The Witching Hour

Dull rays of moonlight shine through my open window, filling the room with an oddly incandescent glow. The night is cold, crisp; wreaths of fog hang in the streets below, intermittently banished by the occasional lantern of a wandering night watchman. The oil within the street lamps had not been refilled. Again.
I cough, and take another swig from my brandy-glass. Ugh. This stuff has long since lost its taste, yet I persist in drinking it. No matter, it aids in staving off this cold. Turning my attention again to the pile of papers upon my desk, I pick up my fountain pen and twirl it betwixt my fingers, silently studying my work. Presently, I begin to write.

'So my father's murder is connected with a machine cult,' mused Richard as he and Rowena walked along the corridor. 'And now they want me. Interesting.'
Rowena glanced up at him. 'I don't think I understood what Kleinrich was saying... what's a machine cult?'
Richard though for a moment. 'I read a little about them some time ago,' he said. 'You are familiar with the period of time in which many states and cities made a shift from agriculture to industry, yes?'
'You mean the Boom?' she replied.
'Yes, the Boom,' said Richard. 'Do you remembered how quickly it occured, how swiftly the cities sprang up?'
'It was very well nearly overnight.'
'Indeed, yes. Well, some scientists had theorised that the shift to industry was coming on too fast, that humanity couldn't cope with it. People needed more time to adjust to the changes, and to spread the new ideas more evenly amongst themselves. But the machines made people greedy, which is why Harrow has very little industry and Trellan has so much, for example. Some outlying areas still practice spiritual religion.'
Rowena came to a halt. 'Religion? What is religion?'
Richard shifted uneasily. 'It's... well... it's rather difficult to-

Drivel. Purest drivel for the vulgar masses. Ah, well. Better to pen a penny dreadful than no book at all, I suppose. The newspaper will pay me well... though at what cost? I can see that spiteful editor's face now, all leering and smirking and jeering. Him and his bloody "education"... if he could see but a fraction of what I see-
Thud.
Ah. Reaching into my pocket, I fish out the gold watch I inherited from my father. Three o'clock in the morning. The witching hour, indeed. Taking special care to ensure my movements are soundless, I gently ease open the draw of my desk and flick open the small wooden box contained therein. Clasping the butt of the weapon, I slowly withdraw the Colt Peacemaker. An ancient weapon, yes, but a family heirloom, and as such carries a particular amount of sentimental value. I cock back the hammer and slowly raise it to eye-level. All six shots present. As always. A loaded gun may oft be considered an odd possession for a novelist. Not so in this case, for I am also a wanderer. Specifically, I wander the obscure and dark corners of our earth, and although knowledge is more often than not the best weapon, sometimes it must play second fiddle to an actual, literal, deadly weapon.
The chair scrapes soundless against the floor. Moving silently, flitting about the shadows of my darkened office, I move towards the door. I have already doused the lamp.
Creak. Blast. Curse and damn that bloody door, that noisesome nuisance. My life, forfeit for the sake of a vocal door. But soft; the bumps from below have not ceased. Perhaps the apparation has not heard me; perhaps it is simply playing with my hopes.
Either way, I am pleased.
Stairs before me. The bottom part of my home seems somehow darker, the very life and familiarity of its room extinguished. One step forward, and it engulfs me.
I've been here before; I call it the Plunge. When one treads too near the Darkness, one must taste its loathesome taint. And taste it I do now. Oh, but to describe such a thing. To imagine a twisted cauldron of blood, bile, urine, disease, decay and death would be to describe not one one-hundreth of the miasma that now surrounds me. Stagger, choke, fall to knees. Not just the smell - the very presence, dragging me down, bringing me to my knees. Oh yes, I have been here before; I can cope, I can overcome. But one never does grow accustomed to it.
Finally, it passes. Stagger up again, cling to shadows, resume Fearsome Heroic Stance. Oh yes, and raise weapon. Hmm. Still the thing is shuffling about. Clearly, it knows not the home it has entered... nor the volitile nature of its only occupant.
My bare feet tread slowly down the stairs, taking care to avoid the well-known creaking spots. Arriving at the bottom, I raise my revolver and step swiftly around the corner into the library.

The room is well lit; the moonlight continues to shine through its broad windows. Silvery beams splay across the shelves and dusty old tomes; I have amassed an impressive collection, if I may say so myself. Others of my ilk have often attempted to goad me into selling some of them; I've always met this with profound resistance. My books are rare, and old, and some are very, very dangerous in the wrong hands. The hands of my late-night visitor, for example.
He – or rather, it – is facing away from me, apparently scrutinizing a particularly thick volume resting upon a pedestal far beneath the room's highest window. Ah, but of course – it's looking at Orrick's Black Book of Doom, or as I like to call it, The Complete Beginer's Guide To Foolishly Showy Magicks. A reliable text, of course; just a little overated for my liking. There are only four or five copies remaining, and mine is in the best condition. Needless to say, I shan't part with it easily. Time to end it now, I suppose. I clear my throat.

Instantly the thing whirls its many-tantacled head around to examine me with its beady, dark eyes. I recoil, but only very slightly. It is around several feet tall, and has a slender, slimy body wrapped in a greasy blue cloak. It bears a striking resemblance to the much-hated illithid, though its head resembles not so much a streamlined squid as a deformed octopus.
'How are you this evening, sir?' I query.
'Xzloooholuuuu! Xzlyoohuuuzzz! Zxyulbulo Zylolbuuuuus Xyel!'
'Whatever.' I raise my weapon and fire.
The first round zips through the air, but misses its head by a fraction of an inch, instead striking one of its thicker tentacles. The sucking limb hangs limp, then falls of as the tattered edge around the blistered wound finally give way. It shrieks, and lunges at me, hooting and gibbering horribly. I cock the hammer back again.
Blam.
Another round is sqeezed off. This one finds its mark.
An almighty splat is heard as the bullet tears through the creature's soft head, ripping the hind portion of its brain out and emptying its jellied mass upon the library floor. I wrinkle my nose in disgust. Ugh. That carpet was very valuable.