The following story is substantially the same as the one which won me the first prize in the 2007 Pentrace Halloween Scary Story Competition. However I have taken the opportunity to do a modest re-write, inspired in part by some pen details gleaned here on FPN in one or two posts I have had the pleasure of reading, and which led me to further information.

Dim the lights, and lock away your pens while you read this tribute to... (but that would be telling, dear reader!)...

I hope that you enjoy this revised version of 'The Nameless'.

- Stuart

The Nameless

by Stuart Williams

Living, as we do, on a tiny planet, spinning silently in a lonely corner of a universe full of strange things seen and unseen, of cold, dark matter, and yet darker energies that underlie what we see as “reality”, what can we really know of the worlds beyond? Astronomers often say that we are “made of stardust”, but some of those stars are dark indeed, and long-dead. And few writers realise from whence their darkest inspirations truly come. Nor did I, until one dark, late October afternoon in Providence, Rhode Island, I came upon a remarkable shop, by accident as I thought.

It was the kind of store you might never notice normally, tucked away as it was, but that day I was suffering from “writer’s block” and, desperately seeking inspiration for my first book, I had determined to make a good beginning by buying a fine pen to write my first draft, and to bring me good fortune, as a kind of talisman, if you will. So, there I was, wearing out the sidewalks of Providence, and my boots, hoping to find a pen store, and rediscover my muse!

By now it was late in the day, and the sky was darkening ominously. I had found nothing to suit me anywhere, and the stores were beginning to close. Just one more, I thought to myself, and then I’m off home for dinner and the writing will have to wait. Dejected and footsore, I trudged on, eventually finding myself at an unfamiliar turning in the old town. “Hob’s Lane”, the rusty street sign said. Never heard of it. Shrugging, I peered down the narrow, winding alley. There were a few small shops, but all were dark, save one whose window glimmered dimly. Just one look, then, and after that, back home to my cosy house and a quiet evening by the fire.

“Arkham Antiques” it said above the window, which was shuttered, but chinks of light leaking between the peeling boards hinted that it might still be open. Stepping up optimistically, I entered, a bell tinkling as the door closed behind me. Inside, the shop was stacked from floor to ceiling with chests, cabinets, and a myriad of dusty objects piled higgledy-piggledy. Everything from a bored-looking stuffed crocodile hanging from the ceiling to a mysterious collection of dark crystals in a glass case, to row upon row of crumbling leather-bound books and… Wonder of wonders, four score or more pens, beneath a glass panel let into the dark wooden counter dividing the store. Standing there for a moment, leaning on the counter, almost beathless, my eyes caressed a remarkable collection that included nothing even remotely modern, and was all the better for it.

“Can I help you, sir?” A little man stepped quietly from behind the dark green curtain hiding the entry to the rear of the store. He was the kind of fellow you wouldn’t normally notice, just like his emporium. I guess he was well into his nineties, stooped somewhat, and bald except for an untidy grey wisp above each ear. Those ears, together with a rather sharp nose, supported gold-rimmed eyeglasses with half-moon shaped lenses. A white shirt and brown waistcoat replete with pocket watch and chain, surmounted by a somewhat bedraggled spotted bow tie, all above baggy brown check pants, certainly placed him in a different era, entirely in keeping with the contents of the shop. “Well…” I tried to drag my eyes away from the pens and show a little courtesy, but it was not easy.

“Come, sir, you must have something in mind?” He looked a little irritated at first, or perhaps that was just the strange glint in his eyes, which reflected the flickering of the room’s only illumination, a bare bulb hanging from the center of the ceiling.

“Well, actually… I’m a writer” I blurted out, rather self-consciously, “…and I’m looking for a pen, but it has to be a vintage fountain pen, none of that modern rubbish, something with real character and some history behind it. I’ve been all over the city today, and I can’t find what I want anywhere. I saw you were still open, and to be honest, you’re my last hope…”

“Funnily enough, sir, many people have said that to me over the years, and they usually seem to find something here, though it might not always be quite what they expected… Do you see anything you like?”

“I’ve just had a few moments to glance at these beautiful pens you have in your counter, is there anything you would recommend? I’ve always had a hankering for something with a nice flexible nib, but it has to be reliable and easy to fill, as I’ll be writing the first draft of my new book with it.” I looked hopefully at him.

“Let me see now, something special for a writer, something inspirational, in fact I know just the thing…” He knelt down behind the counter and seemed to be rummaging for ages, then stood up, holding a black tin box that rattled mysteriously. Placing it carefully on the counter, he flicked most of the heavy dust off with an old rag. “I’m sure this will interest you, sir! I picked this lot up in a local estate sale back in 1937. Apparently the fellow who owned it was a writer too, though he wasn’t very well-known in his lifetime, in fact his name escapes me…”

Lifting the lid, the storekeeper reached in and pulled out, first of all, a stack of small black notebooks, apparently well-used, some of them with the elastic closures worn through. “Moleskines, ah yes, they were always popular with writers back then,” he muttered as if to himself. Reaching deeper, he pulled out a small and rather battered cardboard box. “Ah yes, here it is! Just what you need, I fancy!” Grinning, he handed me the box. It was dark blue, and printed ornately across the top in white was “Waterman’s Ideal Fountain Pen”. I opened it and carefully took out the contents.

“It’s a Waterman's #52 you know, lovely pens they are, this one was made about 1926. It has a nice flexible fine nib that should stand up well to a lot more writing, I’m sure it would be “ideal” for a budding author such as yourself!” He chuckled at the pun, peering over his glasses as if to better see my reaction.

I looked closely at the pen, a simple but elegant chased black hard rubber tube, though it had seen better days and the black had faded somewhat with age. Some of the gold plate had worn off the lever filler, and there was no clip on the cap – in fact it looked as if there had never been one fitted. Central along one side of the pen were a few well-worn script letters which I couldn’t quite make out in the dim light. “Well, I was rather thinking of something a bit fancier, but if you think this would be a good writer’s workhorse, then I’ll take your word for it, and since it already has some history as a writer’s pen, surely it will bring me good luck! How much?”

“Hmmm… Well, no-one else has ever been interested in it, and I’d rather it went to someone who will really put it to good use… How about a hundred dollars – and I’ll throw in the notebooks as well, you never know, they might come in useful?”

“I’ll take the lot, then, and thanks for your help.” Grinning broadly, the little storekeeper threw all the battered Moleskines back in the box and carefully placed the pen within. “You’re very welcome, sir – and there’s no charge for the tin box. Just be sure to let me have a signed copy of your book when you’re a best-selling author!” I handed over a small stack of bills, tucked the still-dusty box under my arm and strode out into the now-falling night, this time with a spring in my step, and headed for home, which was 10 Barnes Street, not all that far from Brown University.

Later that evening, and having satisfied the inner man with a pleasant meal and a good glass of brandy, I removed to my study, sat down at my desk and opened the box again. As I did so, however, the window blew open and the rain, which was now falling outside, blew in, icy cold. I dashed over and shut it firmly, returning to the desk and the intriguing contents of the box.

Leaving the pen to one side for a moment, I now took the time to examine the notebooks. They were, as the storekeeper had said, Moleskines. The covers appeared worn and well-used, however on opening them, there appeared to be no writing on the finely lined pages. A pity, I would have loved to learn more about their previous owner from his writings – but on the other hand I now had a good supply of usable notebooks, and waste not want not, as they say!

I pondered for a moment, and reaching into a desk drawer I lifted out, at random, a small, heavy glass bottle with a faceted black cap. “Ah, “Blue Night”, just right!” Taking the #52 from its box and uncapping it, I tested the lever carefully. Remarkably, it felt like the sac was still pliable, so a practical test was in order. Removing the cap from the bottle, I dipped the nib and folded the lever gently out. A few small bubbles rising from the dark depths of the ink were encouraging, so I pressed the lever back in and wiped the nib. Taking up a sheet of Basildon Bond, I put pen to paper, but at first the nib was dry. Disappointed, I pressed a little harder, adjusting the angle of my hand; not being used to truly flexible nibs, perhaps there was a certain technique to it? Immediately, a wet, blue-black line began to form, and, scrawling my usual “Quick Brown Fox” test, I enjoyed a moment’s doodling and swirling lines back and forth. Success! It was indeed rather flexible, but not too much so, and the shading was delightful. Although the tip had sustained a little wear, the smooth travel of the golden point over the paper was still an intoxicating tactile experience.

Inspired, I was ready to begin. And what better way to start than to try out one of the old Moleskines? If nothing else, it would be a tribute to that long-departed writer whose name I’d not been able to make out on his pen. Folding back the cover of the first notebook that came to hand, I wrote, swiftly and with style:

‘Of such great powers or beings there may be conceivably a survival... a survival of a hugely remote period when... consciousness was manifested, perhaps, in shapes and forms long since withdrawn before the tide of advancing humanity... forms of which poetry and legend alone have caught a flying memory and called them gods, monsters, mythical beings of all sorts and kinds...’

“That’s not right”, I murmured under my breath, nonplussed. I had planned to begin a science fiction story, full strange planets and starships, but this was nothing like my intended opening passage. It made no sense at all. Somehow, the message from my brain appeared to have changed by the time it arrived at my hand, and written something completely incomprehensible to me, but surely that was impossible? I tried again on another page:

‘The most merciful thing in the world, I think, is the inability of the human mind to correlate all its contents. We live on a placid island of ignorance in the midst of black seas of infinity, and it was not meant that we should voyage far. The sciences, each straining in its own direction, have hitherto harmed us little; but some day the piecing together of dissociated knowledge will open up such terrifying vistas of reality, and of our frightful position therein, that we shall either go mad from the revelation or flee from the light into the peace and safety of a new dark age.’

I lifted the nib swiftly from the paper and capped the pen, struggling with the threads a moment, for now I was truly terrified, perhaps for the first time in my life. Yet the writing continued apace, without the intervention of any human hand or pen, filling page after page, and as it went the ink faded a little, as if it were as old as the pen itself…

The #52, now icy cold, fell slowly from my nerveless fingers; clattering softly onto the oak desktop, it rolled to a rest. The hairs on the back of my neck were standing bolt upright, and I began to come out in a cold sweat, my heart pounding. What could this mean? Suddenly the window flew open again, and the freezing blast from beyond brought me to my feet once more. I stared out into the darkness, but that in itself was a fearful sight, for the lights of the city of Providence were failing, one by one, and as I looked towards the horizon, they flickered and went out. All that illumined the scene was an arc of light from Interstate 95 off to the west, but what that fitful glow now outlined from behind was dreadful indeed, though it were seen only in silhouette.

The Thing I saw cannot be described - there is no language for such abysms of shrieking and immemorial lunacy, such eldritch contradictions of all matter, force, and cosmic order. A mountain walked or stumbled, and from the darkness came a voice that was not a voice; a chaotic sensation which only fancy could transmute into sound, a terrible, liquid, gibbering chant, repeated over and over: “Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn.”

Slamming the window shut in abject terror, fighting an urge to run, to keep on running and never stop, I yet felt strangely compelled to return to my desk and, staring down at the fountain pen now once more clutched tightly in my hand, saw that it was somehow restored to deepest black. The crisp, fine chasing seemed to flow and twist like the moving scales of some dark serpent, but surely that must be a trick of the now flickering light. The lever shone again with crisp detail, unblemished, as if time had never passed for this pen. The nib, golden, lustrous, was revealed, glimmering wetly as I unscrewed the cap once more, unable to stop myself.

Peering closer, I knew that I could now read the name engraved deeply upon the pristine barrel: ‘H. P. Lovecraft.’ One final, uncontrollable urge to write laid down this fateful line: “In his house at R'lyeh dead Cthulhu waits dreaming.”

Darkness fell, and my mind fled screaming into the abyss between the stars.....

Bravo!!!

Bravo! I'm ever the Lovecraft fan and you've captured the essence quite nicely with your story. Thanks for the entertaining read

Jim

That is one delicious pastiche.

Wonderful!! I can almost smell the raw energy of Chaos gathering, the Warp whispers and hungers...

Thanks for the kind comments, folks - much appreciated

- Stuart