The Miskatonic Manuscript (Case Files of Matthew Hunter and Chantal Stevens Book 2) by Vin Suprynowicz
Authors: Vin Suprynowicz
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Barlow might be a better place to start.”
“I thought he was dead.”
“Absolutely. Like his hero, Barlow didn’t live long enough to see the great Lovecraft boom of the ’60s and ’70s. He committed suicide in 1951, down in Mexico. He was gay and apparently someone was going to out him. Back then he would have lost his job, maybe even been prosecuted.”
“But Barlow didn’t turn in everything.”
“That’s right. There was at least one case where he kept an original manuscript that didn’t turn up for almost 50 years. Barlow transcribed Lovecraft’s story ‘The Shadow Out of Time’ and had the manuscript with him when he landed the teaching job at Mexico City College. Later, after they made him chairman of the Department of Anthropology, he met June Ripley, a post-graduate studying the Nahuatl language, Barlow’s specialty. The two apparently became friends; Barlow gave the manuscript to Ripley just before his suicide. She stayed in Mexico for years, then came back to teach in the States. When she died in 1994 her sister-in-law found the long-lost Lovecraft manuscript, written in pencil in a child’s notebook, and donated it to the Hay.”
“So: Could the same thing have happened to our ‘Miskatonic Manuscript’?”
“Sure. If it ever existed. It’s mentioned in one letter but no one has ever seen it? You probably know the odds better than I do.”
“We’ll make a fair effort.”
* * *
Marian came back, checking. Les picked up Tyrone the orange tabby, clearing the fifth chair, and carried him out to the front of the store. You could carry Tyrone like a sack of beans, he rarely objected. Marian ushered in Bucky the Annesley bodyguard and the girlfriendMarquita, trailing young Gilbert, 17 years old, painfully thin and obviously unhappy. The teen-ager’s complexion spoke of stress and bad diet combined. Too many French fries. Gilbert looked to have about the same amount of Indian blood as his mom; he was obviously no relation to Bucky.
“Marian, has Emilio come back?”
“Yes, he’s out in the side yard.”
“He’d wanted to meet Gilbert. Maybe you could ask him if he’d like to come in.”
Emilio came in from outside, dressed in a fancy shirt in bright geometric patterns and his turquoise and silver finery. Matthew introduced everyone. Emilio asked the mother to explain what had happened.
“He has spells. The school psychiatrist says there’s a chemical imbalance in the brain.”
Matthew laughed out loud. “Unbelievable. Which chemicals do they say are out of balance in his brain? Serotonin? Testosterone? Dimethyltryptamine? What should the levels be, and how do they propose to measure them, by drilling holes in the young man’s skull? They make fun of other cultures for blaming sickness on evil spirits, but how is ‘a chemical imbalance in the brain’ that no one can measure any different? It’s magic talk. Calling a person sick when you just find their way of being happens to be inconvenient for your institution is a good way to make a person sick.”
“Well, it just don’t feel right, putting him on these drugs.” Marquita agreed. She sounded angry now, which was healthy. “They say he has ‘bipolar disorder.’ They use lots of other big words, too. I’m not so dumb. I did good in school, I speak good English. They’re trying to buffalo me. This school psychiatrist is a little mouse, behind all his fancy talk. He twists his hair and picks his nose.”
“They’re called anti-psychotics,” Gilbert said, sitting up straighter now, apparently having decided these were people who might finally give him a fair hearing. “They make it sound like if I don’t take them I’ll turn into a mass murderer or something.”
“And what’s it like to be on them?” Matthew asked.
“It takes so much more energy just to get up and walk around. All you want to do is sit still and vegetate. It’s like the atmosphere is made of cotton candy and you have to push this stuff
“I thought he was dead.”
“Absolutely. Like his hero, Barlow didn’t live long enough to see the great Lovecraft boom of the ’60s and ’70s. He committed suicide in 1951, down in Mexico. He was gay and apparently someone was going to out him. Back then he would have lost his job, maybe even been prosecuted.”
“But Barlow didn’t turn in everything.”
“That’s right. There was at least one case where he kept an original manuscript that didn’t turn up for almost 50 years. Barlow transcribed Lovecraft’s story ‘The Shadow Out of Time’ and had the manuscript with him when he landed the teaching job at Mexico City College. Later, after they made him chairman of the Department of Anthropology, he met June Ripley, a post-graduate studying the Nahuatl language, Barlow’s specialty. The two apparently became friends; Barlow gave the manuscript to Ripley just before his suicide. She stayed in Mexico for years, then came back to teach in the States. When she died in 1994 her sister-in-law found the long-lost Lovecraft manuscript, written in pencil in a child’s notebook, and donated it to the Hay.”
“So: Could the same thing have happened to our ‘Miskatonic Manuscript’?”
“Sure. If it ever existed. It’s mentioned in one letter but no one has ever seen it? You probably know the odds better than I do.”
“We’ll make a fair effort.”
* * *
Marian came back, checking. Les picked up Tyrone the orange tabby, clearing the fifth chair, and carried him out to the front of the store. You could carry Tyrone like a sack of beans, he rarely objected. Marian ushered in Bucky the Annesley bodyguard and the girlfriendMarquita, trailing young Gilbert, 17 years old, painfully thin and obviously unhappy. The teen-ager’s complexion spoke of stress and bad diet combined. Too many French fries. Gilbert looked to have about the same amount of Indian blood as his mom; he was obviously no relation to Bucky.
“Marian, has Emilio come back?”
“Yes, he’s out in the side yard.”
“He’d wanted to meet Gilbert. Maybe you could ask him if he’d like to come in.”
Emilio came in from outside, dressed in a fancy shirt in bright geometric patterns and his turquoise and silver finery. Matthew introduced everyone. Emilio asked the mother to explain what had happened.
“He has spells. The school psychiatrist says there’s a chemical imbalance in the brain.”
Matthew laughed out loud. “Unbelievable. Which chemicals do they say are out of balance in his brain? Serotonin? Testosterone? Dimethyltryptamine? What should the levels be, and how do they propose to measure them, by drilling holes in the young man’s skull? They make fun of other cultures for blaming sickness on evil spirits, but how is ‘a chemical imbalance in the brain’ that no one can measure any different? It’s magic talk. Calling a person sick when you just find their way of being happens to be inconvenient for your institution is a good way to make a person sick.”
“Well, it just don’t feel right, putting him on these drugs.” Marquita agreed. She sounded angry now, which was healthy. “They say he has ‘bipolar disorder.’ They use lots of other big words, too. I’m not so dumb. I did good in school, I speak good English. They’re trying to buffalo me. This school psychiatrist is a little mouse, behind all his fancy talk. He twists his hair and picks his nose.”
“They’re called anti-psychotics,” Gilbert said, sitting up straighter now, apparently having decided these were people who might finally give him a fair hearing. “They make it sound like if I don’t take them I’ll turn into a mass murderer or something.”
“And what’s it like to be on them?” Matthew asked.
“It takes so much more energy just to get up and walk around. All you want to do is sit still and vegetate. It’s like the atmosphere is made of cotton candy and you have to push this stuff
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