Strange Eons Read Online Free PDF

the memoirs by Derleth and others?”
    “De Camp didn’t know Lovecraft personally. Long met him in New York and on other occasions—but he only saw what Lovecraft chose to reveal of himself. Conover saw him just twice, and Derleth never set eyes on him at all. Neither did most of HPL’s correspondents or today’s scholars. They rely on hearsay and the letters he wrote. Well, hearsay is inaccurate. As for the letters, what better way for a man to hide his real persona than behind a wall of words?” Waverly spoke softly. “I tell you the man was up to something—and into something.”
    Keith frowned. “But how did it all start?”
    “We know HPL was fascinated by old New England and its historical landmarks. He spent time with antiquarians and local historians in the cities. Maybe they put him onto something. He began visiting the backwoods, the almost-forgotten little hamlets with their deserted, boarded-up houses he wrote about so frequently in his stories. But suppose he wasn’t just sightseeing. Perhaps he was looking for something. Something he found in an ancient attic or crumbling basement—an old diary, a manuscript, or even a book.”
    “You think the Necronomicon really existed?”
    “I wouldn’t go that far.” Waverly shook his head. “But there were actual witch-cults in New England, and they did use volumes of so-called black magic. If Lovecraft discovered one of these it may have started him thinking seriously about the old legends and tracking down the truth behind them.”
    Keith poured himself another brandy. “When do you think all this happened?”
    “It must have started about 1926, after his marriage broke up and he left New York to live in Providence again with his two old aunts. There was a lot they didn’t know and were in no position to guess.” Waverly cleared his throat, his voice hoarsening. “All this stuff about HPL being a noctambulist, prowling the streets at night. Do you really believe he just wandered around aimlessly, or did he have a destination? I think he must have. And it was then, of course, that he met Upton—the Richard Upton Pickman of his story.”
    Keith gestured in interruption. “We still don’t know there even was such a person. Just because you picked up a scrap of paper—”
    Waverly chuckled, but his features remained immobile. “On the basis of that scrap of paper I’ve had a very busy three days, calling people back East. Let me tell you what I found out. First of all, there was an artist named Richard Upton. Born in Boston, in 1884. Died there in 1926.”
    “I suppose you’re going to tell me he disappeared from the basement of a weird old mansion in the dead of night?”
    “Nothing of the sort. According to newspaper accounts, on December tenth he returned from a trip—to Providence, mind you—to discover his studio had been broken into and his entire collection of paintings stolen. That evening, after reporting the theft to the police, he shot himself.”
    “Motive?”
    “He left no note. The paintings were never recovered, and if the police ever learned anything it wasn’t made public.” Waverly leaned forward. “But I found out something they didn’t know. A week earlier, before Upton made the Providence trip, he crated up one painting, boxed his books and correspondence, and sent them off to the North End Warehouse and Storage Company. The stuff laid there unclaimed—probably forgotten—all these years. Until Santiago bought the lot.”
    “How’d you trace this down?”
    “I told you I have contacts. Beckman suggested getting hold of a Boston phone directory and calling storage firms to inquire about any recent sale to Santiago; that’s how I got the information.”
    “Beckman?”
    “A book dealer I know here in town. Specializes in first editions and rare items. Naturally he was interested in anything to do with HPL. He thinks it’s quite possible that Santiago might not have gotten all of Upton’s material—there