Disclaimer

De Vermis Mysteriis, the Book of Eibon, the Pnakotic Manuscript, and of course the Necronomicon are from H.P. Lovecraft's writing, created by himself or his colleagues.
Pinhead is the creation of Clive Barker.
Leviathan is the creation of Peter Atkins and Epic Comics.
Balberith is the creation of Epic comics.
I've merely borrowed these characters, objects and concepts, and do not mean to infringe on anyone's copyright, nor is this story for profit of any sort.

A few faint rays of dawn filtered down and glistened off the snow, illuminating the bodies on the field. It was 1944 and the field was on the outskirts of a French town, not far from the Nazi barracks. For weeks the Allies had been collecting intelligence about this fortress, for they had heard that the Germans had obtained some powerful weapon and were keeping it here under lock and key. They had planned a raid the night before to retrieve this object, but the raid had failed: the Nazis had leapt to the defense and completely annihilated the intruders. The dead lay sprawled across the field where they had fallen. Among them was a fresh-faced lieutenant named Paul Camden who had been in charge of this project. A bullet to the head had ended his life and he lay face up on the cold ground, staring into a washed-out sky he could no longer see. His rifle still lay beside him. Without him the entire initiative was doomed to failure.

Just then, a tall, black-clad figure approached the scene. He approached almost noiselessly, threading his way among the corpses with consummate grace until he got to the body of the young lieutenant. He paused there and knelt down beside him, the sunlight glinting off the many pins that pierced his bald skull, and began almost reverently to search the pockets of his uniform. He pulled out several papers as he found them and finally, satisfied, he took hold of his dog tags and gently pulled them off. Then he straightened up and, placing the dog tags around his own neck, he suddenly began to change. He grew much shorter and his leather dress transformed into a uniform identical to the lieutenant's. Finally, he features altered until they were indistinguishable from Paul Camden's. He tucked the papers into his pockets, picked up the dead soldier's rifle, and turned onto the path toward the barracks.

He strode quite confidently down the path until a guard spotted him.

"Halt!" shouted the guard, and in German, "You there, what are you doing?"

The guard gestured threateningly with his rifle. When the soldier refused to answer, he called another guard over and together they escorted their prisoner into the fortress, with the tips of their rifles pressed firmly into his shoulder blades.

They marched him down a flight of stairs and shoved him into a small cell, but not before they had snatched some of his more prominent papers. He looked as though he might protest that, but otherwise made little complaint. The guards left him shivering in the corner of his cell and went to fetch the officer in charge.

The guards went directly to inform Captain Biderhoff.

"Captain, we have caught a prowler outside", said one.

"Oh?" inquired the captain. "What was he?"

"An American, sir," said the second guard, "One Lieutenant Paul Camden."

"Really?" said Captain Biderhoff. How fortunate. Supposedly he has been gathering information about the Pnakotic Project, and had a hand in that raid last night. Question him immediately."

The guards went immediately to the cell and dragged out their prisoner, leading him to the interrogation room. It was bare but for a table, three chairs, and a wooden stool, onto which they shoved him, while they stood.

"What were you doing prowling around here?" demanded one, a Lieutenant Kaufman.

The prisoner remained silent, his eyes downcast, a slightly sullen curve to his youthful lips.

Lt. Kaufman tried again. "Why did you attack us last night?"

Still the prisoner refused to answer.

The lieutenant showed distinct annoyance by his third question: "Why have you been spying on us?"

The prisoner still remained silent, but allowed the ghost of a smile to flicker across his lips. Lt. Kaufman gave him a sharp kick. The captive winced slightly but returned to his sullen silence.

Lt. Kaufman planted his hands on his hips threateningly. "I know you have probably taken an oath of silence," he said, "but for your own good you had better talk. Otherwise we have ways of getting the information out of you, and they won't be pleasant."

The prisoner glanced up at this, but made no reply. Lt. Kaufman gave him a savage kick, knocking him off his stool. He doubled over and tried to rise, but Lt. Kaufman punched him before he could. His interrogator then dealt him a series of savage blows. Paul Camden accepted the assault passively, but showed almost no sign of pain. Finally the lieutenant punched him in the jaw. This won blood and also a reaction: the prisoner raised a hand to his face and gingerly touched the injury, as though in surprise.

Lt. Kaufman stepped back in satisfaction.

"Now, then what is your mission?" he asked.

The prisoner, still rubbing his jaw, gave him a slightly wounded, but determined, look of reproach. Its resoluteness provoked Lt. Kaufman to fury, and he renewed his assault more brutally than before.

He rained blows upon his prisoner, barking questions as he did so, and adding kicks where he thought appropriate. All throughout, the prisoner refused to speak. The he bruised in several spots and doubtless sustained other injuries, he hardly seemed in agony-his expression was of displeasure more than anything else.

Finally, Lt. Schmidt restrained his colleague.

"Stop it!" he said. "We don't want to kill him. He isn't going to talk. I think we should call in Dr. Von Heizzen."

"Yes," agreed Lt. Kaufman, and to the prisoner "You have a reprieve-for now. But you will regret it. We will make you talk."

And they returned him to his cell, and themselves to Captain Biderhoff's office to explain the situation.

Some half an hour later they returned to the cell, and saw Paul Camden sitting in the corner, stroking his cheek as though it were a strange and novel experience. They all but jerked him by the collar back to the interrogation room, where a man sat waiting for them. He looked to be perhaps in his fifties or sixties, and had a smooth, gentle demeanor that concealed something else.

"This is Dr. Von Heizzen", said Lt. Kaufman with pride. "He is the Reich's foremost expert on getting information out of stubborn prisoners. He has reduced the bravest of men to blubbering heaps"-at this the prisoner looked up in sudden interest-"and has, as you say, written the book on torture techniques. He will be in charge of the interrogation from now on."

Lt. Kaufman tried to gauge his reaction. he looked interested, alert, and-thought his captor-faintly amused. The young lieutenant didn't like that, but ascribed it to arrogance-or underestimation of Dr. Von Heizzen's talents.

Dr. Von Heizzen smiled pleasantly and inquired, "Well, Mr. Camden, how are you feeling today?"

As an answer, the prisoner smiled sardonically and indicated his bruises.

"Ah, I see," said the doctor. "I hear you have been very reluctant to speak. You can speak, can't you?"

"Oh, yes, don't worry about that," replied the prisoner.

"Good," replied Dr. Von Heizzen. "But you are unwilling to answer our questions."

"I'm afraid I can't do that," Paul Camden responded gravely.

"I see," replied Dr. Von Heizzen. "Well, then, I shall have to make you speak . I have spent my life studying ways to find on4e's innermost fears and bring them out. You will speak when I am done with you.

Privately, Dr. Von Heizzen didn't think his captive looked very worried. Perhaps it was false bravado.

Dripping candle wax was the first method that Dr. von Heizzen tried: the prisoner was stripped of his shirt and tied to the table with his back exposed, while the doctor prepared a candle.

"Now," said the doctor, "what is your mission here?"

The prisoner remained sullenly uncommunicative and his interrogator dripped hot candle wax on several more sensitive spots on his back. Paul Camden remained stoic and did not even wince.

Dr. von Heizzen tried again. "How much do you know about our fortress, eh?"

The prisoner smiled enigmatically, and the smile persisted even as more drops of wax fell.

"Turn him over," said the doctor to the guards, and Lts. Schmidt and Kaufman did just that.

"Now, Mr. Camden, why did the Allies plan that raid last night?" asked the doctor.

He got no response, even when he let the wax fall on particularly sensitive areas: chest, inner thighs, groins.

Lt. Kaufman grew noticeably restless.

"Don't fidget, Lt.," said the doctor. "He is very stubborn. Obviously we need a harsher method. But this is only the first attempt. It may take several. Do you doubt my abilities?"

Lt. Kaufman hung his head.

On the doctor went to harsher methods. The prisoner was bound, and the doctor took a large whip and stood over him threateningly.

"Now, then, Mr. Camden, let's not play games. Why are you so interested in this fortress?"

"Your project," replied the prisoner unconcernedly.

"Ah," replied the doctor. "And what do you know about the Pnakotic Project?"

"More than you," replied Lt. Camden.

The doctor's hopeful smile faded. "Such as?" he asked.

"Such as, you shouldn't use it," the prisoner replied.

"Because we will win if we do?" inquired the interrogator with a sardonic smile.

"Because you are dealing with forces you cannot even comprehend, much less control," replied the prisoner.

"Really?" the doctor replied mockingly.

"The elder gods of the universe are not to be taken lightly," replied the prisoner.

"And what would you know about elder gods, Mr. Camden?" the doctor inquired.

The prisoner gave him a look of such solemn and terrible knowledge that Dr. von Heizzen flinched inwardly. The prisoner, it was true, had acted throughout with a maturity unusual for his twenty years, but this - which seemed, to Dr. von Heizzen a momentary glimpse of ancient wisdom, defied explanation. The doctor, deciding that this line of inquiry was going nowhere, (at least nowhere that he liked), tried another topic.

"Why did you come to our camp today, Mr. Camden?"

The reply was a sullen glance. In response the doctor..., but it did not have the expected effect: the prisoner grimaced but the doctor had the strangest feeling that the grimace was fake and something underneath it -- he couldn't quite tell what - was real. Nevertheless he pursued his course.

"Do you know the penalty for spying, Mr. Camden? It is generally death."

The prisoner reacted to that threat with indifference.

"Doesn't that mean anything to you, Mr. Camden? Or are you so patriotic that you would be happy to die for your country?"

Dr. von Heizzen did not think his captive looked particularly patriotic: rather he looked as though it didn't concern him, or perhaps, baffled as the doctor was by this, as though it didn't apply to him. The doctor, somewhat unnerved, returned to his earlier line of questions.

"How much do you know about the Necronomicon, Mr. Camden?"

"Enough to know how dangerous using it would be."

"But what do you know? Have you read it? Interpreted it?"

"That information is not for you to know," replied the prisoner, with such finality bordering on arrogance in the reply that Dr. von Heizzen tightened the straps to less than half their original width.

"Enlighten us, please," he ordered sourly.

When the prisoner stubbornly refused to volunteer any information he tightened the straps still further, cutting into his wrists, and lashed him savagely with the whip, cutting great red stripes across his back.

This time the prisoner made no pretense of suffering, but openly relaxed and laid back as far as the straps would allow with an expression of utter bliss.

It was time for a harsher punishment, he thought . He took salt out and rubbed in the angry welts on the prisoner's back. This had no effect at all: the prisoner remained utterly deadpan.

A thought occurred to him. "Mr. Camden," he asked, "was anyone else involved in this raid?"

The prisoner replied, "It no longer matters. The raid has failed."

"Was there?" persisted the doctor, and when the prisoner resumed his sullen look, he took hold of one of his forefingers and snapped it like a stick. With dissatisfaction he noticed that the prisoner, despite his limp digit, did not look pained -- he must be an extraordinary actor, the doctor thought.

No response was forthcoming. "Was there?" repeated the doctor, breaking another finger. Still no reply. "Was there?" reiterated the interrogator and a dangerous edge crept into his voice as he broke a third finger.

The prisoner looked woundedly at his damaged hand. "Well, if you insist," he said with a touch of levity that really took Dr. von Heizzen aback, "We were supposed to get reinforcements from the British Royal Flying Corps, but that has been called off now."

"Don't you mean the Royal Airforce, Mr. Camden?" inquired the doctor.

"Oh, yes, of course I did," replied the captive hastily.

Curious, thought the doctor. He wondered where an American lad of twenty had picked up a British World War I anachronism, and why he had used it instead of the current term. That reminded him: there seemed to be something subtle about the prisoner -- mannerisms, way of speaking -- not accent -- that were not characteristically American, more European, perhaps British. But at any rate -- "I am surprised that the Allies take our book so seriously, Mr. Camden," he said, "It is not like them. Usually they sneer at the occult. To their detriment."

The prisoner, he saw, had withdrawn into his uncommunicative state. The doctor took his mangled hand and broke the rest of his fingers, then his wrist. It had no effect. Remarkable, he thought. And aloud: "Really, Mr. Camden, you must be more cooperative. You are doing yourself harm."

Camden did not look at all deterred by that threat.

"What do you want to know?" asked the prisoner coolly.

"I want to know how much you know about the Necronomicon."

"No," said the prisoner.

The doctor's placid expression turned deadly serious.

"Oh yes," he said, "that information will kill two birds with one stone, give us a short cut with its interpretation and tell us how much the enemy knows.

"Have it your way, Mr. Camden," he said in response to the prisoner's stony expression, "I shall cut the information out of you. Word by word if I must."

And so he tried . He tried just about every method he had at his disposal: breaking more bones, various sophisticated torture devices, electric shock. Nothing worked, at least not the way the doctor had hoped: the more sophisticated and painful the technique, the more he suspected the prisoner was enjoying himself. The doctor was getting seriously disturbed by this time, and seriously irritated that his techniques weren't working.

"Mr. Camden, I am through playing games," said the doctor, and he produced a bone saw from his bag of torture implements. He paced calmly over to the prisoner, lifted up his good hand and placed it on the table. He then began to cut at the wrist.

"If I were you, Mr. Camden, I would start talking while still in one piece."

Yet even at this immediate peril to his hand the prisoner would not speak. The doctor sawed deeper, severing sinews, slicing nerves, exposing the meat of his arm. He cut still deeper, to the exposed bone and then into it, though the wound was now so bloody that it was difficult to see how far he had gotten.

Paul Camden gazed down at his mangled hand with an expression of such melancholy beauty that even the doctor was touched. And yet, he thought, the expression was totally alien to what he had heard of Paul Camden's nature.

Just then, Captain Biderhoff entered the room. "Gentlemen, I have something urgent to tell you," he said, "Paul Camden is dead."

"Dead?" echoed Lt. Kaufman, gesturing to the prisoner bound to his stool.

"I am afraid there is no doubt about it," said Captain Biderhoff, "He was killed in the raid last night. He has been identified by several close comrades and his body is being shipped back to the United States for a full military funeral. There was one curious thing though: when his body was found all his identifying papers, as well as his dog tags and rifle, had been stolen."

"But if Paul Camden is dead," Lt. Schmidt said, pointing to the prisoner, "then who is that?"

"Obviously we have a spy in our midst," said Dr. von Heizzen, "a master of disguise."

"In other words," said Captain Biderhoff, "we have no idea who we are dealing with. But you will find out, of course…- Why do you look so hesitant?"

"Captain...so far he has managed to resist all of my tortures. I have never seen anything like it."

Privately the doctor suspected that, in fact, the prisoner was savoring his techniques, much as a connoisseur might savor fine wines, but he wasn't about to admit that to Captain Biderhoff.

"Yes, of course I shall find out," he finally concluded.

He approached the prisoner. "The jig, as you say, is up," he said, "We know you are not who you say you are, and it is no use to keep up the charade."

He crossed over to his bag of torture instruments and whirled about to face the prisoner.

"What is your name?" he demanded.

The prisoner, who had looked unsettled when his cover was exposed, had regained his composure.

"What's in a name, gentlemen?" he replied.

"This is no time for poetry," snapped Dr. von Heizzen. His voice settled to a deadly whisper, "Now then, who are you?"

There was a brief pause, and then the prisoner replied utterly matter-of-factly, "The High Priest of Hell."

Dr. von Heizzen was quite taken aback. "Yes, very amusing," he said sourly when he had recovered. "Now then, what is your name?"

"I do not have a name," the prisoner replied.

"Don't have a name?" Dr. von Heizzen echoed in surprise, "but surely you must be called something."

"I am called many things."

"Such as?"

The prisoner hesitated and glanced solemnly at his captor. "The Dark Pope, the Angel of Suffering, Xipe Totec…and some might go farther afield and call me the Devil," he said, smiling enigmatically.

"The Devil?" said the Doctor and he sounded extremely annoyed. "Are you a soldier?"

"Yes."

Finally, a sane response.

"In what army?"

"Leviathan's" replied the prisoner with a touch of pride.

"Leviathan's!" repeated Lt. Kaufman in surprise. He turned a puzzled glance toward his colleagues.

Captain Biderhoff gazed at the doctor expectantly.

"In the Bible, Leviathan was a great sea serpent," murmured the doctor, "I have never heard it used as a code name."

He turned to the prisoner. "Who is this Leviathan?" he demanded.

The prisoner sat up as straight as his bonds would allow. "The god I serve in your world and mine," he replied.

The Germans exchanged distressed glances.

"Your code won't get you anywhere," warned the doctor, brandishing his saw.

When he saw that that had no effect, he inquired indulgently, "Serve him to do what?"

"To bring order to the universe," replied the prisoner calmly, "To punish the chaos that is the flesh and so teach it order through discipline."

Either the man was insane or else he was playing some sort of private joke, thought the doctor. He switched topics once again. "Why did you impersonate Paul Camden?"

"So that you would capture me and bring me into your fortress."

"Why?"

"To steal the Necronomicon," replied the prisoner promptly, "It would unleash chaos upon the world, and we cannot permit that."

"The way you are talking, we will bring down Heaven's wrath upon us," commented the doctor dryly.

There was a slight pause. "Oh no, you will bring down Hell's wrath upon you," replied the prisoner solemnly.

Dr. von Heizzen, thoroughly perplexed by that answer, tried again, "Really?" he said, and then, before his prisoner could reply, "Stop these foolish games. You said you are a soldier. So. Name, rank and serial number."

When the prisoner made no reply, he tore at his wounded wrist. "Name, rank and serial number!"

"Captain Elliott Spenser, Number 01522846," replied the prisoner smartly, and the doctor noticed that he shed his fake American accent as he said it and now spoke with a decidedly upper class British one.

"Are you English?" inquired the doctor.

"I was, once," replied the prisoner musingly.

"Is that really your name?" persisted the doctor.

"It was once, though 'the Black Prince' might be more accurate now."

And now he was having delusions of royalty, moaned the doctor to himself.

"Black Prince of what?" he asked indulgently.

"Hell," replied the prisoner flatly.

Dr. von Heizzen sighed in disgust. "Well, make up your mind. Are you a priest, a soldier or a prince?"

Lt. Schmidt motioned him aside. "Permission to speak freely, sir." he said.

"Granted," replied the doctor.

"Sir," Lt. Schmidt hesitated, "What if he's telling the truth? What if he really is the High Priest of Hell?"

"I doubt it," muttered the doctor.

"Why do you doubt it?" replied Lt. Schmidt, "If you believe in the Necronomicon, why not in forces that oppose it?"

"Very well then, if it will make you happy," replied the doctor, and he pulled a cross out from under his collar and approached the prisoner waving it in front of him.

The captive's only reaction was a disdainful glance.

"I thought not," said the doctor and put the cross away. Then he faced the prisoner. "I have had enough of your games," he cried, "Why does this Leviathan want the Necronomicon so badly?"

"As I said," replied the prisoner, "if you use it you will unleash the Crawling Chaos upon the world, and we cannot allow that."

"Why does this Leviathan oppose us?"

"Originally Hell admired your plan for a new order, but this is a serious misstep and we must correct it."

"I see," replied the doctor sardonically.

"Where is the book, anyway?" inquired the prisoner casually.

"You cannot get at it. It is in a locked case and the room is guarded."

"Where are you keeping it though?" persisted the prisoner.

Captain Biderhoff thought to himself that it was quite safe in Room 116, Section 15, in the right wing of the building. He certainly wasn't about to mention its whereabouts though. As it turned out, he didn't need to. The prisoner gazed at him with another of his faint enigmatic smiles.

"Yet there is nothing you can do," said Captain Biderhoff, "We are in control of the situation, not you. And you have not answered our questions to our satisfaction."

Captain Biderhoff drew a gun and aimed it at the prisoner's head. "We are through with your games," he said, "One last chance. Tell us who you really are."

The prisoner hesitated, "I think it would be better if I showed you," he said, and so saying, arose.

He broke every strap with ease and stood upright. Then an even more amazing thing happened: his wounds began to heal, the many bruises shrank and vanished, the broken bones straightened out, the cut on his lip sealed itself up, and Lt. Schmidt later claimed that the blood seeping from the wound had been sucked back in. Most miraculously, his almost severed wrist reattached. The blood vessels and sinews sewed themselves back together, the nerves and muscle reconnected, and the skin sealed itself smoothly without a trace of a scar.

As this happened, his features shifted, became more plastic. He grew much taller and gaunter. His features lost their round, dewy youthfulness and were in flux. For just a moment (Lt. Schmidt later claimed) he took the form of a tall, slender man, perhaps in his late thirties or forties, with thinning, raven-black hair and a face gentle by nature but embittered and pained, wearing a World War I era British uniform.

Then the features altered again. His skin lost its tan and drained of color until dead white with a bluish undertone. (Nay, thought the doctor, he had seen healthier looking corpses.) His scalp gleamed stark and painfully white for a moment. Then slices, still bloody, appeared in the form of a grid on his head and large pins pierced his skull at the crossing of vertical and horizontal lines. His eyes, neither the piercing blue of Paul Camden's nor the pale blue of the officers, darkened until they seemed blacker than black, perhaps because there was no distinction between iris and pupil.

His clothes too altered themselves drastically, changing from a military uniform to a black leather dress with a tight-fitting bodice, slightly puffy sleeves and a long skirt. The front had several cutouts, and those at the chest had what appeared to be bloody strips of flesh hanging over them. A slit at his abdomen revealed that a belt hung with various kinds of knives was actually threaded through his skin, about at the navel.

The Germans stared in amazement as their captive turned and walked coolly across the room. He went through the door (Lt. Schmidt later claimed that the door, which had been locked, had opened for him as if in deference) and headed down the corridor silently.

The guards lowered their weapons and stared as he went past, and Captain Biderhoff stayed in his dazed state until he realized that the captive - captive no longer, that was - was heading toward section 15, at which point he turned to the guards and shouted, "Don't just stand there gaping, SHOOT HIM!"

The guards did as bidden. They aimed a barrage of machine gun fire at the tall, spiky, leather-clad figure, and he strode down the corridor in a hail of bullets. This did not stop him, or even slow him down. He kept his pace even as he navigated the corridor, even as the bullets hit him. A soldier guarding Room 116 saw him coming and opened fire, but saw that the bullets had no effect: he was positive that they hit him, yet they produced no wounds.

And so he entered the room unchallenged, removed the Necronomicon from it protective (and locked) case, tucked it under his arm, and proceeded down the hall.

Captain Biderhoff and the others had arrived by this time and joined the chase. The black-clad creature headed for the tunnels beneath the fortress, and thence the German soldiers chased him, still shooting madly. There were no lights in the tunnels, but the Germans soon found them to be unnecessary. The figure in front of them gave off a faint, bluish phosphorescence from his paler-than-death skin.

Their quarry led them down many labyrinthine tunnels in an utterly disorienting pattern. At first they kept close on his heels, but later, despite his seemingly leisurely pace, he gained ground and they lost track of him behind a curve. It was several minutes before a sharp-eyed private detected a faint glow, and they were too far away to overtake him. By the time they reached the spot, all they found was a blank wall with a neat pile of bullets on the floor in front of it. There was nowhere else he could possibly have gone and nothing they could do but return to their posts shaken and puzzled.

Feb. 22, 1944

Heil Fuhrer,

I regretfully inform you that the book you entrusted us with, the Necronomicon of Abdul Alhazred as translated into Latin by Olaus Wormius, is no longer in our possession. How could this possibly have happened?

Two of my lieutenants captured an American soldier prowling around the premises. He was a known spy so I had them question him. Even our expert, Dr. von Heizzen, was able to get very little out of him. He was extraordinarily stubborn. He withstood every method of torture that we used, and the few things he did say were exceedingly peculiar.

Then our intelligence discovered that the man we were supposedly interrogating had actually been killed the night before. Realizing that we had a spy in our midst, we tried to discover his real identity, but he insisted on playing some bizarre game and gave us some outrageous answers: he claimed to be a priest, a soldier, a prince, a devil, and an angel, if you will believe that, Fuhrer. We did discover that he planned to steal the Necronomicon, but it is still unclear for what purpose.

At that point, I believe the prisoner must have had some hallucinogenic compound, perhaps hidden in the air vents, and it began to take effect, producing mass delusions of the strangest sort. Under cover of these delusions, the prisoner was able to escape. This despite many broken bones and an almost severed wrist. Our guards fired on him, but the drug must have impaired them and they missed. I recommend they have further shooting drills.

It is unclear just how he learned where we were keeping the book, but he somehow removed it from the case without unlocking it and headed for the tunnels under the barracks. We pursued him, but somehow he eluded us and we lost him in the tunnels, coming upon a blank wall.

I speculate that there may have been some hidden trap door there, though a thorough search revealed nothing. The fortress was built on the site of an old historic building. I believe the architect was called Lemarchand, and we were not familiar with the tunnels. I do not even know what their original function was.

As for the identity of the spy, nothing is certain. We feel that he was probably British, but can say nothing else definite.

One other curious thing: I checked up on one of the names he gave us, Captain Elliott Spenser, and discovered that there was indeed a person of that name in the British army during WWI. After the war he was transferred to India, where he disappeared in 1921 under mysterious circumstances, and he was known to be obsessed with the occult.

Is it possible that this was Elliott Spenser turned into some sort of special agent? If so, his skill at disguise is truly awe-inspiring: he duplicated Camden's face and features flawlessly, and I do not know how he achieved the dewy glow of youth. We must learn what technology the enemy has developed.

Do not blame the men, for they did the best they could. Blame me. I underestimated the prisoner and it has led to this. I leave my fate in your merciful hands.

Sincerely Yours,

Captain Freidrich Biderhoff

Pinhead crossed the threshold into his own world and wandered down corridors hewn from grey stone and intricately carved, down steps that led to yet more of the same corridors, which branched out, splitting out into twos, threes, even fives, never permitting one to wander down the same corridor for long. He wandered through the silent Labyrinth, his tall, impressive, black-clad form enshrouded in fog, the Necronomicon still tucked under his arm. Very deliberately he walked down those corridors, his smart pace befitting a soldier, while his form befitted a poet, until he finally came to a large door and stepped into the room beyond.

It was vast, and lined with neat, orderly bookcases filled with all manner of books, many of them quite ancient and most of them quite arcane. The books moaned and wailed piteously as he passed them. He wandered amidst the bookshelves, glancing occasionally at this or that title, until he came to the main section where the librarian sat surrounded by piles of books.

She sat with a book open upon her lap, a diminutive figure in a rather old-fashioned black dress and granny boots with tiny buttons. Her white hair was gathered into a bun on top of her head and she held the book intently in her small, bony hands, gazing at it out of enormous, rimless glasses. Her eyes behind the glasses were huge and yellow and bloodshot, seeming to fill up the entire lenses, which had several small rods sticking out along the sides. Her eyes in fact were so large, seeming to fill up the top half of her pointed, wizened face, that one might wonder if they were out of their sockets, held in place perhaps by those rods at the sides of her glasses, a triumph or atrocity of unnature.

The book upon her lap was bound in human skin and even had a face upon the cover and the librarian was thus in the middle of a conversation with the book when the Angel of Suffering arrived. She heard him coming, for she had very sharp ears, and she glanced up attentively.

"What brings this honor, Favored One?" she inquired, and her enormous eyes fastened on the book tucked under his arm.

"Balberith, I have an addition to the library," he replied as he gave the book to her, "a very special addition."

She cradled the book gently, reverently, and looked eagerly at the cover, drawing in her breath as she did so. Pinhead looked troubled and gazed down at the floor, his lips set sadly.

"Are you certain you should put it into circulation?" he inquired. "It does, after all, give instructions on summoning"- here he paused and shuddered,- "chaos."

"No," said Balberith, "No, I'll put it in a special collection to be taken out only with my permission. You, of course, are welcome to read it, Favored One, and I see that you are eager to," she added.

With that, she took the book and walked down the great halls of the library to a locked room and, taking a large key from her belt, she unlocked the room and entered. She crossed to a particular shelf and gently placed her new acquisition next to the other books on it: the dreadful De Vermis Mysteriis of von Junzt, the Book of Eibon, even the Pnakotic Manuscripts, parts of which were too ancient for even Balberith to read, and of which the only other copy lies in the world of dreams, and lastly copies of the Necronomicon in English, German, Greek and Arabic. Then she turned with a swish of skirts, locked the door behind her, and went back to her duties as Hell's librarian.