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One strange fan letter could be written off. The publishers at Tales of Mystery had eagerly snapped up the sequel to The Black Iris, much to John’s delight. It had hit shelves a week or so ago when the first bizarre message arrived in the office mailbox.
“Dear John Doe, wisest of men, The Yellow Eye has revealed the truth to me, and I am like a man reborn. Your words have shone a beacon of light unto the dark writhing mass of this world, I give thanks that you have chosen to spread your wisdom even to low wretched men such as I. Know that I will stand ready to rally to your call. With reverence, J Adams”
“...Interesting”, Arthur had remarked when John had finished reading to him.
“I’ll admit, it’s a bit much.”
“But, I suppose it’s not too unusual, the occasional overzealous fan. Some people see the most minute throwaway details in a piece of art and think it's all some big interconnected commentary.”
John pushed down a pang of worry, “I suppose you make a good point. Comes with the territory of writing mysteries.”
But that was merely the first letter. There were over a dozen now, increasingly bizarre ramblings about detective Halder showing the way to enlightenment. Arthur paced the length of their office. “Something isn’t right here.”
“You’re telling me,” John said.
“Ok, let’s just go over things in detail. Was there anything new you tried with this story? Social commentary, a hidden puzzle, anything like that?”
“Not that I can think of.” John gave a frustrated sigh. “It’s the same style and voice I used in the first story, there’s no political or religious message, just the usual mystery themes and plot points.”
Arthur sat down at their desk, pulling out the bottom drawer where John’s drafts were kept. “There has to be some unintended symbolism that these people are latching onto, here, how about you read me the story, we have plenty of time tonight.”
John began to read, Arthur sitting in still silence. About a third of the way through his narration, the phone rang. He stopped, waiting for Arthur to answer. But the investigator sat frozen. “Aren’t you going to get that?”
“Keep reading.” Arthur’s voice had a strange, distant quality to it.
“It could be a client, or Faroe. It could be important.”
“Please keep reading.” John paused, a gnawing dread beginning to scratch at his mind. When he did not continue, Arthur leaned forward. “I need to hear the rest of the story.” He lifted the page to their eyes. “I can’t read it without you.”
“I don’t know if I-”
Arthur’s grip tightened, wrinkling the paper. “I need you to keep reading,” his voice was higher, almost desperate.
“Arthur-”
“I need to hear the rest-”
John took control of their left hand, slapping Arthur across the face. “Arthur! Snap out of it!” The man blinked in surprise, then brought a hand to his temple.
“John, what, I-”
“I’m sorry to take your hand without asking but what the hell was that?!”
Arthur let the papers fall to the desk. “I don’t know, I felt, entranced I suppose. Like something else was piloting me, figuratively that is.”
John’s worry blossomed to a deep dread. “Do you still want to know the rest of the story?”
Arthur’s brow furrowed. “I… I do.”
“Fuck”.
“John?”
“Arthur, I will never read you the rest of that story. Fuck this is bad.”
“Hey, calm down, what are you getting at?”
“I think, I think this is all because of me, my nature” John’s mind raced, how many people had read it already, how many copies were sitting on how many store shelves at this very moment?
Arthur leaned forward. “What exactly do you mean?”
“The King reveled in driving mortal minds to madness in many ways, but especially through art. I didn’t intend to affect anyone, but if it’s simply an inherent property in the things I create, then-”
Arthur’s face fell. “Then there are words of cosmic insanity at every corner store in the country.” He threaded his fingers into his hair. “Ok, ok we can mitigate this. We can contact the publisher-”
“And tell them what exactly?”
“We can’t tell them the truth obviously, but there are ways to get a book taken off shelves. We could tell them that, that the book contains identifying details of a real crime that inspired the story, and it's a legal liability. That it violates obscenity laws, it’s plagiarised, something!”
“Even if they agree to pull the issue, it’ll take a few days at least to communicate with every distributor.” At times like this John wished he still had a body, being filled with anxious energy and no way to release it.
Arthur thought a moment, then put his head in his hands with a groan. “What?” “There’s one thing we can do right now, but our wallet is going to suffer for it.”
Every bookstore in Arkham. Every copy. Thank god they were only a dime each, but the two of them would still have to rearrange their budget for the month. An express courier was on the way to the publishing house to deliver the message to pull the story. None of this made John feel any more optimistic about the situation. Most vendors had just given a bewildered look when Arthur placed their entire stock of that month’s Tales of Mystery on the shop counter; but one cashier was reluctant to make the exchange.
“Wasn’t a fan of this issue myself.” He had said. “I keep having awful dreams about the one story, can’t get it out of my head.”
From all John could tell, Arthur wasn’t suffering any ongoing effects from the story, and if there was one thing he had grown good at since being split from the king, it was reading Arthur Lester. On the other hand, this was Arthur Lester, who had stood face to face with great old ones multiple times, his fortitude was no indication for that of the general public.
The investigator was holding onto hope. “We have no reason to believe the effects will be permanent.” He had spent the better part of the next day reassuring John. “Or that they are anything worse than some bad dreams and bold letters.” The entity had been wracking his mind all this time, trying to figure out what had gone wrong. None of his previous stories had produced these effects. Why now? Why this story? The office phone rang.
“Arthur Lester’s office.”
“I’d like to speak to John Doe.”
A chill ran through them both. “I’m sorry, I think you may have the wrong number” He began cautiously, "there are no Johns that work here.”
“I’ve tracked the addresses. I know his drafts get mailed from your office. Where is he.”