At the moment, I understand that I must have agreed with him, I must have thought we shared some common ground. A love of the literature of the occult enables a certain comradery, to be sure; but often, upon closer examination, ones fellow travellers can acquire a certain agency which can only lead to doubt. And while the figure of M. Halberstom itself seemingly lent no credence to any variety of abnormal or supernatural fear, I must tell you of the occurrence of the brief intrusion he made into my life, and of the trouble it has brought to my mind and body these long seven years since he was last seen upon this earth.

That night I first met him in the drawing room of the Biltwell, sitting alone in the vacant book-lined study, he had seemed distant, aloof, turned inward with that temperament which arises often from youth trapped early on in the life of the ascetic. He had with him a briefcase which overflowed volumes, books and tomes of unknown genesis and inflection, which he protectively shielded with his legs at all times. I admit, I may have seemed an annoyance at first to the man; I was somewhat drunk, having just that day closed a large business deal with another American importer, and the glee of success was in my veins. Its not that I haven't at times been made acutely aware of the perceptions of those for whom such areas as business have always seemed a pedantic, lowly form of human endeavor; but while M. Halberstom exhibited a certain vexation early on at my behavior, as the night moved into the darker hours and my inebriation became dulled by sobrieties onset, he seemed almost driven to communicate some thought or pension which had grown in him of old.

The fire in the hearth had dimmed to a hot bed of ashy embers when our discussion, which had previously been confined to the area of world politics, seemed to take on a different bent, circumnavigating the world of the commonplace and ordinary. The topic of the American Poe's recent publication of works had come up, and we had been praising his efforts.

"His penchant?" I replied to his statement, a little confused. "Yes. However, I feel that Poe, while a great literary salesman of arcane knowledge, is not himself an avid participant in the practice." Halberstom said, reclining into his chair with a certain satisfaction born of the power of conviction.

"But certainly, you cant believe the man merely a passive scholar," I replied in protest.

"I hold, he does not have the deportation of one in whom the desire rests. No, Poe is a victim of his beliefs, a haunted, frightened man seeking escape, surrender." Halberstom leaned in close to me, the sweet scent of his smoking tobacco filling my nostrils. "There are those of us for whom the occult is a science, a thing to be studied, a thing which may be useful." Leaning back, his face grimaced in thought, he seemed to reach a decision.

"Here, look at these," he spoke in a low monotone, pulling a small leather-bound booklet from his voluminous satchel. Holding out in front of him the book, he opened it to expose rows upon rows of sepia-toned photographs.

"My passion, my future," he said to me, indicating the photos. "Fire, flame... have you ever examined the phenomena?" The photographs were fuzzy shapes of glowing flickers categorized through some confusing method. Some of the photos had measurements, writing scribbled upon them, markings of dimension and Grecian symbology.

"No, I cannot truthfully say I have," I replied.

"For each humour, a flame exists. Some are cold, bluish... others, red, ripe." he spoke, indicating the variety with his finger.

"We live in a world consumed by fire, though we see it not. For every person, a flame exists. it is the will of Rycgleh B'buneth."

Shutting the book with a snap, he put it quickly away, as if he had said too much. Sitting back, he puffed on his pipe, breathing in confidence with the smoke.

"Poe is a plagiarist, feeding off the work of a true class of men," Halberstom spoke, his voice singed with derision. I sat silent, feeling unable to restore the jocularity which the earlier evening had promised. I could not understand the mans sudden aggressive turn. Before, he had been disarmingly unopinionated, showing signs of a brilliant analytic mind. But now, it was as if he was nothing more than a child at a grammar school competition. His posture had lapsed into a sullenness I felt I could not penetrate. Realizing this, plus the lateness of the hour and my present, headthrobbing condition, I climbed unsteadily to my feet and begged his leave.

His head lifted, and his shadowed eyes glinted with the glow of the fire in the heath, reflecting his own, harsh coldness. Feeling in my vest pocket, I withdrew my card and offered it to him, asking him to give me a call if ever he was in the area. Reluctantly he reiterated the social action, handing me his own; he was from the North-Hamptonship, the large town of Terusbury, a city I frequently passed through.

The raised lettering on the card featured an insignia depicting a flame bisected by a wide, staring eye.

Once more thanking him for his company, I retired to my rooms, where I collapsed in a chair in front of a warm fire. My feet rested contentedly in a pair of mink slippers my manservant had thoughtfully left out for me, along with a honeyed brandy. Reclining thus, I drifted off into sleep, lulled by the alcohol, and the flickering of the weaving flames.

A year later, I had the pleasure of passing through Terusbury on a slow vacation. My business had been flourishing lately, and I was enjoying my wealth. Remembering the strange man, I called upon the address of his card. Set in a tiny brownstone in a rather rutty neighborhood, the strangeness of our discussion allowed me to endure the setting, in order to better satiate my curiosity. It was a plain enough door, with a strangely ornate iron knocker set upon its faded surface.

I rapped heavily, hesitating, and rapped again. The sound of disturbance came from within, and suddenly I felt I may have exercised bad judgement in dropping by so unexpectedly. However, soon I heard footsteps approach, and the door cracked open. I must say, I did not recognize the person whom confronted me, the change since our last meeting being so dramatic.

He had lost the healthy rosy hue upon his face, which now resembled a whitish, puckish worm. It had shrunken incredibly, exposing the very bones of his skull, and a heavy stubble grew upon his chin. He must not have noticed my expression of shock, for he seemed convivial enough, upon my introduction. He remembered the time and date to the place and welcomed me in as best he could. His body was implausibly thin and bent, and he seemed to walk with a slight limp.

It came as no surprise to me that he was in such a condition, for when my eyes had adapted to the dim light, it was obvious he lived in an extreme poverty. Objects were piled high upon themselves, creating tall mountains of dusty shapes, threatening to fall and crush one at any moment. I saw no evidence of a kitchen, only scattered dry breads and mouldy cheeses, lain about at random.

He quickly moved to clear a place for me to sit, and he himself merely crouched down opposite me. His nervousness set me on edge, but I did not question him about his current status, or what must have befallen him, wishing instead merely to discover for myself in what ways the depths of his fall might manifest themselves in his character. I told him a little of the success of my work, which seemed to agitate his nervousness.

"So you've done well in business, then? Good, good," he spoke. "Business... that is well and good. And more markets must merge, it is a time when things... things will go much more smoothly... yes, yes, when the time arrives it will alleviate certain... problems... yes.."

"But surely, M. Halbestom, and it will be a much more prosperous future, one in which everybody can afford the fruits of labour and commerce..." I said, trying to imply to him that he, too, needn't live in such squalor. But it seemed to offend him, whether out of nihilism or what, I was unsure.

"The future?" he said, as if hearing me for the first time.

"Of course, the future... yes, science is wonderful, insofar as it is correctly revealed... but, when the time arrives, you must see that, you must see... which forces manifest. The future, you must know, you must see it, there are ways..."

He was making no sense to me, his speech reflected the jumpy quality of his agitated character.

"Listen, you are a man I know shares certain... interests." He leaned in close to me, rocking on his heels. "My research, my work in the past, it is coming together now. I know this mess, I know it seems a mess, but time is short, and progress rests itself infrequently. Knowledge, certainly it is a flame upon the heels, it is knowledge which burns, but... there are forces, forces which work against its acquisition... time... time must be devoted to it, sacrificed..." He put his head in his hands, rubbing the dark bags around his eyes.

"If you could see what I have seen, you would understand, but I fear you are not among the initiated, that you have been waylaid by numerous enemies... perhaps, the Eye... I, myself have managed to escape its gaze, though I know it searches tirelessly... no. My research must not be stamped out."

I felt then that he had truly degenerated psychologically, that he was not a well man. But had I not seen what I had later witnessed, I would have merely pitied him, I would merely have experienced that liberal despair which so easily turns to conservative fear when confronted with the deepest of mental and physical poverty.

"What then is this research you mention?" I asked. "Last we met, you informed me you were interested in fire, and flame."

He looked upon me with suspicion, as if he could not tell if I were trustworthy enough.

"You... well, yes. My research... it goes well, very well. I am almost at the end, but I do not know if it is soon enough... I fear the Eye has sought me out." Here, I recall, he grabbed my hands with an inhuman strength, as if he was pleading for his life. "I am afraid" he whispered, looking around the small apartment furtively with fear in his eyes.

"You... you must help me. A penny, a morsel of food, anything..."

I felt deeply ashamed, but of course I handed him a ten pound note, which he slipped into his ratty pocket as if it was a bribe.

"Thank you, thank you. We must supplement, join forces... it would perhaps be better if.." but he soon changed his mind, his thought left unfinished like so many of his others.

"So you wish to know how I have been doing, do you? Well, how shall I explain," he spoke almost to himself, pacing the room. It had gotten very dark, so he stopped to light a strange lantern upon a pile of books.

I was not sure how he lit it, for I did not see a match on any kind, or a mechanical means of igniting it, but the light was extraordinary, filling the room with an even, diffuse glow. I had to blink my eyes against the brilliance, which resembled that of a sunny day. Even the poverty of the surroundings seem to shrink away, pushed back by the light into tiny crevices of shadow. He presently resumed his animated conversation.

"The personality of character has always intrigued me greatly... the varieties seemed as numerous as those of the animals upon the earth... but my studies took me deep into... they opened my eyes to certain... histories, certain powers which were at work upon us, which have been with us since time immaterial... soon, they will integrate, but I will maintain... no. Come here, look," he gestured, grabbing a large volume from some forgotten pile, almost as if at random. He pushed it into my face, my hands, trembling with a restrained excitement as he did so.

"Open it! Open it! Perhaps... I remember showing you my previous research, but that, that was nothing! I have made great strides recently... yes, it is all coming together..."

I opened the book. Once again, as I recalled seeing the other photo-album, so was this one the same in nearly every respect... except the photos were... how can I say this, and beleive it? They were, well, colored. It was truly amazing. If it was possible, why, it would revolutionize everything! How he achieved it without lithography I am uncertain, but these were no printed matter.

It wasn't just that they were apparently colored photographs which I beheld, though. There was a certain light, it shone from within the pictures themselves, a stunning translucence which seemed to radiate from within them, and I swear... though perhaps it was attributable to the odd lantern... I swear that the images themselves... well, shifted. Moved almost imperceptibly under my gaze.

I must have gasped in amazement, for his face seemed to relax, something of a smile appeared. I felt honored, and he recognized it, and to this day I imagine I may very well have been the first to see such upon this earth... and although photographic science has been advancing quite steadily in the direction of sepia-tones and minutely hand colored reproductions, I have yet to see anything so vivid and full of... life. Again, I hesitate to say it, but I am as positive as any man can be expected that those pictures also moved.

What were they of, you ask? The same as before... an impossible classification system of every variant of flame imaginable. The blue humour of sanguinity, the yellow and blackish variants of bilious humours, and of course the predominant blood red with its millions of different shades. Each was accompanied by multiple scrawlings, mostly in Latin, some equations, and various occult symbols very few of which I recognized.

When I shut the book, I praised him. I could not help myself. The excitement which the technical prowess engendered in me was a flood let loose, thousands of uses to which it could be brought to bear filled my head like the hairbrained schemes of a crazed inventor. But he seemed, as I talked and talked, to grow sullen, resentful. I slowly became aware of the effect of my words and stopped talking.

"I don't think you understand my work at all. Those are nothing, those are mere laboratory tools. My research extends far beyond that. Don't you see? The Final Times are upon us, the reach of the Power of Flame is everywhere splitting, diffusing, working its way throughout society, turning man to its uses! They do not see, those people out there, the crowds of hungry, dirty people... they each have a flame, a condition... controlled, controllable by forces... when my research is finalized, I can consume them all in the mighty profligration promised by Azgathuth and the Elders... consume and purify, for nature has debased itself... it is in the history of the flame, it is written there, and I have discovered it!"

"Surely, that is not the case," I responded, overwhelmed by my excitement. "These are not dirty crowds out there, they are people who depend upon men of science like you! Daily, I supply them with their bread, I lead them to your creations, I.. i... " I stopped, overcome.

I don't know what possessed me to imagine that I could convince him... I was nothing to him, perhaps an illusory human companion he believed in momentarily, locked in, alone with his studies. He sat back upon his haunches, silent, glaring at me with a most bilious hatred, his eyes twin beacons of a primal disgust.

My jaw must have dropped, I must have had a lack of belief upon my face, which deformed like wet putty under the terrifying age leaping from those eyes. The timelessness of his emotion leaked from every pore of his body, and spread to the room.

The strange lamp seemed to suddenly emenate black, I don't know how to describe it. It was as if the light was... not light, but the absence of light in which everything could still be seen. The whole incident could not have lasted for more than a second, for his expression abruptly changed to one of contempt. Perhaps he could have disposed of me there and then; I am almost sure of it. But the lamp and the room quickly swam back into normalcy, everything unchanged and as it was... except me. I was changed inside, to this very day.

The derision swelled in his face and his bearing. He stood up and, moving at me very quickly so that I ducked, afraid he would do me harm, grabbed at books and piles of scribbled notes and minerals and glass beakers, pulling them down in a monstrous avalanche which I barely avoided by quickly moving away from the wall he soon exposed.

"Look, you, if you are the Eye, I care not if you see... I am done, and you can learn about nought but your own death! Here!" he glared, thrusting open a huge ornately carved panel previously concealed by the volumes of junk.

Hundreds of occult and astrological symbols decorated the doors, a gigantic web impossible to look at, its surface moving and twisting as if covered by a million small worms. But behind it, behind it lay my fear, the reason for my present condition, and the reason I have not left my room since.

Hundreds... no, thousands, innumerable millions of tiny bottles lined shelves and racks which seemed to extend backwards into infinity, into the darkness. Illuminated as if by shattered mirrors it resembled an army of soldiers, individual, yet somehow combined into a great whole, a massive beast with an unrecognizable conscience and the consciousness of an inferno... the lights came from tiny flames, each bottle containing a different shape, size, hue, color and intensity. Each flame was sealed completely in its bottle, yet continued to burn, labeled with an infitesimally small arcane symbol burning with its own colored light.

I profess that, even then, I still resisted the strength of my impressions. I did not believe. Perhaps it was shock, a common response in times of stress, but that does not matter now.

He watched me as I stood there entranced, his face showing only the coldest appreciation of my reactions. Turning to the terrible cabinet, he hesitated, looking, searching for what, I could not tell. Eventually, he found it, extracting a long, thin rack which extended far out into the room.

Running his fingers down the multiple rows of the fire-bottles, he quickly plucked out one which contained a single, bluish purple flame. Holding it in his hand, he lifted it, gazing through the glass with what must have been a smile, the smile of a god, the smile of contempt beyond worldly ken.

He threw it at me, as if to see if I would catch it or not, which I barely could manage... I was afraid of dropping it then, but I could not have known what the effect would be... I had no idea. It may have only been luck that I caught it... perhaps, perhaps. But it is useless to worry about the past, an endless pit from which one never escapes. Could I have... but what if... useless questions, forever unanswered.

But the bottle. I held it in my hands, and I held myself, becoming afraid. Inside, the flame... I knew it was me. Within its contained, flickering light, images of my past and present burned onward, twisting and distorting into the myriad components of what I was... an entire universe contained within that tiny, fragile vessel. I do not know how he did it, I know only that he had. It continued to flicker, matching the very synchronicity of my thoughts and emotions, and I know that if I had looked hard enough, if I had been brave, I could have seen into the future also... but I was afraid.

Soon, as I stood hypnotized, entranced, he must have grabbed the bottle quickly from my grasp. He barely looked at me, I was nothing more than a worm, perhaps not even alive... and then replaced the bottle, closing the drawer with an efficient snap, swinging shut the big double doors... I imagine that the memory is my own...

After that, I cannot remember. He must have shown me the door, I must have found my way to some small opium den around the corner. There is only a drunken, drug-induced haze over my memory, resisting all attempts at recollection... it is only when I found myself back at home, in Virginia, that I begin to remember again.

The communications which lay on the table in my study, unanswered... the desperate attempts my firm made to contact me, eventually tapering off until they disappeared completely... only my maid, she who cooks my food and takes care of me now, remained my sole contact with the outside world.

It was she who brought me the notice from the London Herald oh, a year or so after I had left London. It related the news of a terrible conflagration which had swept one of the poor districts, precisely the one in which M. Halberstom had resided in his small poverty ridden room... did he die? There was no mention of his name anywhere but I feel he must have met some untoward fate, else I do not believe the world would have lasted this long, seven years now... although I am afraid even more, somehow, now that I fear his death was real. His insane talk of the Eye, and the others... I wonder if the world is not right now maintained by the forces he described, and, worse of all, if he was correct, that they are forces of malevolence directing their own apocalyptic integration...

I am more calm of late, accepting the burden of the conscription of my soul to whatever, or whomever, would so desire it. It matters not to me now. I have grown invalid, it is true, never leaving my bed... Clothilde the maid has stayed with me since, living downstairs with her family. The sounds of their lively conversations keep me up until late in the night, entertaining me, remembering me to that world to which I am now dead. Perhaps I will be released once I have inscribed this anonymous, faceless tale into my tiny journal, but I am not worried.

It is not in my hands to decide, but in those chance winds which bluster the flame, my flame, in its tiny bottle.