The Search for Mjølnir

Chapter One
The Beginning
Have you ever had a feeling like you’re being watched? A faint tingle, a rush of cool air, or a feeling
like there’s something out there. Something making you hair stand on end and your skin crawl.
Most people would say that it’s all in your head, and you can simply turn on the lights and there will
be nothing there. I’m here to say that those people are stupid. Turn on the lights and look at the
outlines of reality, and the curves in time, and there will be things too horrible to mention. Or
maybe don’t. You may not survive the journey. This is my cautionary tale. This is my story of my
realization that there are things we were not meant to know. This is my adventure that left me
envying the dead in their graves.
The year was 1923, and I was working. I was bored of old ladies missing cats and housewives
looking for a husband. I wanted excitement. I would stare out at the neon lights of the city and
scream at the rain, asking whatever was out there for something to do, a purpose. Then, my prayers
were answered.
It was a rainy spring night, and I was looking forward to another good night on my couch, drowning
in whiskey. I was opening the bottle when there came a knock on my door.
“D*mn!”
I reluctantly pulled myself up, smelling of cigar smoke and alcohol, and staggered over to the door,
pulling it open. A man darted in, slammed the door shut, closed the curtains, then turned to me.
He wore a double-breasted velvet suit and a terrified expression. His thinning black hair was slicked
back with enough sweat and oil for me to make salted eggs for weeks. He wore a tie louder than my
great-uncle (God rest his soul) and a striped shirt underneath the suit with an annoyingly bright
blue. His veiny hands shook as he sat at my desk. He helped himself to three whole glasses of gin
before he turned to me.
“You’re Richard Swargesson?”
“Yes,” I answered hesitantly.
“Finally,” he gasped. “You wouldn’t believe what happened. The last three people I found: all dead.
Blood everywhere. Signs of a struggle. I...I….”
“Calm down, man,” I said. “Sit down and tell me what happened!”
“Mr. Duke,” he said, looking up at me. “Mr. Duke, he’s coming.”
“What? Who?”
“They say he has no name, but they do his bidding. Don’t trust anyone. He has spies everywhere.
The very sand worked for him. He’s...a wizard...some sort of sorcerer. He did in everyone! And he
won’t stop until he has it!”
“What? Has what?”
He didn’t answer. His eyes bulged. “There!” he screamed. “In the hallway!”
I turned to see what I can barely describe. The that have happened since then have rattled my
psyche, so that I no longer have any trust in my own memory. But there stood an Arab. He was
wrapped in white robes, with sand spilling out. He wore a mask made of solid gold, carved in the
visage of a devil. Two swords curved in the shape of claws were in his hands. A double-headed
glaive was strapped to his back.
From here on, my memory is faint. I remember an explosion, and woke to find myself on the
sidewalk out side the building. My apartment was ablaze with flame. And my friend was next to me,
a bloody hole in his side. He coughed and handed me a notebook and a tightly wrapped package.
“Find the professor,” he choked. “Don’t trust the Italians. And get to it before they do! We...we need
to...protect...”
He wheezed out the words, and didn’t draw breath for more.
He was dead, and I was wrapped in something dangerous tighter than the package.
I can’t quite remember, but as I lost consciousness, it looked to me like the flames raging through
my apartment were green.
 Chapter Two
The Professor
I woke up the next morning in the hospital.
After a few boring hours of doctors not believing my statements that I was fine, I was released onto
the streets. I lit a cigar and walked home before it hit me. Home’s new name was Elijah. Gone up in
flames. Which brought me to the Arab. He was the only lead I had. Questions poured down like the
rain. Who was he? What did he want? I replayed the scene in my head. The man’s coming, the
Arab, the explosion, the package…
The package! It was still in my coat pocket! I entered a nearby bar and found a small table to
myself. I disgustedly wiped off crumbs and grease from the tabletop before opening the package.
Inside was a big slab of rock and a letter. The notebook was filled with handwritten Norse myths,
copied down by a guy called Professor Arnold Duvensold.
Okay. I’d seen weirder things.
The slab was covered with Norse runes that I couldn’t read. I did recognize a carving at the top,
though. It was a carving of Thor’s ancient hammer Mjølnir. I then opened the letter, noting the wax
seal. It was another picture of Mjølnir, surrounded by runes. The letter read thus:
Dear Mr. Swargesson,
I am writing to you from my home town of Miskatonic, at the university there. I am asking your
assistance.
I have been employed by a SIS agent, Calia Arcton, to foil the efforts of the Fascists to find an
ancient artifact of Norse power. More specifically, Thor’s hammer Mjølnir.
You may think me mad or a joker, but I am not. I am but one of many people who believe that
Scandinavian myths are not myths and legends, but stories of real happenings. It is possible that a
warrior, finding a hammer with power over the storm, may have called himself a god, and upon
death said to have ascended to Valhalla. Mjølnir is still out there, and other people think so too. In
fact some people are trying to find it. Mainly, the Italian Fascists.
Lieutenant Antonio Messalino