?"

Peter had heard it too. The sound of a car pulling up. Neal sighed in relief. Diana must have arrived.

Peter strode to the window and looked out. "Trouble!" he hissed. "Three men are walking up the front walk and they're not cops."