"That is not dead which can eternal lie, And with strange aeons even death may die." -H.P. Lovecraft

The wind howled the black clouds across the sky, driving the rain sideways with no sign of letting up until morning. Thunder boomed overhead as the temperature fell, erasing the fall’s unseasonable heat wave but ushering chills in as breath fogged the air. Many in Craven Falls weren’t prepared for a nearly forty-degree drop almost out of the blue.

The boy whose hand slipped as he opened the door to the town’s library had been. Had being the operative word. He sniffled as he entered, grateful for central heating. He had brought a thick hoodie with him today, along with an umbrella. Now, however, he was limping through puddles in only a thin t-shirt. He shook the water from his dark brown hair, then sighed as pencils, folders, and books dropped out of his bookbag, now torn.

“Damn him…damn them all.” he muttered as he shoved everything fiercely back into his bag and picking it up, unwilling to put up with this crap on top of everything else.

“Hrmm.” He glanced up to see Ms. Peabody, the severe librarian peering imperiously down at him from her bifocals.

“Oh. Sorry. Just…just here for something good to read.” he said apologetically, face red.

“Just be aware this is a library, and other patrons are trying to concentrate. Please be silent, child.” She walked off, back straight as a board, her heels clicking on the floor.

“What other patrons.” he said under his breath. The library was enormous, built nearly two hundred years ago, and though he visited at least twice a week he never saw that many people there. Especially on a day like today. Thunder cracked, and the lights flickered.

Once he’d gathered his belongings and dried himself off as much as the bathroom’s paper towels would allow, he began scanning through the shelves, desperate for something to take him away from his misery and loneliness, even if only for a little while. He’d left the children’s section behind long ago in fourth grade, young adult ones were usually bogged down with too many plotlines and focusing on the least interesting, and yet adult books were overwhelmingly detective novels or inspirational or romance or other such boring tripe. Still, a rare gem could be found occasionally.

His hears perked up and his head turned. He could have sworn someone had faintly called his name. He blinked and looked around. There was obviously no one there, even though the storm blocked out the windows, making the lighting even dimmer. Shrugging, he turned back to the shelf. Only to hear a rustling, barely a whisper, turn away around the corner.

Curiosity getting the better of him, he peered around cautiously to find nothing, yet the sound could be heard around another corner, as faint as rats scratching in the walls. Coming this far, he decided to go for broke, and followed the whispery sounds winding through the ancient stacks, where even Ms. Peabody rarely tread. His search wound him all through the library, past the fuzzing computers, up and down the stairs, past row upon row of books until at long last he rounded a shelf, almost caught up to the rustling…and it ceased.

“Huh? What a rip.” He looked up and down the stacks, but there was nothing, just dust and books.

At least, until a particular tome caught his eye.

He reached out to grab it. It felt unusual to the touch, like leather. Pulling it off the shelf, he saw the cover was an etching of a bizarre face, only resembling a human’s at a glance, frozen in an eternal scream of indescribable terror or incomprehensible rage. The lights flickered again, with no thunder outside. Not that the boy paid any mind.

“Wicked.” He opened the book, and the title page contained what the cover lacked: The Necronomicon, by Abdul Al-Hazred. The pages felt strange as well, like it wasn’t paper.

Scott…

He looked up again, swearing someone had called him. But as there was no one there, he shrugged and turned back to the book, deciding then and there he was going home with it. Unbeknownst to him, his eyes had begun to glow a toxic emerald green.

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The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

Detective Cross sat at the table silent and unmoving, staring straight ahead with the patience of a statue. Though the room was warm and her heart was racing, she refused to let them see her sweat. It was a tactic she’d used often in the past.

This was a nightmare. They’d come in without warning, government suits flashing badges but not talking to anyone, twenty in all. They tore through the station like elephants until they reached her office.

“What? What the hell’s-” she’d started.

“FBI. Detective Margaret Cross, you are hereby detained on suspicion of corruption at the local and state levels. You will be coming with us to answer a few of our questions.” one of the goons had said as the others ransacked her office, stripping it nearly bare in the search for ‘evidence’.

“The hell’re you on about!?” she snarled, but a thrill of terror coursed through her veins. Oh god, the cover-ups. They knew. She was so stupid, she shouldn’t have let herself get sloppy!

“Corruption? That’s ridiculous!” Tommy had protested. “Cross’s the straightest arrow we got! The Chief’s more corrupt than her!” The Chief of Nahumville Police, coming up behind him, smacked him upside the head with his notebook.

“Alright, what’s going on here?” he demanded. The agent put a badge and a warrant in his face.

“You’ll find all the appropriate paperwork has been filled out, sir. The detective will be coming with us.” he said stonily.

“It’s alright, boys.” Cross said, her department staring at her. She refused to look away. “I’ll be back soon. I’ll just explain to these men-calmly-why they are wrong.” she said, eyes narrowed. She did not shake.

Once they had gotten her out to their car, she’d felt a sharp jab in her neck, and the next thing she knew there was a bag over her head and she was in cuffs. After what felt like hours of driving, she was hustled into this room, and her captors had left.

At least until the door swung open. A man of middling height and intermediate age walked into the room carrying a file. He was wearing the same black suit as the others.

“Good afternoon, Detective Cross. I hope the men weren’t too rough with you.” the man said, taking a seat opposite her at the table.

“Who are you? You’re not FBI, there was no need for abduction tactics after you’d already gotten me. I hope you know this is all very illegal, even with a warrant.” she said evenly, glaring daggers at him. He chuckled.

“Quite perceptive. You are correct, we aren’t FBI, or CIA or NSA or any other alphabet soup you’ve heard of, although if I said MIB I have little doubt you’d have an idea of what we do.” he said, opening the folder. “My name is Agent Crenshaw. I’m in charge of this case, and I’ve been looking into the commotion surrounding Craven Falls these last few months.”

“Really. Anything interesting?” Cross said, not allowing the panic to take root. She forced her breath in slowly, her heart to take steady beats.

“Indeed. I’ve been leading the investigation into what happened in October and November. You’ve covered your tracks well, Detective. But not well enough to throw the entire organization off the trail. How could you?

“But that’s not what we’re here to discuss, at least directly. We’re here to discuss your young companions. One Amber Catherine Harris, and especially Scott James Havenbrook. I believe his birthday is coming up, according to the file. We’re planning a little surprise party for him.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Cross said, staring right into his eyes. This was bad, this was bad. Crenshaw leaned back in his chair.

“Miss Cross, you seem to be confused. You are not, in fact, under arrest. We have no official right to arrest you, as we officially do not exist. Therefore, should you find a bullet in your skull, it would not be from one of our agents, as nonexistent parties cannot be held legally responsible for what they do. Comprende?” She narrowed her eyes, trying not to let the trembling show.

“What do you want?” she growled. He smirked.

“I knew you’d see reason. Though it may not seem like it, our mission statement is very clear: we are to investigate, identify, and if necessary, eliminate any supernatural activities or entities that threaten the U.S. or her interests. We are a small organization with access to all governmental agencies, backed by heads of state of all levels, dedicated to preventing the widespread knowledge of things man was not meant to know.

“Detective Margaret Cross has been detained on charges of corruption, and has been temporarily sequestered pending investigation. This went one of two ways: one, all charges were dropped and she received glowing commendations for her role in uncovering the real corruption, or the accusations were accurate and she was shot resisting arrest.” If her glare could get any more heated, Crenshaw would be a pile of ash. “We’ve seen the work you’ve done, and we’re impressed. Though you didn’t know it, you’ve been doing the same thing we have for years. We want you on board. The position is mandatory, I’m afraid. We don’t have the luxury of asking under the circumstances. Are you in, or out?” They stared at each other, neither refusing to yield.

“Fine. You want me, you got me.” Cross scowled. Crenshaw breathed a sigh of relief.

“Thank goodness. Welcome to the Unknown Agency, Agent Cross. Please forgive the rough welcome. Follow me for a full debriefing upstairs.” He tossed her the report and went to the door.

“Wait.” Cross said. This had been bugging her. “What do you want with the kid? There’s no love lost between us, but he’s got a good head on his shoulders when he uses it. Why’re you going after him?” Crenshaw paused.

“We’ve got a rough idea of what’s been going on in Craven Falls, Miss Cross. And we’ve got questions only he can answer. Yours’ll be answered in the debriefing. Let me just ask you something first.” He tilted an unhappy smile at her over his shoulder. “What makes you think he’s the only one?"