The halls of the Occult Sciences Building at Miskatonic University were surprisingly mundane. Jackson Lee West, found himself profoundly disappointed as he followed one of the program’s teaching assistants down the drafty hallways made of stone, brick, plaster and wood; standard construction materials for a building with colonial roots. Clearly, the historic architectural roots had been well preserved by the University, right down to the chilly drafts that made their way through the windows. The building was gorgeous, just not what Jackson had expected.

To be fair, Jackson wasn’t entirely sure what he expected an Occult Sciences Building to look like, maybe dark hallways with esoteric paintings and some Goth kids milling around in candlelit classrooms. At the very least he expected something more to indicate the nature of the building and not just blank walls with the standard university fare tacked to them. He was still trying to process the idea that any University in modern America could afford to operate an Occult Sciences program, let alone dedicate an entire building to it.

“It’s largely a historical studies program now,” said the teacher’s assistant when he asked. “We have the largest collection of literature and preserved historical material from alchemical sciences, the era of witches and witch hunting of anywhere in the world. We have the largest library of alchemical texts in North America,” She told him with pride. “Largely the program deals with anthropological and archaeological work, though several of our staff members, including Professor Whateley have assisted in criminal investigations and served as expert witnesses in trials where occultism is presumed to be a motive.”

It seemed to Jackson that this was one of those liberal arts degrees that people complained about, a lot of money wasted on tuition, where only a select few managed any success outside of the program in the real world. Knowing what little he did about this area of Massachusetts, he could see how this program might have one time made sense, but it seemed weird that it hadn’t either significantly downsized or just become an historical or an archaeological program. By the same token, there didn’t seem to be many students in the building, despite it being the middle of the winter semester. “How many students are registered in Occult Sciences?” He finally asked.

The TA gave him a look he couldn’t quite decipher over her shoulder, and then looked back ahead before answering. “There are less than thirty students in the program, most of which are either minoring in the program or double majoring across the archaeological and historical programs.” She seemed put off by his question, so he decided not to press the issue, but her statement didn’t really answer any of the questions he had about how such a bizarre program could function at all.

They turned a corner and at the end of a hall was an extremely tall set of double wooden doors that looked more like what Jackson had been expecting of an Occult Sciences Building. The TA led him up to the door and rested her hand on it for a second before turning to look him in the eye. “You’ll find, Mr. West, that there are some very old powers invested in this city and this University who are interested in keeping the things studied in this building very much alive.”

Jackson found her unprompted explanation extremely strange and clearly meaningful in some way, but couldn’t begin to unpack it in any way that would reveal her meaning. Instead, he let it be and the TA turned to open the door for him. It moved surprisingly easily and with little noise, with how antique the door and its hinges looked. Perhaps he should learn to temper his expectations; so far, nothing he had encountered in Miskatonic University was at all like what his imagination had conjured up. “Professor Whateley should be in here, probably on the second floor towards the back. She’ll be the only person in this section of the building, so you can’t miss her.”

He found it very strange, of course, that the TA didn’t lead him directly to the professor, or have him wait for the Professor to retrieve him, but decided not to question her. Instead he walked through the open doors and found himself in a large room that appeared to be something crossed between a library and a laboratory. The doors clicked shut behind him.

This room was more like what he expected the Occult Sciences Building to look like. It was a semi circle mostly constructed of stone with massive wooden bookshelves lining the walls, stocked full of mostly leather bound and antique texts. Towards the back of the room there were some smaller shelves that looked like they’d fallen off a department store truck, stuffed with more modern looking books. Several long tables filled the center of the room, tables on the left half of the room were clearly meant for studying, but the tables on the right side looked like they belonged in a laboratory classroom. These tables had sinks built into them, gas lines running up one side, and were covered in various pieces of equipment, some of which looked practically ancient. At the back of the room, starting on the lab side, was a stone and iron staircase, leading up to a second floor that was lofted like a balcony above the first floor.

“Professor Whateley?” He called, but received no response. Jackson carefully picked his way around the tables and the equipment towards the staircase and made his way upstairs. The second floor was mostly filled with wooden bookshelves and antique looking texts. He stopped at one shelf to look at some of the spines of the books, most of them didn’t have any titles on the spines and the few that did had what looked like Arabic writing in gold along the spines. The next grouping of shelves appeared to be in Chinese or possibly Japanese characters, the group after that appeared to be in a mix of Latin and Old English from the titles he could make out; he assumed that they were some kind of alchemical texts. “Professor Whateley?” he called again.

This time he heard cursing coming from a gap in the shelves a few feet ahead, he found an open door into what appeared to be an office. Inside was a small white haired woman balanced precariously on the back of a chair apparently trying to push a thin book back into place on one of the shelves built into the wall of the room. “Professor Whateley?” He asked, while knocking on the jamb of the door trying not to startle her.

“Son of a -” She shouted as she lost her balance, flailing her arms as the chair slipped forward under her and she tipped backwards. He dashed into the room and managed to get below her as she awkwardly landed on top of him. They both tumbled hard to the stone floor, but Jackson had successfully broken her fall. “Haven’t you ever heard of knocking?” She exclaimed as she leapt off of him and retrieved the book which had fallen to the floor.

Jackson pushed himself to his feet, dusting his pants off as he did. “I did knock,” he said, “in retrospect, I imagine that didn’t help.” He took the book out of her hand before she tried to climb the chair again or the packed shelves which didn’t look like they could support the books they were holding, let alone a human climbing on them.

“Hey!”

Jackson sighed and reached up to put the book on the shelf, “Here?” He asked as he pushed it into the only gap on the shelf.

“Yes there,” the woman grumbled, Jackson turned around in time to see her hopping up onto the top of her desk and settling cross legged as she grabbed a different book and began to leaf through it, like nothing had happened and no one had intruded into her space.

“Professor Whateley?” He asked after several awkward seconds of silence.

The woman finally looked up at him and seemed to actually acknowledge his presence this time. “Yes,” she said, frowning, “and who are you?”

Like so many things in this university, Professor Whateley was not at all what Jackson had been expecting. First her clothes were strange. She was wearing an oversize black Miskatonic university hoodie and black leggings tucked into what appeared to be handmade leather boots. It was the kind of oddly put together look that he would have expected a student to be wearing and not a professor. It was more along the Goth kid image he had for the students he had expected to see. Second, she was significantly younger looking than he imagined a professor of occult sciences to look, at first glance he would have put her in her late twenties, but she might have been early thirties. Her skin was pale, almost translucent and much of her exposed skin below the neck was covered in stark black runic tattoos, her hair was an off white color and pulled back in a messy ponytail, but her eyes were the most striking, a pale translucent blue that seemed to pierce right through him. Jackson cleared his throat, “Err...My name is Jackson Lee West, I’m a private detective.”

Her eyes narrowed at him, “Any relation to the Arkham Wests?”

Jackson blinked, that was not the question he had been expecting, she seemed to be referring to a family located in the city that housed the university, “Umm...no. I don’t believe so. I’m from a small town in New Hampshire.”

That seemed to satisfy her and she stuck her hand out, “Mystery Whateley, but call me Misty.”

He shook her hand, surprised at how firm her hold was, “I feel like I should ask about your name.” He had known from his investigation into her research that Mystery Eugenia Whateley was her full name and he had been curious as to why someone would name their child something so bizarre.

The question made Misty grin, “I can show you my license if you’re not convinced it’s my real one. My mother was a very special woman and she never knew who my father was. She was convinced it was a complete mystery how I came to be and thus the name. Or else she might have thought she was being creative. Who knows, she was an incredibly bizarre woman and it’s not the strangest thing to happen in Arkham. Hell, I can’t even say that a private detective showing up suddenly in my office is all that strange.” She gestured in the direction of the chair on the floor. Jackson righted it and sat down. “Tell me Mr. Jackson Lee West - no relation, what can I do for you?”

“Just Jackson, if you don’t mind,” He said, leaning back in the chair and crossing his legs, right ankle over left knee. “I’m here on behalf of my client, a Mr. Thomas Strathom. His daughter, Euphonia, has gone missing.”

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Misty leaned back on her hands, cocking her head as she looked down at him, considering. “I’m not psychic Mr. Wes - Jackson, if that’s what you’re here for.” Her tone and the frown on her face suggested that she wasn’t particularly amused at the implication.

Jackson stuttered for a second, red tingeing his cheeks as he realized he might have offended Misty. “No! That’s not what I’m here for at all! I...err...I know you specialize in more esoteric historical research of alchemies and occult texts. I read - well tried to read, rather - your dissertation on how Alhazred and the Necronomicon shaped the early history of Massachusetts. And I saw the articles in Smithsonian regarding your revisionist translations of early alchemical texts and experiments proving that they were actually science and not occultism. Or...or something. I admittedly only vaguely understood what I was reading. It sounded interesting though, exciting even, like rediscovering a lost science.” He hoped he didn't sound like a complete idiot. In truth, he really didn't fully understand what exactly it was that Misty specialized in, but it did actually seem interesting. And he had read some of her testimony as an expert eyewitness during criminal trials. She seemed there to be a logically minded woman, rationally laying out her arguments and refusing to be swayed from her statements on cross examination. Maybe that was why he expected her to be older and appear much more…Scholarly.

Misty interrupted his thoughts by laughing, “You got the gist, it’s more complex than that and I’m certain you lifted the buzz phrase ‘revisionist translation’ directly from whatever article about me you read, but yes.” She leaned forward, resting her forearms on her knees, the sleeves of her sweatshirt were pulled up, and Jackson took a second to study the tattoos running along her forearms and on her hands. The line work was crisp and each symbol stood out clearly against her pale skin, there was something about the design of the line work though that contrasted with the delicate appearance of her forearms and hands, like whoever designed the symbols was angry or a little mad, or possibly both. When he looked back up, Misty was staring at him, her expression neutral, as if she was waiting for a comment about her appearance. Instead Jackson said nothing, and it was Misty who broke the silence, “Ok, then, how can an esoteric and occult researcher help a private detective find a missing girl from somewhere in New Hampshire.”

“Well, to start,” Jackson said, feeling more comfortable as he brought up the details of the case, “she didn’t go missing from New Hampshire per se, she was last known to be here in Arkham. She had an apartment not too far from the university and when her father got access to it, he found it covered in all kinds of occult imagery and…” he paused as he reached into his coat pocket and removed a small book bound in leather dyed a blood red, “and he found this book written in what appears to be a combination of Latin and Arabic, possibly Aramaic according to the police investigators.” He leaned forward to give the book to Misty, who held up a hand and then leaned back over her desk to start digging in a drawer. She sat back up holding a box of blue nitrile gloves. “Oh...it’s been cleared from evidence by the police.” Jackson said as she put a pair of the gloves on.

Misty made a humming noise as she accepted the book, “Cleared from evidence, sure, but who knows what’s on this book, never know what ancient magics can end up on objects like this.” She made the statement matter of factly, as though magic was something real. Jackson decided not to press her immediately on this. She did hold a degree in occultism from a respected university, so he didn’t think she was actually saying that magic existed, maybe she was referring to the inks and dyes of the book. “Interesting that it’s hand bound,” she said, “this does appear to be real leather as well and the pages do appear to be hand sewn. Though, I suppose this isn’t anything you can’t buy online from an artisan.” She held the book up closer to her face and appeared to sniff it. “What did the police test this for?”

“Mostly traces of DNA evidence and fingerprints. They also did a handwriting analysis and found that the writing was at least partly Euphonia Strathom’s, but the only fingerprints they could find on the book or any of the pages were Euphonia’s.” Jackson responded, “The DNA test was inconclusive, there wasn’t enough available material to test for anything.”

“Not surprising, tanning tends to destroy surface DNA for testing,” Misty said as she inspected the binding on the book, while holding it open.

Jackson furrowed his brow, trying to understand what Misty was saying, “Isn’t tanning a process in leather making, how would that affect surface DNA?”

Misty looked up from the book to him, “Well I guess in the context of a criminal investigation, it wouldn’t. If Euphonia’s DNA or her kidnapper was on this book, tanning wouldn’t affect anything, but I’m much more curious as to whose skin this is bound in.”

“Wait...what?” Jackson exclaimed, his face going noticeably pale. “How would you know that...isn’t that a myth?” There was something about the matter of fact way she was speaking that chilled him to the bone. He wasn’t completely sure what he expected when the suggestion came to him from the Arkham police to contact Professor Whateley - perhaps a historian or an anthropologist who would explain how the occult symbology in Euphonia’s disappearance were actually complete nonsense brought on by a deranged mind and that it shouldn’t be taken seriously. He definitely did not expect to hear that he had been handling human skin turned to leather.

She studied him for a second, then shook her head, and looking back down to the book, she continued, “Anthropodermic bibliopegy is your vocab word for the day. It’s the practice of binding books in human skin. It’s a very real thing and from current research it appears to be more common practice of the 19th century. Though...I supposed common is a misleading word, there aren’t that many books known for certain to be bound in human skin in public collection. It is however very common of grimoires belonging to the cults of Yog-Sothoth.” Misty looked up and noticed that Jackson looked like he might be ill at any moment. “If you’re going to be sick there’s a bathroom third door down when you go left.”

Jackson covered his mouth with his hand for a moment and willed his stomach to settle. “No...I’ll be fine. Just processing that I might have been handling something made of human skin for the last several days.”

“I understand,” Misty said with a sympathetic nod, “one of the reasons I try to handle occult items with gloves on, at least I can pretend I’m not actually touching it.” She frowned, “To be fair though, I think after a lifetime of immersion, I’m getting uncomfortably used to it. Regardless, we can’t know for certain that it is human skin, just the context of the grimoire makes it likely.”

“How can you be sure?” He asked.

“Well, truthfully I can’t be, but it would be unusual for this kind of symbology to be present in a text that wasn’t bound in this manner.” She turned the book toward him and pointed to some kind of occult symbology contained in concentric circles, “These are the markings of a very dedicated and secretive cult dedicated to the Old God Yog-Sothoth. The manic mixture of Latin, Arabic, and Aramaic are also indicative of them. The only known copies of texts containing this kind of writing belong to the library here at Miskatonic. You will also find one antique grimoire belonging to the Occult Sciences personal collection. The rest belong to the cult themselves, they’re passed down generationally. The cult believes that the grimoire is ineffective except bound in the skin of a prior cult member, preferably a blood relation.” Misty closed the book and looked to the ceiling in thought.

“If that’s the case,” Jackson frowned, “how did this book come to be written in Euphonia’s handwriting?”

“Sorry,” Misty said, handing the book back to him. Jackson gave it a look like it was diseased so she shrugged and set it aside. “I should have clarified, the content of the grimoires are passed down generationally, but the text itself has to be written in ink mixed with the cult member’s own blood. Copying it is considered a rite of passage. It’s a very gruesome practice, really. The member is locked in an underground crypt with a blank grimoire and the prior generations original. They then bleed themselves into the ink and copy their grimoire by hand. They don’t eat or drink, sleep or take care of much of their own human needs during that time. After a week the work must be completed or the member is expelled. At least, that’s what anthropological evidence of the cult has shown, there hasn’t been evidence of them existing for more than a century. It is unusual that it would only be partly in Euphonia’s handwriting.” Misty paused, seeing Jackson turn an even more deathly shade of pale. “Are you alright?”

Jackson shook his head that he was, but Misty clearly did not believe him. She turned on her and hopped down to rummage through something just behind the desk. When he looked up, she was standing next to him, holding out a canned ginger soda and a straw.

“Take it,” She said, pushing the drink into his hands, “it helps with the nausea. Drink it slow. I have more if you need it.”

The sound of the can cracking open seemed deafening in the confines of the office. Jackson stared at the grimoire as he sipped the soda, trying to quell what didn’t quite feel so much like nausea as much as everything that ground him in reality being ripped out via his stomach. He generally considered himself a pretty skeptical person, but Professor Mystery Whateley was a foremost occult researcher and generally well respected as much as someone who studies the occult can be. He didn’t think she was lying to him. And she seemed oddly prepared to handle the situation. She was already rummaging around for something else in her desk drawer and made a satisfied noise when she found what she was looking for. It appeared to be a black velvet drawstring pouch, like the kind a jeweler might use to bag up a purchase. He watched her as she put the grimoire into the black velvet bag and then put that bag into a large plastic freezer bag before attempting to hand it to him again.

“Thank you,” he said, momentarily stunned, but he accepted the book and tucked it into the large outside pocket of his winter coat. “I take it I’m not the first person to bring something like this to you.”

Misty shook her head and nervously pushed down the sleeves of her sweatshirt, hiding her pale skin and the black tattoos of her arms. “No, not at all, but you’re the first in a while to bring me something this concerning.” She rubbed her hands together in a motion somewhere between an attempt to warm them and rub away some kind of ache. “Mr. West….Jackson, this particular cult is dangerous for several reasons which I know you won’t believe, but one I imagine you will find particularly alarming. They are known as the Gate Breakers and their one goal is to bring about the end of the world, but summoning the great old one Yog-Sothoth from its outer dimensional void to ours. Their motivations for doing so are the most dangerous kinds. Riches, of course, Power most certainly, and they believe they will achieve immortality. If a chapter has become active again, they will stop at nothing to achieve these goals, including mass human sacrifice.” She stopped her nervous motions and looked Jackson directly in the eyes, her pale blue stare driving home the seriousness of her next statement, “Jackson, if Euphonia is involved in this cult, she and many others are in great danger.”

Jackson furrowed his brow as he finished his soda. Misty’s voice was even, but he could detect a note of distress in her tone. She avoided eye contact as she took his empty soda can from him and disposed it in a blue bin next to her desk. “You’re suggesting that we could have a serial murderer on our hands?”

“Or murderers,” Misty shrugged, as she collected some materials from around the office - books, notebooks, a DSLR camera - and pushed them into a hot pink gym backpack. Somehow, Jackson found the color of the bag the oddest thing about this situation. She paused and finally looked at him, “I’ll be clear, in case you don’t wish to hire my consulting services, that Euphonia might not be the victim you expect.” Jackson blinked at her as she grabbed her thick winter coat and hiked the backpack over her shoulders. “She might be directly involved in her own circumstances.”

With that, Misty started to walk out of the room. When he didn’t follow, she ducked her head back into the office. “Are you coming?”