AN: Well, this is a bit different than my usual work, but what the heck!

For almost half a year now, I have been living in New Hampshire, and my stay in New England has even led me to Providence, where I visited the grave of H. P. Lovecraft. I've always been into the 'spooky' stuff, and reading Lovecraft's weird fiction in his own neighborhood has inspired me to give it a shot myself. So enjoy. Or rather, get frightened out of your wits ;)

The Black Door

I want to see it painted, painted black

Black as night, black as coal

I want to see the sun

Blotted out from the sky

- Sir Michael Phillip Jagger

(Final, Undated Entry in the Journal of David Arbuthnott Pearson, Discovered after his Disappearance in February, 2020)

In spite of it being commonly perceived as such, death is not at all the most mysterious or terrible of realities. Death- its desolation and horror… Life- the greater horror! Life is more horrible than death. The things that I have experienced in Keene have confirmed me in this conviction, and I find it a most merciful ruling of fate that the broad scope of things remains predominantly obscured from the frenzied eyes of the majority of mankind. If it were otherwise, all semblance of peace and order and dignity – qualities which only we in our feeble, near-sighted rationality consider unshakable - would be irreversibly shattered. The human mind, though sophisticated in its own manner, cannot comprehend the full extent of the dark secrets which lurk right beyond the thin drape of what we call reality.

I learned all of this by what I at one point considered an accident, an estimation which I am no longer completely sure of. My linguistic studies at the Miskatonic had led me to an old cottage in Alstead, New Hampshire, a quarter short of two hours north of Arkham, where I met up with a colleague who promised to aid me in writing my dissertation. The man had recently purchased an ancient farmhouse in the hilly, backwater area of old New England, where I ventured myself during my time off from the University in search of material for my work, as well as quelling my curiosity.

Having passed the New Hampshire state sign, written in English and French, I drove through eerie, almost primal landscapes, ice-capped and devoid of life in these winter months. I found myself in an out-of-time country where all the names were either of Anglo or Algonquian origin, crossing the Ashuelot River on an antique wooden roofed bridge. Blocks and boulders of the Granite State's namesake stone flanked the roads which were sometimes carved and chiseled from Nature's very womb. I had to make my way past old farmlands regained by thick forestation, home to throngs of deer, wild turkeys, and even – if rumors were to be believed – mountain lions, meandering by the shores of frozen glacial lakes which constituted a moon-like paysage, careful not to ram into the icy stalactite-encrusted hillsides. Human abodes were scarce in these parts, and a considerable time had passed before I encountered larger villages clustered around establishments of commerce with unfamiliar names like "general store" and "trading outpost."

I was happy to finally finish my journey at the sight of a low-roofed, Colonial house, no doubt the one-time dwelling of some wealthy landowner, where my colleague welcomed me at the door. We sat by the blazing wood-pellet furnace under the stout oaken roof-beams, still as sturdy and firm as this land, in spite of their three-and-a-half centuries of age. After an exchange of pleasantries, we discussed the subjects at hand with gin and cigars, and it was at this time that my friend revealed to me a certain curious fact he had learned of since purchasing the farmhouse. It turned out that he himself could help me little with my research, though he had found out through his own academic connections that a famous retired professor of linguistics, a man of great knowledge and renown in the field, had recently settled not far away. My colleague was able to acquire the address, and upon confirming that I was interested, handed me a paper with the name of Emil S. Watts, Ph. D., and the house number on Emerald Street in Keene, New Hampshire.

I have heard of Professor Watts, who'd spent nearly four decades teaching at the University of Massachusetts, and at some point even flipped through his well-known work on Tocharian during my queries at the Orne Library. My curiosity was mainly roused for a different reason, however- the retired academic's rumored interest in Adamic, which was the primary topic of the dissertation I was working on. My friend was certain that Watts would not only prove to be a treasure trove of information on the subject, but that he could also provide me with materials which would be unobtainable elsewhere.

Finding this a thrilling venue to explore, I soon said my goodbyes and set out on a short trip to Keene. The college city, settled in a deep valley at the foot of the mighty Grand Monadnock, was a hub for both foreign students from the Bay State and beyond, as well as the inhabitants of the minuscule villages scattered around Cheshire County who frequented the municipality for reasons of business and entertainment. Its location and the now-defunct railway were likely the most important reason for its status, as I did not know of any major mills in the area which used to attract foreign settlers up-state. Nowadays, however, it was mainly the college, which kept the city populous even despite the riots and civil unrest which became a plague during the autumn Pumpkin Festivals several years past.

It was therefore no surprise to me that I had trouble finding parking space, and was eventually forced to leave my car by the comely 1870s mansion which presently housed the Keene Public Library. Deciding to take a stroll down Main Street to admire the New England architecture, I set off for the remainder of my journey to the Professor's house on foot. The city's valley location sheltered it from the fiercest blasts of the mountain winds, which made remaining outdoors a lot more enjoyable at least during the daytime. Having crossed the street in front of the library, I passed the marvelous Gothic edifice of St. James' Episcopal church. Halting for a second, I admired the noble grey of the granite, which contrasted with the bright-red paint on the door. Back in England, I heard from a local that the colour of the doors of an Anglican house of worship depended on the political affiliation of the rector, being blue for the Tories and red for the Labour Party, respectively. Though I failed to deduct how that rule applied here, still I found a certain beauty in the enormous cranberry doors, wrought iron hinges, and circle doorknobs.

Moving on, entering Main Street in the shadow of the white steeple of the landmark Congregational church, I passed one of the city's historic murals, famously depicted in Jumanji. Further down the street I walked by the lights of the Colonial Theatre, and restaurants the insides of which reeked unfailingly of clam chowder, packed with students from the college. My curiosity was stimulated yet again as I noticed a whole collection of Wiccan paraphernalia in the corner of my eye, and turned to find myself standing in front of a modest occult store. I snorted nearly audibly gazing at the crystals and dream-catchers displayed in the window, recalling that, regardless of the centuries that have passed, I was still in a place famous for its witchcraft and weird, pagan practices conducted in the depths of forests under the guise of night. Not much could be heard of such things now, in this enlightened age, though I recalled having read in the Keene Sentinel back at my friend's house about a case of fire in one of the many squatter communes in the area that resulted in two casualties, which was thought to have been associated with some form of a supposed "cult ritual" gone wrong. I paid no great mind nor faith to those things at the time, however.

When I finally stood on the white-washed porch of the impressive, two-story Georgian-style house at 1890 Emerald Street, I brushed myself off before laying a hand on the old-style brass knocker. Moments later, a figure stood in the open door which I would not ordinarily associate with that of the famous linguist. The nearly seventy-year-old gentleman was stout, short, and rather round, his face the colour of a ripe peach, covered by a thick ashen beard with stains of tobacco smoke on the bushy moustache. The Professor greeted me with a smile, however, and once I introduced myself, he invited me to step in politely and almost as if he'd been expecting me.

Upon crossing the threshold, I immediately noticed something of interest. Namely, the doorpost was adorned with five or six Hebrew mezuzahs, each of a different time and style. I did not suspect the Professor to be of the Jewish faith, so I simply put that on the account of him being fond of paraphernalia associated with language. It quickly turned out that I was not wrong, as I saw that the rest of the house turned out to be a true linguist's goldmine. I was so much in awe of my host's collection that for a moment I boorishly forgot about his presence, and the courtesy I owed him.

The man spoke to me kindly, however, using a thick accent which I was unable to distinguish from Bostonian, yet my friend in Alstead had already warned me not to refer to it as anything else than pure Cantabrigian. I was now able to notice that he walked supporting himself with a nearly two-yards-long twisted wooden staff, wheezing terribly as he went, and that the state of his health was the most likely reason for his earlier retirement. He wore a black open-collared shirt revealing a thick silver chain on his chest, with another identical shirt pulled over the first one in the manner of an unbuttoned cardigan. I reckoned he probably dressed in that unusual manner for the sake of extra warmth, and old academics were known to be queer to begin with.

After the initial pleasantries, Watts sat me down in his living room, setting off for some refreshments. It would have been impossible for me to hold back my curiosity at this point, so attempting to act as respectfully as possible, I began to examine his collection. The room was positively packed with books and souvenirs, some of them of significant museum value. The small coffee table by the side of the couch was stacked with the newest issues of the Arkham Adviser, to which the Professor must have had a subscription. Piles of volumes on languages old and new obscured the furniture, rising as high as the ceiling, whereas the walls were decked with wonders I had to stand up to admire. Before my very eyes there hung a meticulously polished longsword bearing an impressive etching in the Glagolitic alphabet, which I was unable to read. Right next to it, I found a framed, beautifully calligraphed text of Schleicher's fable, Avis akvasas ka, in reconstructed Proto-Indo-European, written in pre-1989 IPA.

What I found on the monstrously over-burdened bookshelves was an even greater treasure. A book on Sogdian fell into my hands, an edition from 1923, never re-published. That I abandoned almost immediately, noticing Thomsen's original work on the Orkhon script, standing right next to a genuine XVII-century copy of the Lesser Key of Solomon in German, printed on parchment in Gothic blackletter, as well as a 1:1 scale faithful copy of the Voynich Manuscript. It wasn't long before I realized, as my eyes ran excitedly through the spines of the grimoires, that that section of Watts' library was devoted specifically to the occult and arcane. Judging this not to be a great oddity, taking that we were in fact in New England, I continued my venture through this collector's vault. In the corner, I noticed a cabinet filled with Freemasonic paraphernalia which occupied my attention til I noticed a book which must have had some special value, judging by the way it was proudly displayed upon a stand in front of a window so that, constantly illuminated, it was always ready for reading. Approaching, I noticed Latin words convincingly stylized to imitate antiquity, and upon closing the volume I discovered it to be the newest edition of Olaus Wormius' translation of the fabled Necronomicon, which Harvard had only recently released to the broader public.

Examining the dreaded book for reasons linguistic rather than any other, I opened it again on the same page which was displayed, and began reciting aloud the first words of the paragraph which I was able to memorize since then, for some reason.

Yog-Sothoth portam scit. Yog-Sothoth portam est. Yog-Sothoth clavem et custodem portae haec est. Praeteritum praesens et futurum in Yog-Sothoth unum sunt.

I had my back turned at the entrance to the room, and in my educational stupor, must have been so preoccupied with my discovery that I failed to notice Watts' return. Hearing his footsteps on the Persian carpet, I flinched in consternation, embarrassed for having been caught pawing the man's belongings. Yet the Professor only bared his teeth in a hearty smile at my apologies, and instead addressed me in fluent Latin, inquiring about the level of my familiarity with the language. I responded truthfully, that it was sufficient enough, forming the haphazard answer with grammatical correctness, as far as I recall. Satisfied, Watts set the tray he was carrying atop the stack of magazines on the table, and invited me to a cup of caw-fee.

He immediately became curious about my focus on the Necronomicon, of all the things gathered in his vast library. Explaining myself, I told him that the book had been on my list for quite some time, yet I had been unable to research it due to the fact that the Wormius translation was kept in the off-limits section at the Miskatonic. I was particularly interested in the Enochian fragments of the grimoire, and wished to compare them with those in the writings of Dee and LaVey, yet the contemporary, abbreviated English translations lacked these crucial parts or rendered them incorrectly in the vernacular. I then finally revealed to Watts that I was working on a dissertation the goal of which would be to determine the connections between Enochian and Adamic, and whether or not Enochian was indeed to be identified with Adamic. Hearing this, the Professor became instantly engaged, and began prodding my knowledge and my own theorems on the matter. Both of us agreed that Adamic was not a fictional language, but rather a very early ancestor to the whole Semitic family. Watts, however, disagreed with me when it came to the close relation that primordial tongue had to Enochian, which was the hypothesis I tried to prove in my work. Not a long amount of time needed to pass before I realized that his own interests and competences exceeded far beyond the field of the prehistoric roots of the Indo-European branch for which he was generally know, and that I was indeed encountering a savant.

Watts asked acute questions and listened patiently to my answers, nodding as he cut a bunch of oranges in quarters, biting into them so that the juice stained his shirts. The conversation went on into the late hours of night, and I noticed that I had lost track of time. Collecting myself suddenly, I sprang from the chair, apologizing to the Professor and estimating that he must have been terribly fatigued by having entertained me for so long. Watts, however, dismissed those concerns with a hearty laugh, cleared his throat, and stated that we'd not finished our discussion yet. He apparently indeed possessed some rare sources that could aid me in writing my dissertation, which he wished to share with me because of - how he put it - a certain spahk he found in me, which made me stand out among the students he ordinarily encountered. Stuttering, I proposed to return on the morrow, perhaps once the Professor had had a sufficient amount of rest. He, however, inquired where I was planning to spend the night, and when I revealed to him that I was wished to return to Alstead before midnight, he responded that the road would have been too much of a drudgery at this time, and that he would be delighted if I accepted his invitation to sleep in the upstairs guestroom. Reluctant at first, I attempted to decline courteously, but when Watts insisted that breakfast would be the best time for him to finish his conversation with me, judging that the hour was indeed late, I finally yielded.

The man led me up a narrow wooded stairwell, knocking on the surface of the lacquered boards with his crook. Oddly enough, following him, I felt a great overpowering drowsiness, and once he opened to me the doors of the spacious guestroom, I was almost ready to doze off. Merely had the doors shut behind my back, I went to bed hardly having taken off my outer garments.

I know now that there was something unnatural in this sleep. Though deep and dreamless at first, it eventually caused me to feel a certain anxiousness, which resulted in a wave of heat and an overall feeling of undefinable discomfort. Finally, my twisting and turning became too violent, and my aching eyes opened. It took time for them to adjust to the darkness, but when they did, I came to an even more eerie realization. Namely, the bed in the guest chamber was not where I presently found myself. Startled by the unfamiliar surroundings, I attempted to move, yet were unable to do so. To my great dread, I was lying on the floor, in a state of conscious sleep paralysis, with hard wooden boards under my back and my head turned sideways toward a dilapidated black door which from this perspective seemed horrifically towering and enormous.

In desperation, I continued to strain my muscles in an attempt to move, and when yet again I made sure that this was completely futile, I tried to scream. No sound was heard, however, except that of my heavy breathing, and the hot sweat on my back turned ice-cold. I felt a presence now, and was able to pick up strange sounds. They all came not from the chamber where I lay, however, but from the other side of the eerie black door. Focusing my senses as I felt my mind begin to fray, I attempted to recognize if those noises were heralds of aid, or possible harm. Though I hardly distinguished anything at first, and the uncertainty nearly caused me to panic.

What I was able to make out were multiple footsteps beyond the fearful thin wooden barrier. An assembly of sorts, as I believed, gathered there around a source of light which flashed from under the doorpost in an indescribable hue. To my great astonishment, I had the impression that those present were chanting, and with my olfactory sense picked up a scent of peculiar fumes, a disgustingly sweet odor which reminded me of a mixture of skunk musk and verbena. I now recalled Watts' vast collection of the arcane, and in the eye of my mind, saw a forbidden coven of cloaked figures with faces covered by abominable masks, forming a circle around a heathen altar. Before the altar stood the leader of the assembly in ceremonial robes embroidered in eldritch symbols, wielding a twisted staff in hand, burning incense and candles of fantastic phosphorescence before an alien shape of a figurine or carving of some ancient divine or semi-divine Entity, the many limbs and tendrils of which stretched out toward Its worshipers.

The drugs began to take hold, and now I heard more clearly. Chants surrounded me, booming dirges in languages unpronounceable to men, of wretched creatures floating upon nameless worlds bathed in darkness, in endless voids between the stars, where there is no sunshine. I heard the sinister names of Nasht and Kaman-Thah, and beheld murals of elder Beings full of eyes within and without, Creators of universes neither rational nor benevolent.

I got rapt into a world Alan Parrish could barely imagine. The distant whisper of the voice of my long-forgotten friend called me, and in my manic revelation I saw his face decaying into a pulp of puss. I gazed upon sunless no man's skies in worlds where light is a myth. I heard the summons of Entities that came to be aeons before there were ever civilizations able to name them, in fact before there were ever names, or space, or time. I found myself sinking into the outer layers of a gas giant the size of our sun, a sensation which along with my total paralysis caused me to cry out in longing for death. Ecumenoceanic worlds inhabited by odious, amorphous marine beasts as gargantuan as mountains, cloaked in wicked mist. Burrowing cannibalistic abominations with countless maws which dwell deep within our own Earth's mantle. Sights from a distant planet under two black suns which I neither can nor wish to describe. All that to the accompaniment of guttural chants as thundering as earthquakes, which made me feel as if my skull would burst.

Yog-Sothoth portam scit! Yog-Sothoth portam est! Yog-Sothoth clavem et custodem portae haec est! Praeteritum praesens et futurum in Yog-Sothoth unum sunt!

These sights and sensations of boundless lunacy made me realize that this universe of ours is neither the only one, nor the first, nor the last. That to call the whole of humanity but a speck of dust or a drop in an ocean would be a damnable understatement, and that man is neither the oldest nor the last of Earth's masters. How long did this last- I cannot tell. I thought I knew what fear was, or that I had known fear. I was wrong. That night I have experienced true fear, and ceased to wonder at anything.

The crushing pressure of oppressive darkness was the end of it all. I woke up, fully dressed, in my bed in the guest chamber, and immediately ran out of the house without halting to speak to anyone. Returning to my car in front of the library, I checked the map for the nearest police station.

I returned to Emerald Street with two officers who already knew that I had spent the past night drugged and held against my will. The three of us stood before the Colonial house, and as I beheld the same gambrel roof and the withered myrtles by the porch, a shiver ran down my spine. We approached the front entrance, and after hearing no response, the policemen pulled at the doorknob. To our astonishment, it gave way, and we walked in with extra caution, calling on Professor Watts' name, only to find the building completely empty. The vast library and the collection of antiquarian paraphernalia was nowhere to be found, and I stood stupefied as I beheld the pale spot where Schleicher's beautifully framed fable hung mere hours ago, as it seemed. The stout academic was nowhere to be found, either, and the walls no longer echoed his raspy low rumble. Only the carpets still had about them the slightest scent of tobacco, oranges, and incense.

The officers asked me of the exact date when I came here, and strangely, I could not recall. Startled, I insisted that we examine the first floor, however, and both of the men complied. We climbed the narrow stairs, atop of which I stood petrified, as seeing the door of my guest room in the light of day for the first time I realized gawking at the peeling flakes of paint that it was black as pitch, and as the visions I beheld beyond it.

The policemen left me in the street pale and sobbing, and since then, the black door keeps calling out to me. My mind continues to be occupied by what I saw there in every moment, every second of day or night. I thought much of the ritual, and of those Who were called upon. Why would any sane human worship that? Now, finally, I understand. Sanity had naught to do with this. Within the chamber behind the black door, reason was absent.

The state persists, and I continue to wonder. What could convince a man to step over the threshold of darkness? Why, why am I drawn to the door? To put my hand on the tarnished brass knob? Why do my dreams tempt me to enter into the abyss?

Why?

I must know. I must, for He demands it.

AN: The city of Keene, NH, where I presently reside, is mentioned in Lovecraft's story Whisperer in the Darkness. A fact I had only found out about after writing this.