James imagined fog, and a streetlight, and the eerie notes of “Tubular Bells” played on piano, as he stood before the library.
Of course, it was daytime. There was no fog. He wasn’t a priest. He didn’t wear a hat. He had a battered black-and-steel briefcase instead of a pouch filled with nitroglycerin pills. But it was a nice image, and he tried to hold it in his mind’s eye for a minute before crossing the plaza.
He took awkward, measured steps as he walked across the concrete slabs, watching them carefully. Every few feet he would turn his ankle slightly, or step only with his toes, or scuff his heel intentionally, following the patterns of the lines between each gray square. James wasn’t worried about the job, but he hadn’t visited this library before, or spoken directly with any of the staff there. It put him on edge.
Lincoln Center was best known for its performance space, but the Dorothy and Lewis B. Cullman Center was no less vital to the arts. It was the New York Public Library’s performing arts branch, one of the largest archives of the subject in the world. James was there to make sure one of the items in the archive wouldn’t kill anyone else, or worse.
James relaxed as the concrete grid fell behind him and he could walk through the revolving door to the smooth, uniform tile of the lobby where the patterns would be more quiet and he would have more reason to raise his eyes. At least, as much as he could bring himself to.
A worried looking woman rushed to the door to meet James. She was on the younger side of middle-aged, with shoulder-length dark brown hair, a dark blue suit, and slightly sunken eyes etched with worry. “Ah, Mr. Vreeland? The specialist?”
James met her gaze for half a second before looking down again. “Yes, hi. I’m James Vreeland, with the FAB.” He reached into his pocket and presented his laminated ID card on a lanyard. It identified him as a level two specialized analyst, Federal Anomaly Bureau.
She nodded and offered her hand. He tentatively shook it, then put his lanyard away. “I’m Liz Jacobson, head Circle librarian for this branch. Thank you for coming.”
“Of course. It definitely caught my bosses’ attention. The Circle doesn’t usually ask for our assistance.” James followed the librarian as she led him past the reception desk and past a pair of double doors into a corridor.
Jacobson frowned, walking down the hallway and around a corner. “We don’t have as much manpower or security as the main branch, but we usually can take care of any pieces of… unfortunate media that show up on the shelves. This, though?” She shook her head. “It’s just a mess. We’ve lost two magi attempting to contain it. One literally! Simply disappeared at his desk.”
James looked between each door they walked by, peering through every window set into it and reading every placard posted. “I’m very sorry. And when did this piece first make itself known? I’m listening.” He clarified, keeping his ear turned to her even as his attention seemed to wander.
They stopped at a plain beige door covered in yellow caution tape. It was a small reading room, apparently closed for cleaning. Jacobson pulled the tape aside and opened the door. “A literature professor at Columbia wanted an esoteric work to grab the attention of his nineteenth-century theater class. Obviously we take care to prevent academics outside of our purview from accessing the truly esoteric items here, but he simply found it on a shelf. And, well…”
“It captured their attention?” James looked past her into the room. The overhead fluorescent lights flickered on as the motion-sensing switch on the wall detected the door swinging inward.
Jacobson shuddered. “No, it did. Out of a class of eighteen, ten students switched majors. six dropped out.” She swallowed. “Two of them, and Professor Mieville himself… well.”
James frowned and stepped over the tape and through the door, “My briefing mentioned casualties. Again, I’m sorry.”
She shook her head slowly, glowering at the desk in the middle of the room. “As soon as that happened, I notified High Rock and they sent a team to investigate. These weren’t amateurs, Mr. Vreeland. They were both accomplished scholars of hazardous literature who were posted here before they earned their robes.”
“That’s-” -the risk of handling dangerous material, possibly being hurt or killed by it even if you’re careful and do all the right things. James bit his tongue. “It’s very unfortunate. I’m sure they did all they could. Is this it?” He pointed at the book on the desk.
It was a script perhaps two hundred pages long, bound in brown cloth with golden embossing on the front and spine. The gold letters said “The King in Yellow.” There was no author listed. James reached for it, then paused as the librarian jumped.
“Wait! Yes, that’s it.” She winced. “I’m sorry Mr. Vreeland, but I would prefer you not open it before I leave. Is there anything else I can do for you before you begin your work?”
James nodded slightly, meeting her eyes for another fraction of a second before looking at the script again. “Of course. Um, could I have a Coke before you go? Diet, please?”
The deep fear on Jacobson’s face gave way for a more professional discomfort. “We don’t allow food or drink in our reading rooms…”
He put on an awkward smile, “I understand. I’d really appreciate it as part of my preparation, though. And besides,” James chuckled uncomfortably. “Are you worried about a cursed manuscript getting stained by soda?”
The librarian’s expression softened a bit. “If it’s part of your process. There’s a vending machine in the lounge, I’ll be right back.” She turned aside, then stopped. “Please don’t open that yet.”
James nodded slowly as she left. He sat in the rigid metal chair in front of the desk, placing his briefcase in his lap. He popped the latches and began rummaging through it.
***
By the time Jacobson returned to the reading room James had set up his workspace around the script. Two boxes sat flat, parallel with the edges of the book. One held a flip-open door indicating its use as a tape recorder, while the other was a digital audio recorder. Both were in chunky, rugged olive-colored cases lined with copper mesh, miniature Faraday cages to protect them from the disruptions supernatural manifestations inevitably caused. A third box stood on a tabletop tripod near the edge of the desk, its wide-angled lens aimed at James and the book. A small, zippered plastic pouch lay between the tripod’s legs. On the right side of this arrangement was a paper notepad and pen, also carefully aligned the other straight edges of the desktop.
“Mr. Vreeland?” James looked up to see the librarian next to him, offering him a can of Diet Coke.
He smiled warmly and nodded, eyes fixed on the can as he carefully took it. “Thank you. I can start working now. Please close and lock the door behind me, and don’t open it for another six hours. Safety precautions.” James turned to the book, opening the can with a loud hiss before placing it above the notebook.
Jacobson eyed him with trepidation. “Six hours. Very well. Good luck, Mr. Vreeland.” James’ head bobbed in acknowledgement as he reached for the camera.
The door clicked shut and James methodically pressed the recording buttons on the camera and recorders, watching for the red indicator lights to turn on and listening for the gentle buzz of the tape reel turning.
“Beginning recording. This is James Vreeland, level two specialized analyst, begining investigation and attempting neutralization of subject 1389-14NA. Standard precautions apply for NA-class hazardous material. If I’m found dead, immediately contain and isolate with copper and lead. If I’m missing, same. Writing note with these instructions now for if recordings are lost or damaged.” As James spoke, he wrote the directions on the notepad, then replaced the pad and pen exactly where they were on the desk.
“Subject appears to be another King in Yellow manuscript. Approximately one hundred eighty to two hundred twenty pages. Material and production consistent with late nineteenth or early twentieth century publishing methods. Contemporaneous with other manuscripts. Except the ones from sixty-five and seventy-eight, of course.”
James took a sip of soda. “Librarian was…” He sighed and shook his head. “I forgot. Head Circle librarian on record at library for performing arts at Lincoln Center. I’ll ask for her card. You know me, I always have to read a name or it just flies away. She seemed nice. Was helpful. Hope I wasn’t rude to her.”
“Cover of subject is text-only. Opening volume for cursory scan now.” He opened the cover of the book, then began flipping through the pages. “Yellow Sign on page twenty-nine, at end of first act. Standard configuration. Oh, five confirmed casualties from subject. Noting that now, will be on records, didnt pick up their names. Professor… something and two of his students, and two Circle magi. This one’s been hungry.”
He took the pouch from under the camera and unzipped it, shaking a small white pill and a deep purple candy into his palm. “Administering focal assistant and time-release disassociative now. Timestamp around…” James looked at his watch. “Three minutes, forty-seven seconds.” He wrote the time down on the notepad.
James popped the pill into his mouth and swallowed it with a gulp of soda. Then he ate the candy, making a face at the sour, smoky aftertaste before washing it down his throat with the rest of the drink. “I had a light breakfast and skipped coffee this morning. Estimating triggers activating around ten and forty minutes. Starting now.”
He rolled his shoulders, cracked his knuckles, and groaned. Then he turned to the first page, humming to himself.
“Two houses, both alike in horror, in Lost Carcosa where we lay our scene…”
***
The King in Yellow usually starts out quite slow. A flowery narration describing the city-nation of Carcosa, then a few cordial interactions between Cassilda and Camilla, courtiers to the eponymous cloistered, masked king, and finally a masked ball introducing the Stranger, with the revelation that he is not what he seems.
For most versions of the play, the first act is the shortest and dullest. Considering what the rest of the work tends to bring, that’s for the best.
James flipped through the first few scenes, mouthing along the lines as Cassilda, Camilla, and a few of the court’s servents meandered toward the ball at the end of the act. The lines were familiar, with very minor variations from what he had read in the past.
Finally, the ball, and the one, fixed scene that Robert Chambers immortalized in his stories.
“No mask? No mask!” James laughed and shook his head. “Oh, Camilla. You really freak out so easily.” He turned to the next page, blank save for a large, strange sigil of odd lines and curves and corners, with the words “Act Two” below it.
He blinked a few times and rolled his head on his shoulders before looking at his watch. “Moving on to act two. Feeling sharp, few to no disassociative indications yet. Timestamp is fourteen minutes, fifty-six seconds.” He marked the second time on the notepad, then stared into the mark on the page.
The Yellow Sign seemed to shift before James’ eyes, but he knew it was an optical illusion caused by how the visual cortex processes certain patterns at focal points and in the periphery. The lines weren’t swirling, or glowing, or speaking to him. No, the low and dark murmurs were coming from the pages beyond.
James turned to the next page, read the first line of the first scene of act two, and fell into Lost Carcosa.
It was an immediate effect, well-practiced by James. At first it would have taken up to an hour to immerse his consciousness into a hazardous work like The King in Yellow, reading line after line and slowly opening his thoughts to the rolling waves of otherworldliness such pieces hid. It became faster the more he became used to the work, and chemical support streamlined the process significantly. After some dangerous and occasionally comical trial and error to better understand said support.
And so James found himself before Cassilda and Camilla, seeing Camilla’s horrified gaze through the eyes of his mask. She turned away in a rush, leaving Cassilda to glower at James before following her. “It is cruel, sir, to hide yourself against the truths of all others here.”
“I hide not, for there is no further truth beneath this face, and so it is no mask at all! It is truth she fears, not deception!” James called after Cassilda, then shrugged and looked around the ballroom. “Easier for me, at least.”
The ballroom was a grand, open space, more a cloister than a true room. A tall ceiling held gently swaying chandeliers of black crystals and gold candles, scattering light across a stone floor so intricately inlaid with silver, gold, and glass that it might have been brocade. The space was bordered not by walls, but smooth white pillars and arches that opened out onto a courtyard that surrounded the floor on all sides.
The sky was a deep, unnatural red that matched no sunset, dimly casting blood across the thin, plaintive grass of month-old graves. The pillars were an upsettingly familiar sort of off-white, bleached as marble could not be and almost warm to the touch.
James walked across the grass, shivering slightly at the feeling as he took stock of himself. He wore a mask he could not take off, which he knew to be smooth and pale as the pillars. A chiton of airy linen hung from his shoulders, a gray that might as well have been black. Sandals of wood and leather clung stiffly to his feet, dyed dark red as old blood.
“I wish it was socially acceptable to wear flowing tunics.” He sighed, “The asethetics of Carcosa are bleak, but the clothes are comfortable. I wouldn’t want to run in these shoes, though.”
A low stone wall ran along one end of the courtyard, showing that it was built upon a cliff overlooking a still lake. A black circle wavered on the surface of the water, reflecting the dark body suspended in the sky above it. The first look of a sane man would conclude that it was the moon in eclipse. Looking deeper at it would reveal a gentle, opalescent shimmer of swirling colors only slightly brighter than deepest black.
James watched the black sun, certain that were he to turn around he would see that the cliff the palace was built on was hewn out of a mountain that stabbed futilely into the red sky. The heart of Carcosa was impossible architecture imposed on impossible geography, and it was only the smallest sliver of what made the world so strange, so maddening.
Maddening is relative, though, and James found the palace set between towering peak and silent lake somewhat aesthetically pleasing. He did not often suffer from vertigo, claustrophobia, or agorophobia, and he could grasp the lay of the land of dried tears and tattered kings easily. Far easier than he could return to the ball and speak with the nobles there without the handful of lines he knew the Stranger spoke in the play.
And yet, James knew he would have to leave the unreal vista and return to the party and its greater horrors of social interaction. At least he had his pallid mask, which he wore as armor. It shielded his gaze and hid his face, and gave him the strength to do his work.
His work as a level two specialized analyst with the Federal Anomaly Bureau, rather. His work as a Neutralizer. Not as the Stranger who judged and tormented and heralded the Yellow King, and certainly not as the King himself.
Whatever form the King would appear in.
James took in a slow breath, turned on his stiff sandals, and marched back into the ball.
***
The atmosphere of the ball was far from celebratory, and James knew from experience that the change in mood was as abrupt as turning a page. It looked like he wouldn’t have to make uncomfortable small talk until the guest of honor arrived after all.
Several hundred nobles, gathered in the great hall of the palace, were nearly still. Some moved numbly, repeating the same actions as if the could think of nothing else. A hand reaching towards a piece of food on one of the long banquet tables near the side. A foot shuffling a half-step of a dance. A head turning back and forth, eyes glazed and unfocused.
Some of the partiers were completely still, standing completely frozen, their breathing shallow and nearly silent. Others were still for another reason, their forms hunched over against a wall or sprawled on the floor, red spilling across their fine, gauzy clothes.
It was an awful tableau, and the first time James saw its kind he trembled behind his frozen, impassive mask. The weight of this horror fell across his shoulders and he felt it fully, even though he was at a loss as to how he should react to it. His knowledge of the scene’s nature, and his own nature, let him step forward against the fear and disgust he could not show.
That was the first time James saw the second act of this play that could never be performed, and that was many readings and revisions ago. Now knew the stage direction and could quote the lines by memory as well as any human being could. The exact words and their arrangements always changed between each version he came across, but the structure, the themes, the truth of the work was immutable.
This immutable truth stood in the center of the hall, the equally unmoving guests radiating from that central point in ripples of petrified and bloody bodies. It took the form of a man, but only in a sense.
The King was a towering, gaunt creature in flowing, tattered robes. His frame was nearly skeletal, loose skin hanging from bones like the sails of a ship in still waters. The robes were the color of ash and sand and soil mixed together and bleached under twin suns too far away to warm any soul that saw them. He could not be described as human, but was instantly recognizable to anyone as the half-remembered image of a hated and long-dead relative.
His head was a skin-draped skull with too many points and angles. Two black, empty sockets sat above a snout that was pointed like a wolf’s or a deer’s, but warped as if it had been tangled in vine or rope and squeezed for centuries. Horns rose from its brow and formed a jagged, circular crown above him.
The crown glowed a wan yellow that spilled over the King’s otherwise colorless form as loosely as his drooping skin and tattered robes. It was the yellow of a flame too cold to burn, of a star already dead, of gold mixed with the rubble formed by those who fought for it.
This was the King, and his truth was understood and undeniable.
“The last guest shall now attend the Last King.” He spoke with the deep, hoarse crackle of ageless stone turning to gravel beneath wheels far older. “As Thale, as Nootalba, as Aldones, you shall bear my truth.”
James stepped over a headless body, frowning at the sticky little splash his foot made at the edge of the red puddle that spilled from it. “I already know it, your highness.” He sighed softly. “It’s time for the curtain.”
The glowing crown and the gaping skull shifted on narrow shoulders, lifting a few inches higher. The King was already at least two feet taller than James, and he had to crane his neck to look up at him. Empty sockets stared down at the man, amused. “All who welcome me think theirs is the truth. Then they hear my dead voice and see the black light that rises as suns fall. My Stranger, my Phantom, shall you know that truth.”
James rolled his shoulders, staring up at the King through his mask. “I already know all that, your highness. And I am no stranger to you. I’ve walked in the footsteps of Uoht along the banks of the Aldebaran. I have heard the Hyades sing.”
Yellow flickered as the King bent forward, staring intently at James. If the King was uncertain, the pride of bearing an awful and complete understanding of a truth refused to betray it.
Standing near the King carried his truth and its grave history and dim future. He needed no words to convey the shifting of the shadows across Carcosa as the stars move away from it, of the dust that forms across its streets after they lay silent for ages longer than they were ever trod upon, of the life that flickers and vanishes in its most sacred corners like sparks that fail to catch tinder. To be near the King was to know the truth, and to hear his words only made that certainty more absolute.
James stifled a yawn. “I usually leave parties early, you know. And I don’t particularly enjoy scenes. Let’s wrap this up, your highness.”
“How?” The King spoke in a low growl, as implacable as a boulder that stood on a cliff for as long as that cliff stood. And hidden in that growl was the sound of a tiny stone shifting.
The pallid mask stared back at the King, the eyes behind it bright and steady. “To entirely explain it would require an other act, but after some consideration I’ve found that the best answer is wallpaper.”
There were perhaps more direct explanations, but James savored the comedy beat of silence that invariably came with this one. After a pause, the King spoke. “Wallpaper.”
James started lazily pacing around the king, careful to avoid more puddle as he spoke. “My grandfather was a paperhanger. He put up the wallpaper in my bedroom growing up. It was this off-white, textured wallpaper with this pattern of columns of tiny lines at alternating angles. There was a loose spot on one seam next to my bed. I picked at it, and it made a little bare patch.”
“I remember the feeling of that textured pattern and that bare patch, but more than anything I remember staring at it very, very closely when I was a child. Just peering at this tiny, even mountain range and its imperfections. Looking at the details of them, and being terrified.” He looked up at the King and cocked his head. “I remember staring at a square of wallpaper the size of my fingernail and crying, because I could see how small and endless it was. I could see the scope of it, and everything through it. I was very young, and I felt the edges of the universe in a tiny piece of wallpaper in my bedroom.”
The King said nothing, but a scrap of his robe swayed in the still air of the banquet hall. After a moment James continued, in steps and words.
“I didn’t fully grasp what that understanding meant until much later. I learned how to stop being afraid of those edges, and to ignore them in favor of what was truly in front of me. I learned that the contours my mind could feel in the world were not the only contours the world holds, and that with effort I could focus on the scope that others do without my thoughts spidering out endlessly.”
James chuckled and smiled up at the King through his mask. “I even learned how to interact with people more naturally, at least for them. It’s funny, because I learned to live with how I see the shape of the world a long time ago. I’m good at it, but keeping eye contact during a conversation?” He exhaled and mimed a shiver. “That’s still tricky.”
The King shifted, the yellow-dappled skull almost at James’ level now. “You do know the truth. You are my Phantom.”
This earned a wince and a shrug. “I know your truth and my truth, and I’m learning a lot of other truths. But I’m not your Phantom. I’m not even in this play. I’m just an usher trying to clear out the theater.”
Yellow flickered and dimmed across the King’s form. “Unmask, my Stranger. Lay aside your disguise.”
“As I said, I wear no mask.” James tapped the blank shell across his face. “Not here.”
The rumble of a King whose voice told of mountains worn into valleys, of empires completely forgotten, became a whisper.
“No mask? No mask!”
***
James shuddered, the fading image of Carcosa shattered by the sharp knock on the door behind him.
He glanced at his recording devices, which were still running. “Five hours and forty-three minutes. Neutralization confirmed, more details pending.” He clapped his hands twice to produce an audio peak so he could easily find the time when he analyzed the files later, then shouted at the door. “Just a minute!”
The script sat on the desk in front of him, the last page exposed. It was blank. James closed it, tapped the stack of papers together, and wrapped it up in its brown cloth. He then took a roll of yellow and black tape from his briefcase and wrapped the package up tightly. He tore a short length of tape off and let it dangle off the edge of the desk before the tape, the script, and the recording devices in his briefcase. When the case clicked shut, he laid the strip of tape across its side.
“All good!” James called and rose from his seat. He grabbed at the doorknob and his knuckles bounced awkwardly off of it as Ms. Jacobsen opened the door a crack. “Oop! Sorry!”
He eased the door a bit further open as Jacobsen timidly peeked inside. “Is it safe, Mr. Vreeland?”
James held up his briefcase and tapped the black and yellow stripes on it. “All taken care of.” He smiled slightly at her, then abruptly looked away as her eyes moved to meet his.
Ms. Jacobsen threw the door open. “That’s wonderful! Thank you so much, Mr. Vreeland.”
He looked hurriedly back at the desk, clicking his tongue and occupying his vision with the empty can of soda. He picked it up and nodded. “Of course, it’s my job. Er, do you have a recycling bin?”
“Oh, I can take that for you.” She reached for the can and James froze for a moment before nodding quickly and muttering a quiet thanks, letting her take it.
The two left the room and walked down the corridor towards the double doors that led to the public part of the library. James uncomfortably stared at the floor tiles, unable to comfortably express his pride at the successful mission.
Ms. Jacobsen looked at his briefcase. “If you don’t mind me asking, Mr. Vreeland, how did you do it? The danger that work presents is, well, you know how bad something has to be for the Circle to reach out to the bureau.”
This got a chuckle from James, who rubbed the back of his head as he looked away from her. He was well aware of how prickly their organizations were about jurisdiction.
It was hard for him to admit it, but it really was an accomplishment to neutralize any complete version of The King in Yellow. James had become very good at it. In fact, he could occasionally and with great effort, acknowledge that he was a truly great neutralizer at this very specific sort of task.
“Well, um, it’s all about how you approach the material.” He shifted on his feet, occasionally glancing at Jacobsen. “This type of thing is notorious for driving people mad when they read it. That kind of reputation is over a century old.”
James chuckled again, slowly loosening up. “Well, we’ve gotten a lot better at understanding madness and sanity and things like that. Seeing how different factors work together, contextualizing them, that kind of thing.” He offered a nervous smile. “With all of that, you start to learn how to use the right tools for the job.”
Ms. Jacobsen grinned and nodded eagerly at him as they strode across the lobby of the library. “Well, we’re all very grateful and relieved for that. I’m very grateful, Mr. Vreeland. Thank you so much.”
He rested his hand on the large, gnurled brass handle of one of the double doors leading outside. “Oh, of course. I’m happy to help, Ms. Jacobsen.”
“Please, call me Liz!” She smiled and offered him her hand.
James looked down at the hand and gripped it gently, shaking as his head bobbed. “R-right! Call me James!”
“I will, James! And I hope you can come back under less dire circumstances.” She squeezed his hand and released it.
“Ah, er, yes! There are lots of interesting things here. I could probably learn a lot!” He looked away again, studying the door handle. “It was nice meeting you, er, Liz.”
“You too, James. You seem very interesting yourself. Thank you again!” She waved at him as he walked out of the library and on to the plaza.
Alone again, James stepped more confidently, focused on ferrying the dangerous script in his briefcase to a secure storage site. In the back of his mind, he chewed on that friendly conversation, reviewing Liz’s words, gestures, and expressions now that he wasn’t constantly fighting his reflexes to avoid them.
She seemed friendly, and obviously relieved at the job. Going over his own actions, he didn’t see anything that would have been offputting, and she didn’t show any reactions that indicated that. Very professional, perhaps even warm. And she said he was interesting. That was nice.
Wait, was she? Maybe?
James stopped for a moment, then shook his head. “One thing at a time. Infinity feels easier.”