That Which Should Not Be Read Free

of an individual?  Was it held by the town in some collective capacity?  If Thayerson was aware of its existence, would there be others on the trail, seeking it out, as well?  If so, was I in danger?  The last question fell upon me with a particular violence; it was the first time I had considered the possibility this exercise could end badly for me.  I didn’t think on it long, however, as the sudden jerk of the train’s hesitant first steps out of the station jolted me from my thoughts. 
    For the moment, I allowed myself to forget the challenges ahead as I gazed out of the car window.  I could see very little.  The snow was now falling in torrents, and I realized this was no ordinary storm. It had all the markings of a nor’easter.  Now, I was traveling to a town with which I was practically unfamiliar, with night having already fallen, in the midst of a coming blizzard.  It was as if dark forces were conspiring to defeat me already.
    My mind drifted, and I found myself thinking back to the earliest days at Miskatonic to one of the nights that defined my relationship with Henry.  Henry would occasionally host parties to which he would invite those fellow students with whom we were particularly close.  He was always a charming fellow, and I often noted people were drawn to him like metal flakes to a magnet.  But in him also was an eccentricity, a fire that burned for those un-nameable creatures from beyond.  And I knew that many of our so-called friends appeared only in the hopes that Henry would broach his favorite topic.  His eyes would sparkle with a peculiar flame.  One never knew what tales he might conjure.
    So it was that night.  After much wine flowed and the conversation meandered from professors to classes to the young ladies of Hampstead that lies across the Miskatonic River, Henry spread his arms wide on the table, and I saw that particular light come into his eyes.
    “Did anyone read the Times today?”
    I glanced at the five men seated around the table.  I saw in their faces the answer was no.  I could not help but smile.  I had read the Times , and I had no doubt of what Henry would speak. 
    “Then, I suppose,” he continued, “that you did not see the story regarding Dr. Charles Ashcroft?”
    “I did not read the story,” said an unremarkable boy whose name has long since escaped me, “but all of New England knows he has gone mad.”
    “Yes, yes,” Henry said, waving him off, “but let us not get ahead of ourselves.  That Ashcroft is mad is beyond doubt, but does one not wonder how a man such as he could lose his mind?”
    “Why don't you tell us, Henry,” I said. 
    “Oh, I shall, my good Carter, if only you will stop interrupting me.”
    The other men at the table laughed, and Henry smiled wickedly at me.  I could not help but grin.
    “Four months ago,” Henry began, “Dr. Ashcroft left Boston, as I am sure you no doubt saw in the papers, on a scientific expedition for the ages.” 
    Henry removed a pipe from his jacket pocket and struck a match.  We all watched as he lit the tobacco within, waiting patiently for him to continue. 
    “He arrived,” he said, extinguishing the match with a flick of his wrist, “on the northern shore of the continent of Antarctica with forty men, as many dogs, and a month’s worth of supplies and provisions.” 
    He then glanced up, looking at each man, starting with the one nearest him and moving down the table, as if to make sure we understood.  He knew we were all well aware of Dr. Ashcroft's fate. 
    “Three months later,” he continued, “a British whaling ship came upon a man on the far western shore of the continent.  The sailors on board described him as a wild savage.  Alone.  Starving.  And no doubt completely mad.  We were all horrified, of course, to learn this man was none other than Dr. Ashcroft himself.”
    Henry paused and sipped his wine.  The others looked around the table.  They were anxious to hear