ANACREON, son of Praxis, son of Pharpetron, sacristan at the great temple of Minerva in the mist-haunted city of Argos, was the only person--apart from Sardæa the high priestess, of course--who knew of the existence of the night-monster which lurked in the bowels of the temple complex, and even that knowledge came by sheer happenstance.
 Anacreon first saw the creature in the rearmost section of the temple library, where Gnæus Pompilius's thirty-volume history of Argos slowly decayed on the shelves, unconsulted for decades; the sacristan made it a point of honor to dust all the books and scrolls, no matter how neglected, once a week.  He had just turned the corner, his large ostrich feather-duster in hand, when suddenly he came face-to-face with a gaunt, loathesome and cadaverous parody of the human form, crouching in the shadows at the end of the shelves with a volume of Pompilius's turgid opus clutched in a pale, bony and excessively long-fingered hand.  Paralysed with panic horror, Anacreon gaped up at the withered, shadowy face of the monster, whose huge green eyes dilated to a stygian black as it hissed at him---the next thing the sacristan was aware of was a hoarse animal screaming, and the fat, anxious face of Acolyte Dionus peering down at him.  Anacreon was lying flat on his back, and the screams were issuing from his own throat!
 With a silken rustle of samite and the heady perfume of holy incense, Sardæa herself arrived on the scene; she knelt at the side of the abashed Anacreon, who struggled to sit upright: "Serenity, forgive me!  I-I was...that is, I saw I know not what---"
 "Leave us," the high priestess intoned, and Dionus quickly ushered the gathering priests and scribes out of the many-pillared annex; frosty and serene, Sardæa rose to her feet, and the sacristan scrambled to stand before her, bowing low.
 "You have seen Nos-Phar-Atu, my son; never speak of what you saw to anyone, and all will be well."
 "That name sounds Ægyptian, Serenity!  Merciful Minerva, was it a...a mummy?"
The high priestess bestowed one of her dry, semi-annual smiles on the frazzled Anacreon; "He is older by far than that...the only survivor of Atlantis's fall, Nos-Phar-Atu was a cursed ancient even in that ancient epoch.  His sarcophagus was uncovered and his evil awakened when the foundations of this temple were laid, six hundred and fourteen years ago."
 Anacreon gawped at Sardæa, who shrugged one shoulder; "You are doubtless aware of how Minerva Divine commanded the erection of this sanctuary?" she asked the sacristan, who nodded; "In the dream which she sent to King Ossichre of glorious memory, her cryptic command went thus: 'Build me a house where the Cursed One can hide; in safety for all, in the shadows abide.' He will harm no one, as long as he is left alone; knowledge is all he seeks.  Swear never to speak of this, never to seek him out, never to think of his presence."
 Anacreon made haste to swear, his folded hands between the high priestess's elegant fingers, and three years went by without further incident, though the sacristan was hard put to obey the last part of his vow.  A bit of a bookworm himself, with an abiding curiosity about The Lost Times of old, he could not help wondering what mysteries and riddles Nos-Phar-Atu could reveal, if questioned; the very notion of approaching such a weird and awful creature, however, made him cold to the marrow of his bones.  The memory of that ghastly shape, those repellant and baleful eyes, came still to the sacristan in dreams every now and again, waking him in the dead of night with a veritable frisson of horror...and yet, the temptation to make communication with a living source of such elder lore beckoned to Anacreon, until at last an idea entered his head.
 One night, he lingered in his duties until the last of the acolytes withdrew to their cloisters; with great deliberation, Anacreon sat at the desk nearest the library entrance and wrote a brief missive to Nos-Phar-Atu, apologizing for their unseemly meeting three years earlier and requesting, in the most gracious and obsequious terms, a more friendly interview at the night-monster's convenience, if Nos-Phar-Atu chose; "For you alone can convey to the present generation all the glories and splendors you have seen in your time, only you can reveal that wondrous knowledge which the remorseless centuries have swallowed up.  This I humbly beg, not for my own gratification, but for the enlightenment of generations to come."
 Signing his name, the sacristan rolled up the parchment, sealed it with the blood-red wax of the temple scribes, and inserted the scroll between two volumes of the long-forgotten history of Argos in the stacks where he had first seen the immortal creature; Anacreon then made haste to depart, praying that no one but Nos-Phar-Atu would find the letter, and half-hoping in spite of all that even the creature would not discover it there.
 Nevertheless, each morning for a week thereafter, Anacreon would find some pretext or other for strolling to the back of the shelves and peering into that lonely corner--and for seven mornings he would see his message protruding between the larger, cobweb-crusted volumes of the unreadable history...but on the eighth day it was gone, and the sacristan's blood ran cold!
 He rushed into the aisle and peered between the volumes; there was no mistake, it was gone--but whether it had been found by the monstrous lurker in the temple, or by one of threescore scribes and priests, Anacreon dared not speculate.  He was further unsettled later that day by the unannounced visit of high priestess Sardæa to the library annex; but Her Serenity made no sign or word that she knew aught of the violation of his vow to her and to the Goddesss.  The ninth day came and departed, and two nights more, and Anacreon's nerves began to settle as he went about his tedious duties, until the next morning he came to his cell in the portico of the temple complex and gasped to behold his own message lying on his desk, neatly tucked in among his papers!
 Sinking down on his stool, the sweating sacristan gingerly unrolled the scroll, glancing hurriedly over the words of his humble letter: at the bottom, just beneath his signature, three words were scrawled in a thin, spidery hand.

                                 

Meet Me Tonight...

 

The rest of that day seemed to blur by with horrible alacrity; unable to eat his evening meal, Anacreon left the temple refectory and wandered, trying to avoid the library yet compelled ever nearer to it as the sun vanished in a blue-black shroud of deepest night.  There was no moon, and the sacristan bitterly regretted ever penning that presumptuous missal as he plodded with leaden steps to his rendezvous.
 The library annex was hideously silent as he finally entered, a brass oil-lamp in his tremulous hand; gulping deep breaths, Anacreon steeled himself and tiptoed through the shelves, the skin on the back of his neck crawling--he fancied he could hear the sibilant rustle of withered feet on the marble floor, and once he started, nearly dropping his lamp, when a scroll fell from the shelf just behind him, smacking his right heel as he crept along.  It took all his will not to scream then, but for a moment he longed to bolt headlong out of the library, to run to the sanctuary where Sardæa meditated until midnight and beg for her forgiveness and protection.
 "No!" he admonished himself, biting his lip.  "I want to learn all I can from this creature...history stands to be vastly enriched by this interview, and surely Minerva Divine cannot but smile on this enterprise, made in the name of knowledge and learning!"  So resolved, the sacristan strode with renewed purpose to the rearmost shelves, and stood nervously yet with a growing sense of anticipation by the long-neglected history of Gnæus Pompilius, waiting for the arrival of Nos-Phar-Atu.
 An hour crawled by, and still another, in uncanny silence; Anacreon's fear and excitement gradually turned to doubt and disappointment.  Had the centuries of solitude made Nos-Phar-Atu as fearful of this meeting as the sacristan?  Anacreon gnawed at his lips, debating whether to wait an hour more or to depart, when with unnerving suddenness there came a rustle of moldy shrouds, and the spectre loomed before him, green eyes glittering in the flickering flame of the lamp.
 For a ghastly eternity they stood, man and unnatural immortal, staring at each other, until finally the withered lips of Nos-Phar-Atu parted and a pale, wormlike tongue flicked forth; "Ask what you will," creaked a voice too dry and timbreless to be any longer human.
 Anacreon's throat constricted--he opened his mouth, but no words issued forth, and the spectre glared at him, drawing menacingly nearer, step by step.
 "Ask....ask quickly...my deathless hunger grows!" hissed Nos-Phar-Atu, beckoning to the terrified sacristan with long, taloned fingers.
 "I...I...how old are you?" squeaked Anacreon, his legs turning to jelly; the night-monster's parody of a face twisted, dark gray drool spooling from its mouth as the leathery lips drew back, baring ancient fangs.
 "FOOL!" snarled Nos-Phar-Atu, and in a swirl of dank, fetid shrouds the creature was gone.  
 Anacreon collapsed, dropping his lamp; with a scream that pierced every corner of the library annex, the hysterical sacristan ran, blundering into shelf after shelf until he was hopelessly lost in the labyrinth of learning with which he should have been content--and as he flailed in the blackness, Anacreon wailed as he heard and smelt the foul approach of the eldritch creature whose solitude he had profaned, and whose monstrous hunger he had aroused; "MINERVA!  HELP MEEEE," the sacristan wailed, hearing the flap of obscene feet running up close behind him---
 There came a sudden flare of golden fire, and lo! Sardæa the high priestess stood before him, a torch held high in her right hand; "O, Serenity! forgive me...f-forgive me," blubbered Anacreon, groveling at her feet.
 "There is no need, my son," her cold gentle voice replied, balm to his ears; as he gazed through tears of relief, she added, "You did no more than was expected of you...rest in peace now, and know that you have done great service to this sanctuary."
 As the sacristan blinked in bewilderment, Sardæa gazed past him: "You may feast now, Ancient One," and Anacreon had time for but one last shriek as Nos-Phar-Atu pounced on his back, gnawing into his victim's jugular with ghastly, gruesome relish.

 Dionus, son of Eliozar, son of Dionus, was sacristan at the great temple of Minerva for six years when he became the only person--apart from Sardæa the high priestess, of course--who knew of the existence of a night-monster and its presence within the shadowed cloisters of the temple complex.....