My name is John Doe, the name used when the authorities cannot identify a male that goes through the system. Usually an unknown dead man, or someone who doesn’t know who they are. Why my parents named me as an unknown person is, strangely, unknown to me. They died in a “tragic accident” when I was young; what that accident was, I never knew. The only thing I found out about my parents was that my father was some sort of professor at the local university and my mother was a poet. Other than that, they are a complete mystery.
I try to cast my mind back to my early days before the orphanage, but it is just a hazy cloud without any distinct details. I see shadows moving in my mind, rooms without color or detail, gatherings that waver in mists I cannot penetrate. My early memories lack any color or substance in my mind, a canvas of an old master without the paint of color.
I would look at the mirror in our dorm room and try to imagine what my life would have been like, what my parents might look like in those early dark years. I was blond and blue-eyed, a full mouth, a couple inches over five foot with a rather skinny frame. I was bookish, not athletic, and in that awkward stage where the body and mind are trying to find themselves. Did I tend more toward my mother or father? It was a question I couldn’t answer of course, but it was a question that wouldn’t leave my mind. I desperately wanted to fill in that dark canvas with the light of color.
I ended up at the Arkham Orphanage where I grew into a young man. I don’t have any horror stories of the orphanage; all of my teachers and caretakers were good people, loving and considerate and did the best that they could for me while I was in their care. When I turned eighteen years old and was leaving the orphanage, I found out that my parents had left a trust fund for me. It was a sizable amount, enough to allow me to go to the local university.
I had no real idea of my goal when I started my higher education, so I took some general classes and found out that I enjoyed the writing process and started looking at a liberal education. I enjoyed the humanities, especially literature and philosophy, and the writing arts. During that first year I was able to get a story published in the school paper and went on to publish a couple of stories in a national magazine. I leaned toward the weird side of fiction. I was fascinated by the stories of Ambrose Bierce and other writers of strange fiction and of the decadent movement. My own stories tended toward the strange side of fiction.
The university had an extensive library, and I spent much of my time in the quiet of the imposing Gothic structure listening to the stillness of the books. It was in that first year that I had the idea of investigating my history, a history that was still a mystery that I wanted, needed, to solve. I thought the best place to start my investigation would be newspaper articles and when I inquired about the library's back issues, I was taken to a large room in the bowels of the library where row upon row of large bound books held back-issues of the local newspaper, the Arkham Gazette. The books were arranged by year and month, and I was admonished by the librarian, an older lady with graying hair, silver glasses with a silver chain attached and hung around her neck, to be careful with the papers.
“Some of these pages are quite fragile,” she said sternly. She left me to my task and I stood for a long time just staring at the tall wooden shelves filled with what looked like an endless supply of books.
“Where to start?” I asked myself. After some thought, my birth year seemed to be a good starting point. Searching that decade from my birth to the time I entered the orphanage would narrow the search, and would be the most relevant. However, that still left a huge volume of paper to examine. I grabbed the first volume that had my birth year, sat down at the small table in the corner of the large room and started reading.
I was looking for any article that mentioned a “Doe” or a “tragic accident”, whatever that might be. It was a couple weeks and several hours of looking at endless copies of the Arkham Gazette when I came across an article that caught my eye. The date was October 14, 1924. That was almost the exact date I entered the orphanage. The headline was rather dramatic.
Unexplained Vanishing At West End Salon
Host John Smith and Seven Guests Missing Following Private Reading of
Proscribed Drama
The article was lengthy, and fascinating. As I read the opening paragraphs, a coldness crept over my body that I couldn’t explain.
ARKHAM, MASS. — Local authorities are faced with a mystery following the reported disappearance of eight individuals from a residence on French Hill late Sunday evening. The home, belonging to Mr. John Smith, a noted collector of rare manuscripts and amateur thespian, was found entirely vacant yesterday morning, despite neighbors reporting a "lively, if dissonant" gathering the night prior.
According to police reports, Mr. Smith had invited a small circle of acquaintances to his home for an intimate reading of the infamous play, The King in Yellow. While the work has long been whispered about in decadent circles and suppressed in several European capitals, Smith was known to have recently acquired a pristine, silk-bound copy of the second act, which he intended to debut for his peers.
What was this King in Yellow play the article mentioned? I had not heard anything about it during my studies, and that seemed strange. If the play had caused such a stir, surely it would have been mentioned at some point. This was my first year in university though, so maybe I would come across it in a later class.
Reading further, these paragraphs stood out to me.
Of the guests, only six have been identified thus far, including several prominent members of the Miskatonic University faculty and a local poet. Their coats and hats remained in the vestibule, suggesting that none of the party had prepared for the autumn chill outside.
Most disturbing to the authorities was a single piece of evidence found near the hearth: a pale, tattered scrap of yellow cloth that none of the household staff recognized. One officer remarked that the shadows in the room "seemed to hold a color that shouldn't exist," and several men refused to remain in the parlor for more than a few minutes.
The name, the date, it all seemed too bizarre to be real, and yet, there it was in faded black and white. What made my blood run cold was the mention of a poet, my mother was supposed to be a poet, and the missing members of this very university. My father was supposed to have been a professor. Was he among the missing members along with my mother? I did not know what to make of it. While the mystery was deeper than I had thought, the article did give me some leads. If my father was a faculty member, then there should be some record of him. The stern librarian might have some answers.
Mrs. Abernathy, as the name plate on the desk proclaimed, looked at me with steel gray eyes behind the silver-rimmed glasses. The chain around her neck glittered when she moved her head. I asked her about anyone named Doe who might have been a member of the faculty during the ‘20s. She tilted her head and studied me intently for a moment after I asked the question.
“Yes,” she finally said in a gravelly voice. “He was a professor of literature here.”
“Do you know what became of him?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” she said. “He left the university. I don’t know where he ended up.”
“He quit?” I asked.
“Well, I don’t think so,” she said slowly. I could see she was pulling up old memories from somewhere deep. “Not officially at least. He left one day and never came back.”
“What happened to him?” I asked.
“No one knows,” she said quietly. “He simply vanished.”
“Do you know anything about his wife?” I asked.
“Lovely lady,” Mrs. Abernathy said with a smile. “She was a poet. She read some of her work here at the university once. She gave me a signed copy of one of her books.”
“Is she still around?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” she said. “She vanished along with her husband. There were rumors that they went to Europe.”
“Did they have any children?” I asked.
She looked at me curiously again for a moment before speaking. “No, they were childless,” she said.
The unexpected response left me stunned. I stood for a moment staring at the librarian. How could this be?
“Are you sure?” I finally asked.
“Yes, quite sure,” Mrs. Abernathy said. “Mr. Doe once confided that his wife was unable to have children and the anguish was one of the sources of her poetry.”
I stood for a moment, not sure of what to make of this confident statement. It left me rattled.
“Are there any portraits of Mr. Doe?” I asked.
‘Yes,” she said. “All of the faculty must sit for a painting for the gallery on the second floor. It is a tradition here at the university.”
I had never actually been to the second floor of the library, and when I climbed the spiral staircase at the back of the library, I found myself in a large room with shelves of books and paintings on all the walls. I started to my left and proceeded down the wall until I came to a painting that had the name Harold Doe. I looked for a family resemblance but the man in the painting had black hair, green eyes and a Romanesque nose. None of my facial features.
I continued my investigations but found nothing more. I found no information regarding my mother, other than a book of poems written by Elizabeth Doe. The short biography on the back confirmed that she was the wife of a professor of literature and lived in Arkham, Massachusetts. I could find little information about the missing faculty members, other than there had been some sort of disagreement about a reading that was planned at the university and then was abruptly cancelled. What that reading consisted of, I never discovered.
When I inquired about the play, The King in Yellow, I was just given blank stares. The play was unknown, even though it had featured prominently in the news article. I could not find any reference to the play in any books, in any magazines or any subsequent news articles. The only reference was that one article. When I mentioned the play to my literature professor he just shrugged his shoulders and said he had never heard of it.
“It is mentioned in a newspaper article from 1924 where it was the subject of a reading at the home of a Mr. Smith,” I said. “Several faculty members attended the reading according to the article.”
“Mentioned in a news article?” Professor Johnston asked. “Interesting. I will have to look at that.”
A month later I went back to reread the article to see if I could glean any further details from it but I could not find the article. I remember the date clearly but the page that the article was on, was missing. I immediately went to the stern Mrs. Abernathy.
“A page from the October 14th 1924 Arkham Gazette is missing,” I told her. “It had an article about a reading from The King in Yellow play.”
“Is it?” She asked. “That is why I tell everyone to be careful with the newsprint. They are fragile, especially the older pages.”
“Would there be another copy?” I asked.
“No,” she said. “If it is gone, it is gone. The archive is all we have.”
The situation seemed odd to me, but the whole investigation was strange. I had reached a dead end, except for one final clue I could examine. The house itself. When I found the house, it was a proper Gothic mansion, quite a fitting place for the reading of a mysterious play. The front gate was locked up tight and when I inquired at city hall about the place, I was told that it had been vacant for years. The taxes were paid through a fund, and attempts to sell the house had been fruitless. I asked if I could tour the house but I was told that unless I was interested in buying the house, I could not enter the premises. Evidently some local urchins had broken into the house once and it had been sealed away after.
That ended my inquiries and my first year in university, and following a summer of mindless relaxation, I settled into the routine of a liberal education. I continued my writing while in college and was able to supplement my trust fund with income from selling stories. In my third year I wrote my first novel that debuted to pleasant reviews and sold moderately well. I stayed busy and graduated in the top third of my class and after I left the university, I rented a small apartment and continued my writing.
My third novel was my breakout and did well with both reviewers and readers. I was in a comfortable position financially, having both the trust fund and my writing income. I had never forgotten the mystery of my parents, the King in Yellow play nor the house on the West End. On a whim, I checked on the house at city hall. The house was still for sale, and I asked if I could tour the house as I was interested in buying it. I was told to meet the caretaker the next Tuesday at the gate and he would show me around the place.
The caretaker was an older man who carried himself with the strength of someone who was accustomed to a life of physical work. “So, you are interested in buying the place?” He asked me as he unlocked the gate.
“Yes, I am,” I said.
“It has been for sale for a long time,” he said, swinging open the door. “The house is in good shape despite its age.”
“You have been a caretaker here for a while?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said. “The city pays me to keep the grounds and the house.”
“Why is it still vacant?” I asked. “It is a beautiful example of classical Gothic architecture."
“People don’t like the feel of the place,” he said. “Not sure what the fuss is about. It is just a house.”
“I heard some disappearances took place here back in the twenties,” I said.
“I don’t know anything about that,” he said. “Feel free to take a look around. Come see me if you have any problems. I will be in the greenhouse.”
The house was a model of Gothic architecture. Tall vaulted ceilings, timber beams, with stone fireplaces scattered about in the Great Hall, dining hall and parlor. I walked around imagining Mr. Smith having a lively dinner with a dozen guests, a quiet evening by the main fireplace in the Great Hall, and reading the King in Yellow play in the library.
In the library, I stumbled upon a metal door with a small window. The room was painted in soft white, with a small writing desk, small single bed and small wardrobe. The desk had some pens, an inkwell, and a neat stack of blank paper. I sat at the desk and leaned back in the chair and closed my eyes. A quiet peace took hold of my heart. This place seemed like home. It was then I decided to buy the house.
I climbed the spiral staircase and looked into the many bedrooms along the long, carpeted hallway and found the master bedroom at the end of the hall. It was a huge space, with a large four-poster bed next to a small, but cozy stone fireplace. The bath area was to the right and had the usual tub and WC, but what caught my eyes was the spacious walk-in closet between the bed and the bathroom.
The space was filled with a large wardrobe, shelves and on one wall, a full-length mirror. I walked over to the mirror and examined my reflection. I was still that boy in the orphanage, just older and my hair was more sandy and less blond. Were the eyes a bit wiser? I couldn’t tell. I reached out and touched the reflection in the mirror, and felt a click. When I removed my hand, the mirror moved away from the wall just a tiny bit. I opened the mirror to reveal a secret compartment. Inside was a single item: a yellow, silk-bound book. I reached out and touched the book with trembling fingers. Gingerly, I picked up the book and opened the cover.
The preface to the book was written in a flowing, beautiful script that was somehow unnerving to gaze upon. I could not stop myself from reading the ominous invitation.
To The Seeker of the Mask and the Tattered Yellow Cloth
It is a common vanity to believe that the world we inhabit is the architecture of truth. We walk through the streets comforted by the solidity of stone and the predictable ticking of the clock. But you, who hold this silk-bound testament, have already begun to feel the fraying of the veil.You think you seek the meaning of this volume. What you do not yet realize is that this volume seeks you.
The First Act was merely a courtesy. A mask of normalcy designed to lull the spirit. It spoke of courtly intrigues, of Cassilda’s songs, and the youthful follies of the court at Yhtill. But the black suns of Carcosa do not rise upon the truth of this world, they rise upon the Truth, and the Truth is a tattered thing of Yellow.
Do not read these lines in the bright glare of the noon sun. Wait for the dimming of the light, when the shadows stretch toward the horizon like grasping fingers and turn an unnatural shade of color. A color not of this world. When the Yellow Sign begins to burn behind your eyelids, do not turn away. You are but moments from the Truth. The King is waiting.
I closed the cover with shaking hands and replaced the yellow book, the silk feeling cold under my fingers. I quickly closed the mirror and left the house, but the house would not leave me. I purchased the house; I didn’t have a choice.
As I sit at the desk in the writing room, surrounded by the comforting white walls, I can see him standing at the window of the door out of the corner of my eye. I don’t look at him directly; I must not. He wants me to read the yellow, silk-bound book, to visit the Lake of Hali and to enter the Court of Yhtill. I cannot and yet I must. Surely that leads to madness. A madness I can feel in the dark corners of my mind, in the shadows that don’t look the proper color and in dreams of a mist-filled lake under rising moons, and a white sky with black stars. I see him now, the white mask at the door looking at me, always looking, always looking. He is calling me to see the Truth. The truth of madness.
