Stefroi
Leverett stared at the letter in shock. He had not received news of Brandon’s death—had only a few days before opened a parcel from the publisher containing a first copy of Unhallowed Places. A line of Brandon’s last letter recurred to him—a line that had seemed amusing at the time:
Your sticks have bewildered a good many fans, Colin, and I’ve worn out a ribbon answering inquiries. One fellow in particular—a Major George Leonard—has pressed me for details, and I’m afraid I told him too much. He has written several times for your address, but knowing how you value privacy I told him simply to permit me to forward any correspondence. He wants to see your original sketches, I gather, but these overbearing occult-types give me a pain. Frankly, I wouldn’t care to meet the man myself.
•VI•
“Mr Colin Leverett?”
Leverett studied the tall, lean man who stood smiling at the doorway of his studio. The sports car he had driven up in was black, and looked expensive. The same held for the turtleneck and leather slacks he wore, and the sleek briefcase he carried. The blackness made his thin face deathly pale. Leverett guessed his age to be in the late forties by the thinning of his hair. Dark glasses hid his eyes, black driving gloves his hands.
“Scotty Brandon told me where to find you,” the stranger said.
“Scotty?” Leverett’s voice was wary.
“Yes, we lost a mutual friend, I regret to say I’d been talking with him just before... But I see by your expression Scotty never had time to write.” He fumbled awkwardly. “I’m Dana Allard.”
“Allard?”
His visitor seemed embarrassed. “Yes—H. Kenneth Allard was my uncle.”
“I hadn’t realized Allard left a family,” mused Leverett, shaking the extended hand. He had never met the writer personally, but there was a strong resemblance to the few photographs he had seen. And Scotty had been paying royalty checks to an estate of some sort, he recalled.
“My father was Kent’s half-brother. He later took his father’s name, but there was no marriage, if you follow.”
“Of course.” Leverett was abashed. “Please find a place to sit down. And what brings you here?”
Dana Allard tapped his briefcase. “Something I’d been discussing with Scotty. Just recently I turned up a stack of my uncle’s unpublished manuscripts.” He unlatched the briefcase and handed Leverett a sheaf of yellowed paper. “Father collected Kent’s personal effects from the state hospital as next-of-kin. He never thought much of my uncle, or his writing. He stuffed this away in our attic and forgot about it. Scotty was quite excited when I told him of my discovery.”
Leverett was glancing through the manuscript—page after page of cramped handwriting, with revisions pieced throughout like an indecipherable puzzle. He had seen photographs of Allard manuscripts. There was no mistaking this.
Or the prose. Leverett read a few passages with rapt absorption. It was authentic—and brilliant.
“Uncle’s mind seems to have taken an especially morbid turn as his illness drew on,” Dana hazarded. “I admire his work very greatly, but I find these last few pieces...well, a bit too horrible. Especially his translation of his mythical Book of Elders”
It appealed to Leverett perfectly. He barely noticed his guest as he pored over the brittle pages. Allard was describing a megalithic structure his doomed narrator had encountered in the crypts beneath an ancient churchyard. There were references to “elder glyphics” that resembled his lattice devices.
“Look here.” Dana pointed. “These incantations he records here from Alorri-Zrokros’s forbidden tome. ‘Yogth-Yugth-Sut-Hyrath-Yogng’—hell, I can’t pronounce them. And he has pages of them.”
“This is incredible!” Leverett protested. He tried to mouth the alien syllables. It could be done. He even detected a rhythm.
“Well, I’m relieved you approve. I’d feared these last few stories and fragments might prove a little much for Kent’s fans.”
“Then you’re going to have them published?”
Dana nodded. “Scotty was going to. I just hope those thieves weren’t searching for this—a collector would pay a fortune. But Scotty said he was going to keep this secret until he was ready for announcement.” His thin face was sad. “So now I’m going to publish it myself—in a deluxe edition. And I want you to illustrate it.”
“I’d feel honored!” vowed Leverett, unable to believe it.
“I really liked those drawings you did for the trilogy. I’d like to see more like those—as many as you feel like doing. I mean to spare no expense in publishing this. And those stick things...”
“Yes?”
“Scotty told me the story of those. Fascinating! And you have a whole notebook of them? May I see