Andre M. Pietroschek
The Eldritch Tome: The Case of Alien Nightmare Bat Gargoyle
The Eldritch Tome (Evil Book): The Case Of That Alien Nightmare Bat Gargoyle Thingy
Author: Andre M. Pietroschek © All rights reserved
Disclaimer: No warranties! A FICTIONAL, UNPAID, and spontaneous continuation of H. P. Lovecraft's unfinished short story `The Book´.
Note: While I consider this `horribly lacking still´, by now 2 Third (2/3) of this story are handwritten by myself, and I feel wrong about straying farther away from the source, Lovecraft's unfinished story `The Book´ that ever started this idea of an extension!
- I also kept the characters in-between a vaguely autobiografical nudge, mine, and the roleplaying concept that I knew from Chaosium's Call of Cthulhu RPG and Trail of Cthulhu by Pelgrane Press!
- No racism is advocated, funded, or supported by my publishing! The tabletop roleplay concept is freely available for people of all ethnicities and lifestyles.
Prologue - A Vagrant's Reflections:
Operating a diner that never sleeps demands a unique kind of resilience. That’s, if I’m permitted to share my thoughts. Once, during the Great War, I bore the name Kenneth Dalton. Now, I am left with labels like bum, scum, and vagrant, or the street name Smokey. I count myself fortunate, having drifted into homelessness rather than succumbing to the allure of morphine or the haunting shadows of War Trauma, often dismissed as Shell Shock. Others faced far harsher fates, or met grim ends, so let us refrain from lamenting our circumstances, shall we?
It was late October 1926, though the precise date has long slipped my mind, and I certainly lacked a fancy watch to mark the hour. Life unfolds in ways that defy belief. I take my coffee with cream, and I’ve been known to retrieve cigarettes from the gutter; thus, my dear host had to navigate my peculiarities. Cream is a luxury, so whenever I turned down his beloved black coffee, he would serve me Coca Cola instead. Black coffee simply doesn’t sit well with me.
Before I stumbled into Brian Kennedy’s diner, I had no acquaintance with him. There were no tales of camaraderie or shared memories, for this is my account, not a sob story crafted to elicit pity and coins. Brian embraced his life with a quiet joy, though he harbored concerns about potential threats from addicts. He embodied the working man, a stark contrast to my struggles; For where I faltered, he thrived.
Perhaps that is, why I found solace in his presence, a brief respite from my inner demons, allowing me to ponder, if there might be a path out of my personal Hell. It was late, but well before midnight, on an October night that could have sprung from the pages of a horror novel. The darkness enveloped us, and relentless rain battered anyone unfortunate enough to be outdoors. The biting winds whispered of a harsh winter ahead. No exaggeration, I assure you; it truly was a night that chilled to the bone, akin to the discomfort of an elderly grandmother suffering from arthritis!
Two at-first-glance women, recognizable to me as sex-workers by virtue of my gutter experience, burst into the diner, as if pursued by the Devil itself. The larger of the two, a transsexual individual, clutched the accompanying woman tightly, as if to shield her from whatever terror had driven them to flee. To his credit, Brian remained unflappable. With a calm demeanor, he urged them to collect themselves and place their drenched coats on the rack designated for patrons.
After about ten minutes, as I savored my second cigarette, the unusual pair steadied themselves. We could see the blood trickling from their coats, staining their clothes in a grim display. Witnessing acts of violence is a reality many of us face, a truth reinforced by the presence of mobsters across our beloved country. Their words, a mix of frantic gibberish and the rawness of a nervous breakdown, conveyed a fear and shock that felt all too authentic—far beyond anything Hollywood could ever fabricate.
They had borne witness to a brutal murder, and our host, a man of principle, was resolute in his decision to call the police. While the two prostitutes hesitated, a professional bias, caught between denial and suspicion, they eventually understood that, at the very least, this would offer them the safest route out of the danger zone.
Brian possessed one of those curious devices—a telephone, a contraption of wires and a receiver. After allowing the hookers to freshen up in the restroom, he handed me a shotgun and requested that I keep watch at the door, just in case. I observed him ready a revolver, strapping it to his side. As time passed, the four of us—strangers in a perilous situation—awaited the loud arrival of a police car. I saw it approach while I extinguished my fourth cigarette of the night. What transpired next, the truths of our witness accounts, was beyond the understanding of a vagrant like me.
The Journey of Garry Carver: Arkham, Massachusetts, October 1926
As I pen these thoughts, echoes of my past swirl around me like a mist, distorting my memories and leaving me uncertain of where it all began. At times, the years stretch behind me like an endless expanse, while at other moments, the present feels like an isolated point in a vast, formless void. I find myself unsure of how to convey this message. Although I know I am speaking, I sense that a strange and possibly dark force will be needed to carry my words to those who must hear them. My identity feels shrouded in confusion, as if I have endured a profound shock—perhaps the result of some unimaginable experience that has altered my very essence.
All these experiences trace back to that ancient, worm-eaten book. I vividly recall the moment I discovered it, tucked away in a dimly lit corner near the black, oily river where the mists perpetually swirl. The place was ancient, filled with towering shelves of decaying volumes that seemed to stretch infinitely into shadowy alcoves. Piles of books lay scattered on the floor, and in one of those heaps, I unearthed the tome. Its title remained a mystery, as the early pages had vanished, but it opened to reveal something that sent my senses spiraling into chaos.
Within its pages lay a formula—a list of utterances and actions that resonated with something dark and forbidden, something I had encountered in hushed whispers penned by those who dared to delve into the universe's hidden secrets. This book was a key, a guide to gateways and transitions that mystics have long dreamed of, leading to discoveries beyond the limitations of our three-dimensional existence. For centuries, no one had recalled its vital essence, yet this book bore the weight of ages. Its ominous Latin phrases, inscribed by the hand of a half-crazed monk, spoke of lessons lost to time.
I remember the old man's leering grin and the peculiar sign he made as I took the book away. He refused my payment, and only later did I understand why. As I hurried home through those narrow, winding streets choked with mist, I felt a chilling sensation of being followed, as if unseen footsteps trailed me. The centuries-old houses loomed over me, alive with a malignant presence that seemed to awaken from a long slumber. The walls, with their rotting brick and leering diamond-paned windows, felt ready to close in on me, yet I had only glimpsed the faintest fragment of that blasphemous rune before I fled.
Eventually, I found myself reading the book in my attic, pale and locked away from the world. The house stood still, and I ventured up only after midnight. I believe I had a family then, though the details elude me like shadows. I remember the flickering candlelight illuminating the pages as I read, the wax dripping steadily, accompanied by distant chimes from bell towers. I focused intently on those chimes, fearing to hear an alien note among them.
Then came the first scratching at the dormer window, high above the roofs of the city, just as I chanted the ninth verse of that primal incantation. I understood its meaning, and a shudder ran through me. For those who traverse the gateways always carry a shadow, never to be alone again. I had evoked something, and the book was indeed as I had suspected. That night, I crossed the threshold into a vortex of twisted time and vision. When morning arrived, I found myself in the attic, surrounded by walls and shelves that now bore a mocking resemblance to the science I once knew.
The world transformed before my eyes. The familiar mixed with the past and future, and every object I once recognized appeared foreign through the lens of my expanded perception. I began to walk through a dreamscape of unknown shapes, crossing gateways that blurred the lines of my previous reality. Those around me no longer saw what I saw, and I grew silent and withdrawn, fearing the label of madness. Even dogs sensed the shadow that lingered by my side.
Yet, I could not resist the allure of knowledge. I delved deeper into forgotten tomes and scrolls, journeying through new gateways toward the core of the cosmos. I recall the night I drew five concentric circles of fire upon the floor, standing in the innermost one as I chanted that monstrous litany brought forth by a fleeting messenger from Tartary. The walls dissolved, and I was swept away by a dark wind through boundless gray, with the peaks of unknown mountains far below. Eventually, darkness enveloped me, only to be pierced by the light of countless stars forming strange constellations.
I spotted a green-lit plain below, revealing a city unlike any I had ever known. As I approached, a great stone building loomed in an open space, and a wave of terror seized me. I screamed and struggled, only to find myself sprawled across the phosphorescent circles in my attic once more. That night's journey felt no stranger than many before it, yet a profound terror gripped me—I had ventured closer to those unfathomable realms than ever before. From that point on, I approached my incantations with caution, determined not to lose myself in the abyss.
Yet, that cursed tome had lured me into opening a gateway. My reckless desire to master secrets beyond the scientific truths ingrained in me at Miskatonic University had made me a fool, inviting alien forces into our reality. I realize how frayed my nerves have become, and how wandering through the city may have exposed me to the rampant diseases that plague its darker corners. Still, that pervasive dread, the feeling of being hunted, signals my doom. I have become a witness to forces that do not welcome converts.
I am merely a disposable fool, serving a purpose now lost, grappling with the aftermath of my choices.
But I refuse to waver. I acquired an electric lantern, a switchblade, and a revolver. I coated the lantern with sacred oils rumored to repel creatures from beyond, just as silver bullets are said to harm werewolves or nightshade may poison a vampire. My revolver, a .38 short-barrel model, rests in a quick-draw holster that I wear day and night, ready for whatever lies ahead.
Report by Marvin Taugher, Private Investigator, Arkham, Massachusetts, November 1926:
Upon my arrival in Arkham, I was struck by an unsettling sense of normalcy that, in my line of work, demands closer inspection. The Arkham train station, one of the larger hubs in the region, blended into the backdrop of everyday life. Passengers hurried to board their trains or disembarked with purpose. Laughter and tears mingled as children played, tugged along by their parents. Newspaper vendors shouted their headlines, ensuring that anyone within earshot, save for the deaf, remained informed about the happenings in and around Arkham.
My hotel, conveniently located nearby, had already been secured by my agency. I envisioned one of our diligent secretaries making the reservation, eager to connect through the marvel of the telephone. Unlike others who might have opted for a cab, I chose to walk, recognizing the benefits of movement after hours of sitting. In my profession, maintaining good physical health is vital. While I do not adhere to military standards, I understand the importance of moderation—steering clear of excessive smoking, drinking, or the darker temptations that can lead us astray.
As I strolled through the streets, I absorbed the city’s atmosphere, its scents, and the diverse array of people. I’ve learned to read body language and social cues; they reveal much about a community. In certain cities, it’s common for residents to carry concealed weapons, their demeanor shifting from friendly to defensive at the slightest provocation—a form of social distancing that speaks volumes. Yet, amidst the roughness that characterizes American spirit, I noticed some individuals still donned worn army coats, a reminder that poverty often casts a long shadow over many lives. Although I shun the dogma of sermons, I recognize the harsh truths they convey.
The receptionist, Gerald Smithers, pleasantly surprised me by anticipating my arrival and even correctly guessing my name. He handed me my room key and informed me that I still had time for lunch. I enjoyed rice with chicken, good coffee, and a lemon pudding dessert. After ordering a second coffee and enjoying a cigarette, I began my work. The streets of Arkham buzzed with activity—cars and people weaving through the day. My map, marked with key locations, outlined my investigative strategy: visiting Garry Carver’s home, speaking with neighbors, and discreetly gathering whispers around the police station.
In just under 72 hours, I amassed a wealth of information. Following the agency's protocols, I prepared to report my findings and await further instructions. Here’s a summary of what I uncovered: Garry Carver is deceased, but the police are likely concealing the truth of his demise. Officially labeled as another tragic mugging, my examination of the crime scene revealed signs of a far more sinister murder. If my photographs and discussions with the coroner hold true, it appears Garry faced an assailant of extraordinary strength, one capable of lifting him and violently slamming him against the alley’s walls. This was no mere killing; it was a brutal slaughter.
What my colleagues mockingly refer to as the “alien nightmare bat” aligns with the parameters of occult investigations, diverging from typical homicide inquiries. Given that the mayor’s office has already suppressed the truth, I plan to discreetly alert Miskatonic University. Garry Carver’s diary may hold insights about the stalking entity or nightmare killer bat still lurking nearby, and we must close any access points swiftly. I sense that I am being followed, but I have my own protective measures in place. My electric lantern and kerosene lamp emit a discreet signal to elder deities, a safeguard taught by professors from Miskatonic University during our agency’s occult investigations.
I have already sent detailed copies of my report to both, our agency and Miskatonic University. Now, we await our contractors’ decision, and I will conduct this waiting period outside of Arkham.
The end.
What made me proverbially get back into HPL & Cthulhu Roleplay?
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bSIySQcY7pA
That channel also has NEW editions of Pickman's Model & The Call of Cthulhu, which ARE worthy a
listening! 🥳
I submitted 3 of my stories, including one especially written (but rushed & AI haunted) for that narrator. Commentaire d´auteur
Toutes les droites appartiennent à son auteur Il a été publié sur e-Stories.org par la demande de Andre M. Pietroschek.
Publié sur e-Stories.org sur 17.09.2026.
L´auteur
- Lire d´autres travaux de Andre M. Pietroschek
- pietroschek
gmail.com(Spam protégé - Ecrit s´il te plaît le eMail-Adresse par main) - https://www.youtube.com/@FridgeReaver/videos
Commentaires de nos lecteurs (0)
Choisissez svp
Contribution antérieure Prochain article
Plus dans cette catégorie "Science fiction" (Nouvelles en anglais)
Other works from Andre M. Pietroschek
Cet article t'a plu ? Alors regarde aussi les suivants :
El Tercer Secreto - Mercedes Torija Maíllo (Science fiction)
Pushing It - William Vaudrain (Général)