Philomena Bucket peered at the dusty tomes stacked haphazardly in the corner of one of the several attics of The Squid and Teapot. She was a woman on a mission.
Mr Squash, the Sasquatch, had assured her that The Anomaly, an unsightly gash in reality that was currently hanging between the trees and occasionally belching out small, tentacled nightmares, would eventually disappear. While she had every faith in Mr Squash (who knew about such things), this, for Philomena, was not happening quickly enough. The Anomaly’s very presence was unnerving people, and something needed to be done. After a certain amount of thought and soul-searching, she felt sure that if Durosimi O’Stoat could conjure this thing up, she was more than capable of getting rid of it. After all, the attics were full of books that no one wanted, and there was a distinct possibility that one may yet be found to yield information on portals, dimensional rifts, and other similar matters.
Philomena pulled out a particularly ancient volume bound in cracked leather. As she lifted it, the book gave a faint but distinctly irritable sigh. Philomena frowned. Books, in her experience, did not usually sigh.
“Perhaps it’s just settling,” she muttered, though she did not believe it for a second.
Downstairs, Rhys and Reggie Upton were in the middle of a rather serious discussion about how so many diminutive, but particularly aggressive, tentacled creatures could be consumed by a single raven, when Philomena entered, book in hand.
“This book just sighed at me,” she announced.
Rhys closed his eyes briefly, as if making peace with the knowledge that his day had just become more complicated.
“Are you quite sure?” asked Reggie, eyeing the tome warily.
“As sure as I am that Durosimi’s last ‘experiment’ was responsible for dropping those nasty little horrors,” she replied.
At that moment, the book decided to give a distinct and rather petulant harrumph.
“It definitely sounds as though you’ve disturbed it,” observed Rhys, unhelpfully.
Then he added, “if it starts quoting ominous prophecies, I’d rather it did it somewhere other than in The Squid and Teapot. That sort of thing would be really bad for business.”
“I don’t think that’s likely,” said Philomena. “But you’re right, though. The Squid’s not the best place, now that the book seems to have woken up. I think we should take it along to Neville Moore.”
Reggie looked puzzled.
“Why Neville?” he asked.
“He’s always pondering over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,” said Philomena. “And he’s known to be a bit of an expert when it comes to this sort of thing.”
“Well, you’re not going there alone,” said Reggie, firmly. “Tenzin and I saw that Glimmer-Man chap – well, we saw his eyes. He was hanging around the Raven Stone the other day. I don’t know what he’s capable of, but I wouldn’t take any chances.”
“I’ll come too,” said Rhys, somewhat peeved that Reggie had beaten him to claiming the role of Philomena’s protector. “I haven’t seen Neville for ages.”
An hour later, with the sighing, harrumphing book wrapped securely in brown paper (because, as Philomena put it, “one ought to be polite when transporting sentient literature”), the three of them set off toward Neville Moore’s mausoleum-like home, hoping that whatever the book had to say was merely inconvenient rather than outright apocalyptic.
Lenore, perched on her favourite, guano streaked, statue, took one look at their approaching figures and rasped, “Neville Moooooore!” before adding, in a distinctly smug tone, “Doom!”
It did not improve anyone’s confidence.
“Take no notice of Lenore,” assured Neville, carefully undoing the book’s wrapping paper. “She’s been coming out with all sorts of strangeness lately. I think it’s to do with her change of diet.”
“With any luck those tentacled things will disappear forever, before long,” said Philomena. “I was hoping the answer to getting rid of The Anomaly might lie in this old grimoire, but when it started sighing and harrumphing all over the place, it seemed common sense to get a second opinion.”
“Don’t bank on anything that’s written in these pages as being remotely helpful,” said Neville, wielding a large magnifying glass. “I’ve seen volumes like this before. They’re all talk and no substance.”
At that, the book suddenly sprung open, it’s pages fluttering and shuffling with such violence that they managed to ruffle Neville’s purple curtains.
“I think you’ve upset it,” observed Reggie.
“Nonsense!” exclaimed Neville. “Sometimes these things need a bit of a push to get going.”
After another moment or so of suddenly subdued librarius page whiffling, the book succumbed to a fit of wheezing and coughing, sending small dust clouds around the room.
“It seems to have worn itself out,” said Reggie, almost sympathetically.
“I’m not surprised,” agreed Neville. “Looking at the writing, I would say that this particular grimoire is really old. Ancient, in fact. I suspect that it’s a Scriptus Tenebrarum – what you might call a Book of Shadows – and most definitely the work of a Scriptomancer.”
“A Scriptomancer?” queried Rhys.
“A sorcerer-scholar who wields magic through writing,” Neville explained.
“I wonder…” said Philomena, half to herself. “Mr Squash reckons that the Glimmer-Man was probably once a sorcerer who went a step too far and ended up in The Anomaly.”
The others looked at her expectantly, wondering where her train of thought was taking her.
“It just seems too much of a coincidence that, after all this time, this old book should choose to wake up not long after the Glimmer-Man appears.”
“You mean…” began Neville.
“Yes, I do,” said Philomena, cutting him off. “And I don’t doubt that he’ll be looking for his Scriptus thingamajig.”
“Tenebrarum,” corrected Neville.
Just then a raucous squawk rent the air.
“Neville Moooooore.”
“That’s Lenore, and she sounds uncharacteristically panicked,” said Neville, uneasily.
Instinctively, the little group turned, as one, and peered through the window. Dusk was gathering outside.
“Look!” exclaimed Rhys. “Coming through the trees…”
Two glowing lights, like tiny twin suns, hovered in the evening air, just a few yards from Neville’s front door.
The pages of the ancient book rustled in the fading light.
“Oh dear,” said Philomena. “I do believe that it’s the Glimmer-Man.”