He clicked the analog recorder on. “Entry one, March thirty-first, twenty-one-oh-two. This is Doctor Aloysius Roetigen. Though I was not supposed to, I have brought back a rather unusual specimen from the Nairobi excavation site. Clearly not belonging to the indigenous peoples, and not of anything surrounding them. Its structure is that of some form of crystalline-like substance that I have not seen any analog to here on Earth. I will have to consult Dr. Milner on possible extra-planetary sources of the material. As for tool marks, I have not discovered any. It seems to have been molded via erosion or some other method that we do not have the means to detect as of right now.”

  He clicked the button again to stop the recording. Picking up the skull, he turned it in his hand. He could see himself, though distorted, in its glistening surface. The brilliant lilac particularly intrigued him. “Who knows what mysteries you hold. If only I could get you to talk.” He returned it to its spot on the desk.

  It was small, about the size of a melon. He kept gazing at it—unable to draw himself away from it without great effort. When he was finally able to, his chronometer showed him that he had been staring at the skull for thirty minutes or so. His head swam.

  Dr. Roetigen picked up his recorder again, switched it on. “I believe I may have caught something in Kenya. I should get checked up.” He turned it off and put it on his desk. He rose and left his study for bed.

  He did not sleep well. His sickness had gotten worse as he slept, and his mind was assaulted by fever dreams of shadowy figures and impossible geometry. The bed was soaked.

  He shook himself free of the grasp of shock. “I must see someone about this sickness.” He grabbed his glasses and left the room. He brewed himself a cup of coffee, watching the weather turn outside his window. “Not sure if I can get a doctor out this far from New Heidelberg in this weather. It’ll have to wait until it clears up.” He sipped his drink and felt better.

  When he finished breakfast, he went back to the study. When he touched the skull, he noticed that it felt warm to the touch. Grabbing his journal, he noted this down and made digital backups of his notes. He continued his observations throughout the day until it was time for dinner. He put his pen down and closed his book. When he stood, he thought he saw something. The corner of his room, where his bookshelf met the wall, looked off. Like the two had melted together into one smooth and shallow angle.

  Roetigen thought nothing of it. He had been staring at a reflective surface for hours, and his eyes would need some time to readjust to reality. He put it out of his mind and left the study and walked down to his kitchen. When he arrived, his home computer had already prepared a simple dinner of pork and potato soup for him. It tasted sour to him. He made a mental note to get that checked out when the weather cleared as well.

  Despite his feelings, he finished his meal and returned to his study. He picked up his commlink and punched in the key-tone for Dr. Milner—his friend kept odd hours and would be up at this time.

  The screen was filled with the well-fed face of Dr. Milner. “Good evening. Did you get my communique about my Nairobi artifact?” The screen buzzed a bit as the connection dipped and returned. “Ah, yes. A beautiful specimen. From how you described it, I believe it might be something akin to Moldavite. If so, then you have found something truly special. Have you discovered anything new regarding it?” Dr. Roetigen slumped in his chair. “Nothing. It doesn’t even resemble any creature that Dr. Atachi has on record!”

  “I doubt that. He’s never met an animal he doesn’t have stuffed in his hovel.” Roetigen shook his head. “He doesn’t have this one.” Both of the men paused. Roetigen’s eyes caught the glimpse of something behind Milner. It moved slowly in the light shadows behind him. He continued to follow it as Dr. Milner rattled off about the weather preventing him from coming over any time soon.

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  The shadow flowed in the background for a few moments more, and then it vanished into nothing. Roetigen’s eyes dropped and he felt himself slipping into deep thought. He was brought back by Milner. “Are you feeling well enough for me to visit the day after tomorrow? You do look a slight bit ill.” Dr. Roetigen assured his friend that he would be well enough for the visit. They said their farewells and the screen went dark.

  He lounged back in his chair and pushed himself to his drink cabinet. He made a simple mix of scotch, lemon, and mint. He did not drink it quickly, only sipping on it over the next hour as he continued his writing.

  He kept seeing shadows in his peripheral vision. He rationalized it as his sickness, the alcohol enhancing the delusions that surrounded him. But the shadows progressed to more permanent spots of darkness around the room with occasional whispers that came from nowhere.

  He knew that some mental illnesses could cause such hallucinations, and he saw no reason why an exotic disease couldn’t either. His body felt fine, it was just his mind. It was his mind that made him look at the skull. No matter how many times he tried to keep focused on his book, he felt himself jerking upwards to it. It consumed his mind.

  He slammed his book closed and stood from his chair. Making another drink, he gulped it down, and then another, and another. He had to make himself sleep. He had to get away from his work for a night and relax, his mind was starting to slip.

  Unable to make it to his bed, he passed out on the floor of his study.

  When he woke up, he had to rip his face free from the floor. He slept in a puddle of his own drool. Running his hands through his hair and over his face, he tried to piece together what had happened last night. He only got slippery fragments of himself jumping at shadows. It was still a monsoon outside, and he would not see another person until at least tomorrow. The isolation was draining him.

  He tried to stand, and managed to with only minor stumbling. The chronometer told him that he had slept almost an entire day. A noise grabbed his attention and he turned to look at the corner of his study.

  He froze. Entirely engrossed in the corner of his room. It warped. The edges of everything in his view intersected. His mind reached for the language of physics, though it refused to fit. Those geometric models were too simple. It was not psychedelic, it was malevolent. All colors in his view were drained into an ever-expanding void at the non-existent concurrence of the walls.

  As the non-color spread, the center of the mass darkened—deeper than the richest black. He fell to the ground and tried to scramble away from the corner. He bumped into his desk and knocked books, papers, and the skull onto himself. The skull landed in his lap. It looked at him, and its featureless face had gained a rigid smile—he did not remember it having teeth, let alone a mouth.

  He screamed, but did not move. He no longer looked at the corner, but at the skull now. He thought it was now trying to speak to him, that its teeth had started to part.

  While he had looked at the skull, the emanation—the thing from the nth dimension—encroached upon him. It was nipping at his heels now. It reached out to him, to the skull—not a hand, but an appendage of some sort—it enveloped the skull and the formless mass shifted around it. The skull ceased to be a separate object.

  Dr. Milner entered his friend’s study. It was as neat as it had always been kept, but he could not find Dr. Roetigen anywhere in the house. He had not received any message or postponement of their meeting. He did not find the skull either.

  All he found was the journal on Dr. Roetigen’s desk. It was filled with strange symbols and languages he had never seen before.