I write you this letter on my train journey home, in disgrace as you know, after my expulsion from the university. I write to you out of cowardice as much as anything else, if the truth is known. I would rather tell you my tale while I am still hundreds of miles away than in person and face your incredulity and disbelief. This letter is no attempt on my part to give excuse for my behavior; you raised me better than that Father. I take full responsibility for all my actions, the result of naivety, obsession and poor judgment, rather than of malice. It is a testament to my own failings that I now flee the dishonor and ridicule left behind me on campus. It is only your intervention that I have to thank for not now being on my way to the penitentiary.
Where am I to start Father, I suppose at the beginning, on that first September day on campus in 1923. So proud I was back then, only two and a half years ago. But that was before the madness took me. Do you remember how excited I was when I left home that year? I had secured a place in a renowned and prestigious New England University, my first desired choice, my whole life ahead of me. I find it hard now to recognize that young hopeful antiquities student and doubt I will ever feel such joyful excitement ever again.
Student life started well, and I quickly settled in. I studied hard and made friends. One such friend was that woman; you no doubt have heard her name, being implicated in the events that now leave me running home. I cannot bring myself to write her name now, but back then she was just another promising young student I befriended. Don't fear father, our friendship was very much intellectual, never romantic. I barely registered her as a woman at all. I was purely drawn to her quite substantial intellect. It was as if her mind held secrets from beyond time, the knowledge from all the great scientists, artists and philosophers down the ages. She was also a skilled hypnotist with an unsettling party trick. She would invite you to stare into her eyes and then, for just a bare second, you got the sense that you were seeing yourself through her eyes.
It was she who convinced me to join Professor Caldwell's tuition group the following term, for easy extra credits and the opportunity for a number of exciting field trips. Did you know that New England has many and numerous Indian ruins, many dating back hundreds of years? There are sacrificial slabs scattered all round the university town, even on the island in the river that runs through the town itself.
Professor Caldwell was captivating at first, knowledgeable and able to impart his enthusiasm for the history of the occult to others, as if his love for his subject was somehow a contagion. You no doubt know he was a recent immigrant from Britain, mayhap his accent added to his allure.
For the remainder of '23 and most of '24 we explored the local towns, shrines and antiquity sites. A blasted patch of wasteland that has refused to let anything grow there for almost a century, a village surrounded by ancient sacrificial stones and a coastal town who have rejected Christianity for an Eastern fish god. All fascinating discoveries, made more so by being still relevant in this modern time. These ‘finds’ were not the cause of my downfall however, that came later in 1925.
Professor Caldwell suggested it, The Worm's Head Manuscript, an original leather bound tome- some 1,000 years old. This initially fascinated me- the sheer agelessness of the document. I studied the manuscript every chance I had, sitting huddled over the tome in the restricted section of the University's library. I became obsessed by its perfect timeless pages. I couldn't believe it was so old, so intact was its condition that I frequently asked the curator if it was a later copy, only to be told time and again that it was an original. I do not know if you can appreciate this improbability, a manuscript of that age… Gods, it really should have been dust. Its contents too were fascinating, being a handwritten journal in medieval runic Norse. It offered an account of an ill-fated sea voyage, the crew of a longship attacked by sea monsters, a typical Viking Saga, if it were not for the divine intervention of Odin.
I had been studying the old Nordic and Celtic languages as part of my degree. I agreed to translate the manuscript for Professor Caldwell, to attempt to decode a hidden spell, purported to be hidden within its pages. I took copious notes, which I discussed in intimate detail with Caldwell and my friend, often into the early hours of the morning. Around this time- March 1925, I began having vividly strange nightmares. Maybe this was a forewarning of the madness to follow? I did not know. Every night, uneasy, terrifying dreams and dastardly, debilitating nightmares came and went as quickly as they began. I have no memory of these dreams now; they completely left my distressed mind around the time of the incident, which now compels me to return home. Thankfully, I kept a dream journal and gratefully, if the contents of this journal are true, I still have no recollections of them. I was not alone; if you recall from the papers, there was an epidemic of strange nightmares recorded all round the world at the time. All starting in March and inexplicitly ending in April. But I have gotten ahead of myself father…
Try as I might I could not find what Professor Caldwell sought. He started to become impatient and fearful, telling me that without this spell everyone, both good and ill, was lost. He spoke in apocalyptic terms of ancient mythical demons waiting eagerly on the threshold of our world, ready to cause havoc and destruction. I feared for Caldwell’s sanity and it was for this reason I headed my friend’s advice. We believed if Professor Caldwell could see the book himself, it would somehow placate him. So I did the unthinkable, I borrowed the unique tome from the library- I stole it. Believe me Father, I had every intention of returning it, but I no longer had it to return.
At the first opportunity they had, Caldwell and my friend left town and were gone, the book with them. What is the criminal parlance popular today in the penny dreadfuls? I was a patsy. They had fooled me and used me to steal a priceless work of antiquity.
If, as I was led to believe- must believe- for I have read the proof of it in the pages of the Worm’s Head Manuscript… I have seen the proof of it upon its cover… and if I am to believe the Professor needed the spell within to prevent the rise of evil upon the world- I assume he was successful. I think the dreams were an omen of this threatened cataclysm. It is no coincidence they stopped soon after his disappearance.
Why am I so sure father? Is this letter no more than the addled ramblings of a disgraced wayward son trying desperately to find excuse for his misdeeds? Maybe so, I will allow you to decide for yourself. I have enclosed within this letter all my notes and translations from the Worm’s Head Manuscript. As you read these ungodly transcriptions, remember the original was a thousand years old and should have been dust. I saw the proof of these things father and of the disaster that was near missed. I saw it in the faint trident like Algiz symbol that was embossed on the manuscript’s ancient brown leather cover.
Yours in all sincerity,
Wilbert.