The Statement of Andrew Doran Chapter 1

This is the complete Chapter 1 of book 1 of my Andrew Doran Series: The Statement of Andrew Doran. It's a book that's built on the premise of Indiana Jones vs Lovecraftian Monsters. It's very pulp and adventure. I hope that you enjoy it. It's written with each chapter being an episode, as it was my first attempt at serialized fiction (originally) and is now compiled into a full novel.

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Episode 1: Miskatonic University

The sun beat down on me with a ferocity that I'd only seen before in the boxing matches. This form of punishment had taken me completely by surprise. This surprise had lost its edge about three hours previously, and I was long since caring about it.

My initial surprise was due to the nature of the execution. I was being hanged by my wrists in the Mexico sun and I was naked. This was completely out of character for the Night Watchers, the midnight tribe. An offshoot of the Aztec that managed to survive their collapse, the Night Watchers had taken to the worship of Night Gaunts, man shaped horrors with no faces and large bat-like wings. The Night Gaunts were known in most cultures as mythical beasts that would ride the darkness between reality and dreams. The Night Gaunts were to blame when people failed to come back to the waking world, having instead been devoured in the Dreamlands.

So, to be strung up in the sun is an intriguing way to die, given the circumstances.

As I'd mentioned previously, the surprise was quickly put to the back of my mind as I struggled to reverse my unfortunate situation. That was three hours ago. I hadn't given up.

I like to think that I had decided to internalize my struggles.

Pressing my mind to the furthest reaches of my being, I was trying to use the teachings found in the "dreaded" book by that fool Arab. In the past, under ideal conditions, I'd managed to enter the Dream Lands, and even once found that I could affect the walls of reality from there.

Sadly, I wasn't mad as the Arab yet, and was a little too distracted by the sunburn on my more indecent regions. Surrendering, I opened my eyes, and looked down at my bright red feet. As I stared at them, only bringing more attention to the pain, I got my first real surprise in three hours.

It felt that the shadow stared at me for as long as I stared at it. My eyes kept at the shadow cast on my feet for what seemed like an eternity before it spoke to me.

"Andrew Doran?"

"That's Doctor Andrew Doran," I croaked out. I obviously hadn't completely surrendered. I'd earned that doctorate, and I'd be damned if I'd die without it.

"Yes, well, Dr. Doran then." The voice was educated and, judging by the shoes that had fallen into my vision, not prepared for the climate. "I am Dr. Stoll. Benjamin Stoll, and I've come to return you to Miskatonic."

This had to be a hallucination. My mind was finally breaking and creating the most preposterous of circumstances. Next my very beard would be crawling up my face to start a chat with my eye lids. 

I hadn't been back to Miskatonic University in almost ten years. This was mostly due to them banning me, but also because of my stubborn attitude. Miskatonic thought itself the center of all educational fronts and shunned looking too deeply into the texts they label forbidden, but that archaeology labels necessary.

They had become a bunch of tired, old zealots who coveted their books and shared their real knowledge with no man.

We shall refer to it as 'mutual disinterest.' And yes, I am an alumni. It's a more sordid past than with any lady I've ever met.

I finally used the last of my strength to raise my chin from my chest. This created a cascade of fire over the back of my neck that threatened to steal my very senses. The energy to let my eyes examine his gave the image of a man slowly sizing him up. At least I hope that it did.

Dr. Benjamin Stoll was bald, completely, and so pale that I figured him to burn up as I watched him. He was dressed in a full grey suit, complete with jacket. He had thin wire framed glasses and a thick mustache that put my beard to shame. It took my sunbathed brain a minute or two to comprehend, but he wasn't sweating, and he wasn't even red. I'm most likely the most traveled man to ever graduate from that cursed school and would normally take the time to place his clothing, his dialect, even his lineage based on physical characteristics. In this instance, there was no need.

"Miskatonic sent you? You mean the Department of Archaeology sent you. Why send a Shoggoth when the sun would have done the job for you?"

The man-shaped monster smiled. "While consuming your essence would satisfy me beyond your comprehension, I have been compelled, via the means at Miskatonic's disposal, to invite you to Miskatonic for a discussion. Sending myself is meant to be an indication towards the urgency of the request." He kept smiling, as if he forgot how to stop, and reached out and over my head. I hadn't seen a blade, and he obviously hadn't exerted himself. It was a shoggoth displaying his inhuman characteristics to a man in no place to do that which came normally to him.

I've made it my occupation kill the soul sucking shoggoths and all of their ilk from the Necronomicon. Being aided by one disgusts me, but a slight smile found my burned and tired face as I knew that the Earth's sun wasn't healthy for a shoggoth. As a matter of fact, Dr. Stoll probably felt as burnt up as I did.

On top of all of my deep seated hate for his kind, Dr. Stoll had also been sent by that damned school to collect me. As if I would ever be in their employ.

I no sooner hit the ground then I raised my weakened hands and shouted in a harsh voice "Cthalgn Flthagnic!" It was mostly a bunch of crossed consonants with a vowel or two mixed together. It sounded like a phlegm-y barking cough and this was only made more cough-like by my sunbaked voice.

These were words, though. Ancient and all powerful words that came directly from the book of the Necronomicon, and as with all knowledge gained from that book, it had come to serve me well over the years.

Darkness leapt from my hands and engulfed the shoggoth, and all about his body came a stiffening and a final shudder as the shoggoth found that it could no longer move.

The effort sapped the last of my strength and I collapsed to the baked earth, unable to even lift my head.

Shoggoths, as with every monster and beastie in the Necronomicon, didn't need mouths to talk and this one was chattier than my beloved sister.

Release me. You will not be able to leave this desert in your current condition. I have been compelled and am incapable of killing you. You will be safe with me.

Of course the monster was right. We were hundreds of miles from civilization and the magics of the shoggoth could get me anywhere safer than here, but my hate for the evils that prey on mankind, no matter how domesticated, knew no bounds. From my prone position, I squeezed my fist, tightening my magical grip on the beast. This last effort drained me even further, and I dropped my head to the sand. Without looking, I could feel my spell snap as the shoggoth broke my ever weakening grasp.

In the matter of an instant, I was at eye-level with the monster, but I was not upright. A slimy shadow had tentacled out of the monster's human abdomen and spiraled around my body, holding me upside down.

You are food, and somewhere in the long line of your being food, you and your people have forgotten your place. You are known to us, Dr. Andrew Doran. We call you the Klgthorf. It has no equivalent in your mind, but the closest I can come to a translation would be 'the cockroach that bites.' You are insects to us, and you, Dr. Doran, above all of the other cockroaches, are in dire need of a lesson.

During this intrusion into my mind, he'd began absorbing my soul through his contact with me. He couldn't kill me, as he'd said previously, but it didn't stop him from taking a sip.

Even this close to death, you have so much...soul....

Through gritted teeth I said, "Enjoy the taste and take note of its flavor. You're going to find something hidden underneath my strong survival sense. That's steel determination. Compelled or not, I will kill you and all of your kind." I spit as I said lastly, "Taste my conviction!"

The facial expressions of a shoggoth in human form are impossible to read on the best of days. They've never taken the time to learn our mannerisms, and why should they? We don't take the time to learn a cow's mannerisms as we're eating a juicy steak. Years of hunting them, killing them, and running from them, had taught me to look for little tells, and as the shoggoth drank from me, I saw one of these clues then. His entire image wavered. His mind had been hit by a strong enough surprise that he'd let his grip on his projected illusion slip, just for a second. I saw him then, as I always saw him, but also with my eyes. He was a perfect specimen of a disgusting species; a collection of mouths and tentacles all drifting in an amorphous blob of some dark and oily substance.

Those many mouths had tasted my soul and he'd been scared by what he had found.

Painfully, I was on the ground again, and before I could do anything to object, the shoggoth had reached down and touched my forehead with cold, imaginary, man-hands. In that moment, we were transported across space and through the void between distances.

The nightmares of the mind dwell in the void, and I did my best to keep my mind's eye closed during the trip, but I was far too weak to keep all of the horrors out. We land in a library with a high ceiling and several chairs. The smell of a cigar touched my nostrils and reminded me of something that I couldn't place. Something dark and invasive from my split second trip in the void. I was shivering from the trip, not from the cold as it looked to be surprisingly warm in the New England town of Arkham.

"Shoggoths: you can dress them up, compel them to do your dirty work, but they don't have the common decency to dress a man before dropping his naked self in my library."

I don't like to beat around the bush, and I had no energy to jump up and punch Dean Brandon Smythe in his smug mouth, so I spoke my mind. "Smythe," I spat. "You're messing with monsters as if they were puppies. This one is going to break his leash, and I hope I'm there to watch him flay you alive."

The Dean crouched before me and looked me in the eyes. "Yes, well, it's good to see you haven't lost your bark." He touched my chin and I felt dirtier than three hours in the desert sun and being touched by a shoggoth had made me. "If you've finished being disagreeable, I'd like to get you cleaned up and dressed, at which point I'd like to explain why we didn't just let you die in the desert. Is this agreeable?"

I grunted, and he must have accepted it as an affirmative. I wasn't sure if it was, but I wanted pants, and a very cold shower. Besides, Miskatonic has always had something I wanted and I wasn't going to pass up a chance to finally get my hands on it, no matter how remote that chance was.

***

I don't remember how I got from the library to the shower, and that's probably for the best. The void holds very little for the sane man, and while I'd confronted things more sanity shattering than the void in the past, I'm normally less weak and sun baked when I face them.

I was dressed in a plain button up shirt and brown trousers. It was my normal attire before I'd gone to live with the Night Watchers, and as loathe as I was to be in Miskatonic, it was a nostalgic feeling of comfort that came over me as I dressed.

I looked myself over in the mirror and was surprised to see that I didn't look nearly as bad as I felt. My thick mop of brown hair had been cut short before my self-induced insanity to become one of the Night Watchers and then destroy them from within, but that was over a month ago, and had returned to its more unruly nature.

I took a comb to it and managed to make it decent enough before turning the comb and clippers to my beard. I'm a firm believer that a trimmed beard is the only sign that humanity still has hope, and took my time with this.

Twenty minutes after I'd left the library, I'd made my way back down there, without the aid of the shoggoth. I'll always take my own feet over void travel.

Smythe hadn't left the library, and as I walked back in he was sitting and flipping through a book.

Dean Brandon Smythe was the embodiment of the tired, old zealots running their vault of knowledge. He was clean shaven and bald except for wisps of hair that he combed from one side of his broad head to the other. He was old, but not old enough to have been replaced yet, although I had heard that he'd chosen a successor.

In regards to the book he wasn't really paying attention to, it wasn't lost on me that this wasn't just any book. Smythe was holding the only reason I was willing to contemplate going along with whatever dirty work that Miskatonic's Department of Archaeology had concocted this time.

In Smythe's hands was the only English translation of the Necronomicon. Miskatonic University had acquired it in 1918, more than twenty years ago. This translated version was the most up-to-date edition, and included the most detailed practices by those Dagon worshippers of the Polynesian islands, and the largest collection of transliterated spells for summonings and banishments. This was the most complete text on the creatures that preyed on humanity, and therefore the best possible weapon in my arsenal against them.

Part of my anger with all of Miskatonic, and especially Dean Smythe, was that this Necronomicon was on public display in the library. Every couple of months, someone of shifty morals, or maybe someone who was just a little curious, would crack open the book and cause mayhem that would inevitably give the horrors of our world and the next more ground in our reality.

I emphasize our reality. They have their own and they are invaders, pushing into our world to cause horrors unimaginable.

Some information should be guarded and protected from the ignorant and instead made a tool by someone who would know how to responsibly make use of it. I wanted this book, for me and to keep it from them.

It was no coincidence that he was reading that book at the moment I had chosen to come down, but I opted to ignore it. He knew I wanted it, and it wouldn't be long before he offered it, falsely, for whatever he asked me to do.

"Thank you for the shower and clothes." I nodded towards where the shoggoth hid, invisible, in the corner of the room.  In my chosen occupation, one of the first things that you learn is that once you've seen beyond the veil, you can't unsee what's been seen. "And thank you for saving my life." I looked directly into the Dean's eyes. "Now tell me what you want so that I can spit into your face for a specific reason."

"All the charm as usual, Doctor." Smythe threw the Necronomicon he'd been thumbing through at my chest where I caught it and held it, not removing my eyes from him. I held my newly formed anger deep within me, trying not to let it add to the fire that Smythe had already earned. He just threw a book. Added to that sacrilege was the flair of my sunburned chest and hands as I caught the book."Oh, would you stop being stone cold angry long enough to hear what has to be said. Look at the damned book."

I tore my eyes from his and looked down at the book. I chose to stop hiding my anger instantly.

The cover was in German. Flipping through the pages, I found that every page was written in German. This wasn't my English edition of the famed book. This was German. Either the University had acquired a second copy of the very rare book or...

"You let the Nazi's take the book." I said it through gritted teeth.

Smythe crossed his legs and took out a small swath of cloth. "Nobody let anybody take anything. It was stolen." Taking off his glasses, he calmly cleaned them as he said, "Go ahead and say the 'I told you so' so that we can move forward and get to fixing the problem."

"You son of a b****. You self-righteous a******." I hadn't needed his permission, but I saw no reason not to oblige. "For years, I've petitioned you to at least hide the book securely in one of your many vaults. If you can't bring yourself to destroy it, then lock it up! No, instead you keep it in a very public room, in front of children." I hesitated, letting my words sink in to both of us. I was angry and I almost told him that I'd go find it, just like he wanted me to. I allowed myself a chance to cool down, but I didn't let it into my face at all. "Enjoy fixing this one. I won't have a part in it."

Dean Smythe put his glasses gently back onto his face. "Well, now that we've gotten that out of the way..." He stood up and stuck his hand out to me, as if I would ever shake his hand. "So, you'll go get the book and then we'll let you borrow it under the conditions that after one year we shove it into the deepest vault known to exist."

He'd played every card he had. That was almost the exact words I used in my letter to him ten years ago demanding that he hand over the book. He was giving me everything I wanted and he knew I couldn't refuse it. "I'll need help getting into Germany."

He nodded and lowered his hand, understanding that I wouldn't touch him. "That's easy, we've got Shoggoths."

I suppressed a shudder at the thought of the void travel. "Weapons?" I knew Brandon Smythe, Dean of Miskatonic University, wouldn't give me any guns, but Smythe also knew that guns were the furthest thing from my mind.

"Borrow or own?"

"Depends on if I like it." I shrugged.

He nodded slowly. "Then I won't show you my favorites."

It was my turn to nod, turning my palm over slowly and generating a ball of flame in my palm. It was a simple trick, and not worth anything in a fight, but I was betting that Smythe didn't know that. "I wouldn't show you the fine china either."

I sensed the shoggoth move and I could tell that Smythe couldn't. The shoggoth knew what kind of weapons we meant, and I doubt that Smythe had ever been quite dumb enough to have told it where the armory was.

Of course, I meant supernatural weapons. Talismans to protect, buckles to banish, and blades that dispel.

Smythe dug into his pocket and whispered something under his breath. He pulled out a dirty coin, plain and not special by any means, but I could sense the static energy coming off of it. He'd placed an incantation onto it.

"This coin will lead you to the Miskatonic Armory. If you feel that you're being followed," the Dean looked over his shoulder, but not towards the shoggoth at all, even though that was his target, "dispatch your pursuer by any means that you see fit."

I held back from laughing right in the Dean's face. He'd just threatened a monster that he couldn't even find in a locked room. I silently hoped that I'd be there to watch as the monster devoured his soul.

I pocketed the coin, tossed the German Necronomicon on a chair, and started for the door that I had entered through. I stopped before touching the door handle and turned to look one last time into Dean Brandon Smythe's old eyes. I wanted to see his smug look one last time and remind him that he didn't own me.

"Don't let my cooperation go to your head, Smythe. I'm only doing this for the book, not for you. Never for you."

"You're cooperating for the same reason you do everything: from some false belief that you can protect mankind from these things. You're bailing water when you should be jumping ship." He held up his hands in a placating gesture. "Whatever helps you swallow it, Dr. Doran. You're a monster killer, you'll continue to work for me as long as I provide you monsters."

I smiled, and I like to think that he saw murder in my eyes then. "Or until I decide that you are one."

***

I had used coin magics before, and finding the armory was a simple matter. Coin magic, in its variants, is location magic. When I'm facing the wrong direction the coin gets hotter and is at its hottest when I'm facing directly away from my target.

Simple magic, but nonetheless effective. It took me to a large wall painting in an area of the building that looked somehow related to the mathematics wing of Miskatonic University. I slowly turned on my heels a few times to insure that the painting was the correct spot and then pocketed the coin quickly, hiding the movement from eyes that might be prying.

Before giving any movements towards entering the hidden armory, I opened my senses. Reaching around me, I felt with my mind towards the corners and around the turns of the hallway. Not only searching for shoggoths, but for any errant magics or beings. Miskatonic's collection of books and weapons (in any library the two are indistinguishable, and even more so at Miskatonic) is extensive, and I wouldn't doubt that all sorts of monsters, otherworldly beings, or fraternity boys would be dying to get their hands on some artifact or relic.

It'd do no good to enter a hidden armory only to be watched while doing it.

Deciding that the coast was clear, I pulled the coin back from my pocket and raised it to the painting. The image was of some Brown Jenkin, a rat bodied monster with a man's face, dragging a dead man's detached arm through some sewer grate in a far removed basement. The artistry was too realistic, and I could feel the eyes of the Brown Jenkin peaking directly at me, wondering when he might get a chance to take my arm into whatever nether regions he called home.

This was obviously the work of Richard Upton Pickman. Some claimed him to be a man, but I was sure he wasn't wholly of this world. Pickman claimed that the imagery of the paintings came to him in his dreams, but there have been some accounts that the imagery was that of living models. This painting, as far as I was concerned, was a perfect piece of evidence to the latter theory. I made a quiet note to move Pickman up a notch on my list of "monsters to eliminate." I couldn't say for certain whether Pickman was human or not, or maybe some cross between the two options, but he's an observer, a witness, and the only thing worse than a shapeless beast from another dimension eating humanity is a human who knows of it and encourages its machinations.

The coin grew cold as ice as I brought it into closer proximity with the painting and I almost dropped it as I pressed it to the horrific image. As the coin made contact, the painting flashed brightly. Blinking the flash from my eyes, I noted that the painting was gone and replaced by a large wooden door. With a hard pull on a ring placed in the center of the door and I was able to step into the Miskatonic Armory.

The armory was a thing of beauty. As a historian I was in love. As a warrior, and I had no doubts that I was a warrior for humanity, I was in lust. The room was more vast than any one room I had ever seen before and I could not see the ceiling. The sheer size of it left me breathless.

The Miskatonic University armory had the traditional weapons as well as the type that I was looking for. Swords, knives, pistols, rifles, whips, canons, machine guns, weapons you throw, weapons you roll, weapons hidden within weapons, were all alongside torture devices such as iron maidens and racks. While these were all well known and common weapons, I wouldn't doubt that they had to have some sort of special property to be in this specific armory. As I walked slowly among the weapons, I noted that even the sword blades and pistol barrels were all covered with symbols from the dreaded book.

The rows of weapons were blindingly bright, and I meant that almost literally. Most of the weapons had an otherworldly glow about them that radiated not only on the spectra of human sight, but also on the lights between lights. I'm only human, and I couldn't see these colors, but I'd been among the beings of the void enough to sense the disturbance that these colors made. The sense left me feeling of unease, but at the same time I knew of the power that this sense implied, and I was in awe of the weapons before me. I'd never been so torn emotionally, or so happy because of the cross of my feelings.

The rows were lengthy, and I never saw the end of one, but I crossed between them and only stopped to inspect the weapons that peaked my interest.

One such stop placed me in front of a large coffin shaped device. If I were a layman, I would assume that it was a large grandfather clock, but I had read of the book and knew it for what it truly was. It was a space craft for traveling in both space and time. It had belonged, allegedly, to a dreamer by the name of Randolph Carter before falling into the hands of Etienne-Laurent de Marigny. Upon a cursory examination of this device, I decided that he must not have liked owning it, as it had a label across it, tied in twine, that read "For Auction." I would have to remind myself to be there for that auction.

Pulling myself from the coffin shaped clock, I turned down another row and was surprised to find that Dean Brandon Smythe was standing there with an unexpected smile on his face.

"You couldn't even trust me to be alone down here, Smythe?"

Smythe kept on smiling and standing there, as if he knew some grand secret that he was more than happy to laud over me. I allowed him this and and that was my greatest mistake since getting my cover blown with the Night Watchers.

I'll be the first to admit, I have my faults. I have built a reputation that is mostly of rumors and conjecture, and even this far into my recounting of events, I've nurtured the idea that I'm some sort of magus with large quantities of power at my disposal.

This is the biggest lie of them all. My only powers are the ability and want to read coupled with a surplus of luck. The ball of flame I conjured in the library had only been a source of light and useless in battle. The telekinetic hold I'd put on the shoggoth had been a spell that anyone could cast who knew the words, and it had only allowed me to immobilize the sun-weakened shoggoth. Also, I've claimed to be able to see everything that others cannot, the lack of sweat on Dr. Stoll, the shoggoth hidden in the room, and pushing my senses outward in the hall. These were not extraordinary powers, but instead only advanced observation skills that I'd picked up in my years of fighting.

I read everything that I come across, no matter how obscure, and I listen to what the peoples of the world tell me. These together leave me prepared for almost anything that the void can throw at me.

All of my explanation is to add credence to the fact that I'm only human, mortal and nothing special, and that is why I fell for the oldest trick in the book.

Shoggoths are shape shifters and illusionists, and without the sun to make a man sweat, there was little I could discover to tell the difference between the former Dr. Stoll and original Dean Brandon Smythe.

Looking back, I should have been able to figure it out by the smile. Even the Dean hadn't shown a smile that creepy in my all too long time having known him.

Oblivious to the surprise that awaited me, I approached the Dean with the full intent of giving him my complete fury at his assumption that I needed a babysitter.

I never made it all the way to him. His arm shot outward, and continued to stretch outward, closing the remaining four foot distance to myself and slamming directly into my chest.

Rocketed back, I slammed into shelving units of blades and guns. The impact sent tingling fire cascading across my back and chest where my sunburned skin was hit. I yelped in pain before finally landing on the ground in a mess of fallen weapons.

I was confused and surprised, but I've never been stupid. I grabbed the nearest weapon to me, which happened to be a non-commissioned officer's sword for the Civil War. Unlike the average style of these types of blades, this blade was black as the very night and reflected no light. Across the blade were symbols I'd seen in several cultures as well as the Necronomicon. I had no idea the power of this sword, if any, but I wasn't going to let a damned shoggoth stop me from finding out.

I hopped to my feet and sprinted at the monster, who continued to smile as if nothing had happened. At about five feet away I dropped into a slide that, I hoped, left me open for an easy stomping. With effort, a shoggoth was capable of reading a human's mind, yet the heat of battle left no room for that kind of effort. Being a being of fast movements and incredible strength, the shoggoth's hands shifted into fleshy clubs and slammed down towards my still sliding body.

I'd anticipated this move, as it had been very obvious, and slammed my heel into the ground. Using the rest of my forward momentum, I used my foot and my elbow to propel me back towards standing. As I came up and the shoggoth's arms slammed downward, I swung the saber across its chest. It shifted and fell backwards, avoiding the blade and I swung again and again, first an upward slash and another across the chest. Each swing only tasted the dry air of the library as the monster moved with matching speed. My offense wasn't a complete waste though, as it was keep the monster too busy to retaliate. 

Obviously annoyed that this cockroach was trying to bite back, the Dean monster thrust its club arms at my chest again.

Sidestepping the attack only barely, I brought the sword down in a clumsy defense and only managed a small slice of the monster's right arm.

The resulting howl of pain was both verbally abrasive as well as telepathically painful and the shoggoth fell back several steps from the fight. As I stumbled back into solid footing, I watched as the monster's club of an arm smoked and sizzled where the blade had only nicked it. The limb quickly discolored into a brown and grey bruise that stretched up the entire limb. After several more seconds of howling pain, the club of an arm turned to an ooze and then dripped from the monster.

Having lost the troubled limb, the Dean's face then turned to a furious and twisted anger that a normal human face would have been incapable of making. I had a new found faith in my weapon of choice and weaved back into the battle. My faith was quickly lost as the shoggoth's renewed anger battered the weapon from my hand. Before I could retaliate, I was wrapped in the monster's remaining arm, as it slithered from a flesh colored club and into a stretching black tentacle.

Everywhere I was touched by the monster, I erupted in flaming pain, and I was certain that it wasn't all my sunburn. Its very presence was acid to my skin, and it wouldn't be long before I'd be feeling my soul leached through that very touch.

The creature writhed as it held me, and I was slammed into more shelves and and tables, weapons bouncing across the floor. During this painful period of shoggoth hug, I managed to work my left arm free and found myself once again grasping for the nearest thing that I could find.

As I brought my hand up, I shot the monster between its false eyes and saw absolutely no reaction. The h*** the bullet created remained and the shoggoth continued to squeeze me and thrash, causing me to drop the gun, and I worried that I was about to die by shoggoth.

And then the shoggoth shivered. It was subtle, but I could feel it through the monster's burning touch. The shoggoth's image started to slip and it began to return to its normal, oily color. I was dropped, painfully, to the ground and slid back to where the gun had landed. As I saw it, I noticed that it was a simple .38 Smith and Wesson, and was surprisingly loaded. I brought the gun up but as I did I saw no need to actually pull the trigger.

As the former Dr. Benjamin Stoll struggled to hold itself together, more body parts continued to drip from it. Finally, and with a sudden shudder, the monster collapsed into a puddle.

Keeping just out of distance of the chunk filled goopy remains of the shoggoth, I collapsed as well, hugging the pistol to my chest.

I laid there, like that for what seemed like an hour, but was much more likely only a minute or two, when Dean Brandon Smythe stepped into view.

I didn't hesitate as I aimed the pistol right at his head.

The smug bastard smiled a half grin and raised both of his hands. "I heard the alarm go off." He glanced around at the mess that my fight with his pet had caused. "You're the reason we can't have nice things, Dr. Doran."

Taking my gun off of Smythe, I stood up and collected the sword from where it had fallen. Grabbing the scabbard, I strapped it to my waist. I would need to get a holster for the pistol, but for now, my waistband would do. I had found my weapons.

"What happened here?" The Dean was no longer attempting humor, and was genuinely concerned as to the mess in his armory.

"Unfortunately," I answered, grabbing a case of .38 ammo from a shelf. "I probably just saved your life."