The Arkham Detective is back!  I just recently published the second in a series of novellas about a hard boiled police detective in Arkham Massachusetts that is in charge of the Mythos Division.   A department that is mandated, by his superiors, to investigate things that go bump in the night . . . Lovecraftian things!  The series is a fun read and it was fun, for me, to write, except for the threats of force that have been put upon me.

   It all began a while back when I published the novel, “The Cry of Cthulhu.”  In that fright filled tome lurked the hideous little creatures I christened, “the Pilot Demons,” nasty pint-sized legless beings that crawled on their hands with razor sharp claws and fangs.  They were minor, albeit memorable characters that haunted a handful of pages in my book.

   Fast forward to the creation of the novelette, “Cthulhu’s Minions,” wherein I crafted a story chiefly about these diminutive life forms.  I thought they deserved their own starring roles because they were so creepy and needed more space to vent their revolting existence.   That was when the epiphany happened.  I needed a protagonist to interact/combat and stop them before they conducted one of the Cthulhu Mythos Old Ones to the back allies and streets of Arkham, likewise the entire planet.  Thus my detective, the Arkham Detective was born.  To make matters even more enjoyable and exciting I decided to place the story somewhere in the 1930’s.  A spot in time where H. P. Lovecraft and Dashiell Hammett could have possibly collaborated.  Henceforth the narrative began, through the eyes of my detective, of course.

   A problem occurred though.  It became unmanageable.  I couldn’t get my fedora and trench coat attired shamus to stop talking.  His ego is so supersized that he wanted his own series.  Looking down the barrel of his 1911, .45 caliber colt automatic I was forced create another tale about the Arkham Detective.

   Just released, due to coercion, is “The Innsmouth Look.”  The Great Depression is in full swing and his tightwad chief of police makes him take the rattletrap motor coach to Innsmouth in hopes of tracking down a murderer and kidnapper of a small child.  Upon arriving, he tries to blend in so he can locate the “perp” and soon discovers that the “fish face” population of the town are conspiring to release the Old Ones to wreak havoc on our world.

   The Arkham Detective, who I have also nicknamed, “the detective with no name,” is a hard ass and demands that he exist in nothing less than a four-part series.  So I am currently writing, under duress, the third installment in the life and times of the Arkham Detective.
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   It is getting late and he keeps forcing me to write.  Haven’t had food or drink in days.  I am so tired.  He keeps pointing that gun at me.  Help!!! 

Back when I was involved in the preproduction of the film THE CRY OF CTHULHU I wrote a screenplay titled SHOGGOTH. The story was to take place on a fictional top secret Army base in the Mojave Desert next to a living ghost town that I called Sibley.  I wasn’t happy with the name of the town and one afternoon I was struck by an epiphany and decided that since the script dealt partially with the origins of life on our planet, why not call it “Darwin.”

Several months later while studying maps of the Mojave, that I had obtained from the Bureau of Land Management, I discovered that there was an experimental research center out there that was run by the U.S. Navy occupying over a million acres.  It was the Naval Weapons Center, the NWC.  Scrutinizing the charts further, low and behold, I learned that smack dab at the north end of the NWC property line was the town of “Darwin.”

The Elder Ones most assuredly had pointed me in the right direction.  Consequently, over the years, I was able to visit the NWC twice, getting permission to examine the many petroglyphs that lie within its borders thus obtaining valuable research for what eventually became my latest novel.

To learn more about my novel SHOGGOTH please visit Amazon.com

It is now the 37th anniversary of “The Cry of Cthulhu” film project that Tom Sullivan once said, “Was the greatest movie never made.”  Through the years I have received several emails, letters as well as messages on my Face Book site from fans that were disappointed that the motion picture was never completed.

Last year I released the novelization of “The Cry of Cthulhu” screenplay titled, “The Alchemist's Notebook.”  Now, the novel has been released and re-titled "The CRY of CTHULHU."  It is written in a style as if Lovecraft were alive in the 21st century.

The novel consists of three individual narratives that seamlessly link together a single story where when one account leaves off, the other continues leading the reader through a terrifying web of mystery, horror and apocalyptic doom.

Available at Amazon

The Necronomicon is a fictional textbook of magic that appeared in the stories of Howard Phillips Lovecraft and his followers. The ancient book was first mentioned in Lovecraft’s 1924 short story “The Hound,” written in 1922.  In H. P. Lovecraft’s fictional world it was penned by the “Mad Arab” Abdul Alhazred.  Amongst a collection of alchemic spells, the Necronomicon also contained an account of the Old Ones, their history, and the means for summoning them forth.

Authors such as August Derleth and Clark Ashton Smith also cited the Necronomicon in their works and Lovecraft approved, believing such allusions created a background of realism to his mythology.  Today there are many readers who believe it to be a real volume of magic, with booksellers and librarians receiving many requests for it.   Pranksters have listed it in rare book catalogs and, at one time, a student secretly placed a counterfeit card for it into Yale University’s Library card catalog.

Even though some real-life publishers have printed several books titled, “Necronomicon,” the work is fiction.  Albeit there are those that still believe in its existence.  In my novel  "The CRY of CTHULHU" (initially published under the title “The Alchemist’s Notebook”) the ancient tome plays an important role.  Alhazred’s textbook passes down through many hands, in my story, along with Doctor Dee’s English version of the work until they come into the possession of my main protagonist wherein the translation and comparison of the two volumes reveal a dark secret.

Because of my many references to the old book in my novel I have become paranoid.  Not that I dread that some tentacled thing might reach out from the eldritch pages to choke the life out of me, rather, I fear someone will knock on my door at 2 o’clock in the morning asking to borrow my copy of the Necronomicon.  May the Old Ones protect me!

Byron Craft

The statute of limitations has run out.  What I stole from Miskatonic University, they still want back.  They want to hide the truth.  
     The theft of what the news media called the “Alchemist’s Papers” was made public in January of 1984 but the cover-up that followed, and the failed attempt to retrieve them, left the story only half told.  The truth is about a fold in the soft and otherwise smooth surface of time.  It is a harbinger of an evil so destructive that the current state of the world, plagued with terrorism and economic chaos, would only be a footnote in history by comparison.
     The tabloids had a heyday with the story, claiming apocalyptic doom, while the mainstream media labeled it as another crackpot interpretation of the “Book of Revelations.”  Neither were accurate.  Miskatonic University of Arkham, Massachusetts had done an effective job of discrediting the papers and me, and until now, no one would publish them. 
    The one piece of information that they were unable to keep from the public was the existence of a covert organization within the university itself.  We were a group of select scholars that investigated what appeared to be supernatural occurrences all over the world.  It was alleged that during some of these investigations the group had acted like vigilantes, taking the law into their own hands, passing out judgment where they saw fit. 
    My name is Thomas Ironwood.  I was a resident professor at Miskatonic and head of the Physics Department.  I was a member of the group, known then, to only a few, as the “Mythos Department.”  My confessions to the press were not out of remorse for any wrong doing, rather as a revolt against my colleagues who were becoming dangerously lax in their retaliatory measures. 
    I believed then, and believe even more today, that the individual stories of Faren and Janet Church, and Faren’s great Uncle Heinrich Todesfall, constitute a warning to an already endangered world and should not be suppressed.  The rampant ignorance in the world has left me no alternative but to come out of hiding and go public with the documents. 
    The plausibility of our planet being threatened by an ageless horror may automatically arouse suspicion to the authenticity of the following chronicles and possibly create a back-lash from the more serious elites in the media.  How Miskatonic acquired the papers may be questioned.  Why hide them if they are only a hoax?  
     The chronicles are authentic.  They required some editing to clarify the time lines.  The accounts original forms were as a journal, a diary and a series of tape recordings.  They have been edited into separate narratives subsequently breaking the work down into four parts. 
    With the help of my publisher, we have struck out redundancies which often occur in personal journals and eliminated digressions which the elderly Todesfall was guilty of doing when his mind would stray from the story and wander unchecked into the intervening years.  Faren Church’s was the least polished of the narratives, because his was a hasty account left on tape and required more extensive editing. 
    For the remainder, we have left well enough alone.  The chronicles accurately tell the whole story without additional enhancement.

By Byron Craft
Several years ago I took a break from my daily routine and hid in the second story of my uncle’s barn.  In the loft was an old bentwood chair next to a short stack of hay bales.  The hay served as a first-rate ottoman and on other occasions a makeshift desk.  I wasn’t there to work that day, but to escape.

I made myself comfortable in the bentwood and to sustain my vigil I brought along a bag of Fritos, a bottle of Pepsi and a copy of H.P. Lovecraft’s, The Case of Charles Dexter Ward.  If you are not familiar with the work, it is one of HPL’s Cthulhu mythos masterpieces.  It is a short novel, around 51,000 words, set in Lovecraft’s hometown of Providence, RI.

The novel tells the story of young Charles Dexter Ward, who becomes embroiled in the past, due to his fascination with the history of his wizard ancestor, Joseph Curwen.  Ward physically resembles Curwen, and attempts to duplicate his ancestor's alchemical feats, eventually locating Curwen’s remains and resurrecting him.  The soul of the dead relative reached out of its grave of two centuries and fastens itself on the flesh of Charles Dexter Ward.  Joseph Curwen murders and replaces his modern descendant so he can resume his evil activities.

I was engrossed in the story.  There was no electricity in the old structure but, it was around noon, and the ambient light was sufficient to read by.  Behind me, located in the gable end of the barn, was a plywood door about three feet wide by six feet tall.  My uncle would use it to load farming supplies through it like a second story loading dock.  The door had been left open.  A cool spring breeze blew in.

My imagination was totally absorbed in the narrative when the resurrected Joseph Curwen eerily first appears behind the main protagonist of the tale.  At that precise moment, in my reading, the wind picked up outside and the plywood door behind me slammed shut with a loud bang.  The Fritos, the Pepsi and I became airborne.  Like Joseph Curwen, Howard Phillips Lovecraft had reached up from his grave and scared the living crap out of me.