The Dark Rites of Cthulhu Read Online Free PDF Page A

It was as if reaching into the room had drawn its notice. As before, he felt as if it were staring at him from beneath its brown, wrinkled lids. Between it and the unpleasant symbols stuck to the peeling wallpaper, he was feeling decidedly nervous.
    “Ain’t you the one who reads all those detective stories? Everything is pertinent,” Warren said. He tapped Carter between the eyes with a finger, snapping him out of his reverie. “Clues, Carter,” he said.
    “Yes, clues, I understand, thank you,” Carter said, slapping ineffectually at Warren’s hand. He rubbed his fingers together and looked at the doorframe again. “What was that I felt? I—I can remember touching something of similar shape and convolution before, though I can’t…I can’t seem to recall where.”
    Warren peered at him for a long moment before replying. Carter had the feeling that he was choosing his words very carefully. “It’s the sign of Koth, Carter. You’ve probably seen it in one of my books, when you were making notes for your little stories.”
    “I—yes, obviously,” Carter said, pushing aside the hazy, half-formed not-quite memories of a certain black tower, standing alone in the twilight vale of his dreams. He shook himself and rubbed his arms. Such dreams were one of the reasons he'd come seeking Warren's help in the first place, and he didn't care to be reminded of them. He blinked as Warren's words sank in and said, “Little stories?”
    “Focus, Carter,” Warren said and snapped his fingers. He looked back at the room. “Only reason a fellow might want to carve that particular sign on his door, or put them other ones up on the walls, is to keep something out.” He frowned, as if something unpleasant had occurred to him and added, “Or in.”
    Carter wrung his hands nervously. He felt a thrill of fear. He’d seen that look in Warren’s eyes more than once in their brief, but eventful, association. It was something more than curiosity; it bordered on obsession. “Warren—Harley—perhaps we should call someone…”
    “Carter, I surely do hate to tell you this, but I am who people call for something like this,” Warren said. He knocked on the doorframe and then, before Carter could stop him, stepped into the room. 
    Carter held his breath. Warren turned in a slow circle, looking about him. He murmured soft words that Carter didn't quite catch, under his breath. The thing on the bed didn't so much as twitch. Carter wondered why he'd thought it might.
    Warren went to the small writing desk opposite the bed and sifted through the papers there. "Shipping receipts," he murmured, "Iceland." He looked back at the bed. "Is that where you're from?"
    "They have mummies in Iceland?" Carter asked, still staring at the thing on the bed. "Are those markings on the walls Icelandic as well? Have we stumbled upon some ancient rite from the sagas?" he asked excitedly, forgetting his fear, momentarily, in a rush of curiosity. "Wait until I tell Conrad and Kirowan!"
    "They have mummies everywhere, Carter," Warren said. "And no, those markings are not Icelandic. They're Tibetan." He sank down beside the body on the floor. "You don't happen to recognize him, do you?" he asked. "Come on in, get a good look."
    "I'd rather not, if it's all the same to you," Carter said.
    "Carter--get in here," Warren said.
    Carter grimaced and stepped into the room. He watched the thing on the bed as he did so, though he couldn't say why. Surely it was no threat? He looked down at the dead man. He was no threat either. He looked down at the man's death-mottled features and shook his head. "No, I don't know him. Do you?"
    "Nope. Pity, I was hoping to learn who it was who thought they were going to perform the rite of rolang here in this pleasant little domicile," Warren said.
    "The rite of what?" Carter asked. Instinctively, his hand dug for the small moleskin notebook and pencil stub he habitually kept in his coat.
    "Don't you dare pull that damn notebook