Jim spoke the words which he had just scribbled upon the envelope, there was a blinding flash and thunder, like a gun had been fired beside his ear. He could not hear anything–except a low, unmusical pinging. Tangled blue lightning ran along the tram cables above the street before striking the ground at his feet, his boots glowed and sparks spat from their soles. The Ritual was over. Jim’s hearing returned–screams and racing footsteps–as panic overwhelmed the fleeing pedestrians, “Jesucristo, huir!” Bewildered, he looked around the, now, empty street. Scattered on the sidewalk were newspapers, an umbrella, a still smoking pipe, a ladies shoe and a lantern and flask-like canister.
The lad walking towards Jim suffered from a nervous tic, one half of his face had dropped and the other twitched, his eyebrow seemingly trying to hide in his untidy fringe.
“Mister,” he said in heavily accented English, “I am a student at the university. It has a copy of the,” he looked behind himself, back down the street, “Necromonicon.”
“I’ve heard of it,” answered Jim, wondering what it was about himself that attracted oddballs.
“If you share what you know, I will, in exchange, share what I have learned.”
Jim doubted the student’s story. “I’m sorry, Pedro, but I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about.”