From: wimcdaid@dante.nmsu.edu (MC DAID)
Subject: Another Story
Organization: New Mexico State University, Las Cruces, NM
Distribution: world,na
Date: Sat, 9 Jan 1993 04:14:12 GMT

	Howdy.  I've noticed that this groups traffic is dying
off, and I want to help fix that.  The following is a story that
I wrote that I must confess was inspired by my recent trip to 
Providence.  I didn't dig anyone up, although I met a very angry
corpse looking for some 'British guy'...

If I get some positive responses, I'll finish it within a week.
Otherwise, all that typing just wears me out.

						-Liam


		Lovecraft in California

	The old pane of glass had bubbles in it, that scattered the
light into coruscating spectra.  The old man turned slowly, as his
visitor stood leaning on a cane.  The room around them was furnished
with rough edged chairs and divans that looked as if the old man made
them years ago.  The overhead rafters swung down from the stucco
ceiling, dark wood contrasting.  The large mantle and fire below
completed the rustic image of a 49'ers cottage.  The only thing
missing was a bear skin rug.
	"Where'd you say you were headed?" the old man asked.  His
frame was gaunt and tall, and held the forgotten shadows of greater
muscles and younger days.  His face looked lunar, as his darting 
squinty eyes peered from the wrinkled crags.
	"Further north," the visitor replied.  His body was thin,
and his nose was slightly hooked.  He inched closer to the fire,
as his cane struggled to keep his body level.  He wore a single 
breasted brown three-piece suit, atop of which was a thin gray 
overcoat.  His hair was slicked back and jet black, and was thinning
in front.  An old duffle bag lay across his feet.
	The old man paused.  "I see.  Well, there ain't really 
any route up that way.  No trains run by here anymore."
	"I was afraid of that."  He smiled a crooked smile.
	The old man waved negligently.  "Come have some coffee."
He moved toward the fire, where a pot was hanging above.
	"Thank you."
	The old man pulled down two pewter mugs from the mantle
and filled them from the pot.  The other man took the offered
mug gracefully.
	Once they were seated, the old man held the cup close
by his clean shaven face.  "What did you say your name was?"
he asked.
	"Lovecraft," the other replied, "Howard Lovecraft."
Lovecraft drank from his mug.
	"Oh yeah."  the old man drank.  "I'm curious who you
could be looking for up here, if you don't mind my asking."
	Lovecraft smiled levelly this time.  "Not at all.  I'm
looking for a man named Clark Smith.  He's an old friend of mine,
and I need to discuss some... business with him."
	The old man almost spilled his coffee at the mention of
Smith's name.  "Clark Smith!  Why he just cut some wood with me 
a month or so ago.  He only lives a couple miles from here."
	Lovecraft's eyes narrowed slightly at the old man's 
response.  "Wonderful.  How can I get there?"
	The old man tugged on his chin for a second.  "Well,
Clark lives further back in the woods.  The best thing you can do
is to go to Gilley's tonight."
	"Gilley's?"
	"Yeah, that's kind of the general store around here.  The
building was left over from an old army post.  Clark comes down
to drink with our crowd every Thursday.  He should be there tonight."
	"Excellent.  I hope it's no trouble for you to escort me
down there-"
	The old man slapped his hand against his leg.  "No trouble
at all.  I was going down there anyways."
	
	Gilley's was a smoky, woodsman filled bar.  It was also
a store, diner, and post office.  Gilley himself presided behind
the bar, pulling beer taps and sloshing whiskey into glasses.  
Lovecraft and the old man entered slowly, the old man calling
out to his peers.  Overhead hung down miscellaneous protrubances.
Lovecraft had the duffle bag over his shoulder and was laboring
heavily under its load.
	Dimly, near the pot bellied stove, Lovecraft espied a familiar
form.  Klarkash-Ton.  He moved toward the man he recognised only from
pictures, and had never actually met.  He waved his thanks to the old
man as he approached the warmth and darkness of the stove.
	As Lovecraft grew near, Clark Smith rose.  Smith's face was
puzzled until Lovecraft came within a meter.
	"My god," Smith exhaled.  "It's you."
	"Hello, Klarkash-Ton," smiled Lovecraft.   "It's me. Eich-Pi
-El."
	Smith sat down again shakily.  "What could possibly have pried
you out of Providence?"
	Lovecraft's face pulled.  "Grim news I'm afraid.  I need to 
discuss it with you in private."
	Smith laughed.  "You're not starting to believe your own
fiction, are you?"
	Lovecraft frowned as a schoolmaster to a discipline problem,
"This is no joke, I fear.  We need to talk."
	Smith's face settled down.  "Alright.  I only live two miles
away.  If you can carry the lantern, I'll take your pack."
	Lovecraft's face relaxed.  "Yes... Good."

	There was no road to speak of to Smith's shack, in fact 
calling it a trail would be generous.  Through the dense pines the two
old friends trudged, Smith under the weight of his friends luggage, 
and Lovecraft through the unfamiliar forest.  The heady smell of the 
pines enclosed the two, and made it seem almost warm.  Several times,
Lovecraft stumbled and tripped across roots and fallen branches.
	Finally, a small house could be seen in the lamp light.  A
very small house.
	Lovecraft opened the door, while Smith dropped the duffle
bag and moved to the fireplace.  In a few minutes, a loud pine
smelling fire was starting.  Some of the smoke travelled into the
room.
	In the dim light, some features of the shack could be
seen, although they were distant and strangely shaped.  Many curios
and trophies of some sort on various tables and shelves caught 
slivers of the fire light.  Smith motioned Lovecraft to the two
large chairs in front of the fire.  There was a small table between
them, and the right chairs was full of papers.
	"Sorry about the mess," Clark Smith said.  "I'm working
on another story in Hyperborea."  He moved the papers off the chair
and onto a back table.
	Lovecraft smiled.  "I liked the Avoosl story, as I wrote
you before."  The two sat down as Lovecraft reached into the duffel
bag.  "How's your Arabic?" he asked.
	Smith laughed.  "Very bad."
	"Good. This is in Latin, anyway."  He was holding a large
leather bound tome.  It was girded with a dark metal and seemed
very old.  There was no markings of any kind on the outside.
	Smith stared at the book.  "What is that?"
	Lovecraft paused before handing it over to him.  "It's
a latin edition of the Necronomicon, from about 1600 AD."
	Smith almost dropped the book.  "But that's impossible!  You
made that up!"
	"An old bookseller gave it to Belknapius, with instructions
to give it to me.  I have had Dr. Long from the Hay Library examine
it, and he says that the book was written sometime in the 17th century."
Lovecraft frowned before continuing.  "Dr. Long refused to make any
comment about the contents, other than his desire to not be near it
again."
	Smith was examining the first few pages.  "It is in Latin,
and it does say it's the Necronomoson.  But this is ridiculous.  What
the hell does this mean, Howard?"
	Lovecraft scratched his chin.  "I hope it means I have a devoted
fan who is a consumate hoaxer.  Otherwise, the Shuggoths cometh."

		To be continued, maybe.