On My Short Time at Miskatonic University



Today I intend to dispel all rumors relating to my short time at Miskatonic University. Yes, it is true that I gave a series of lectures on classical art during the spring of 1925. So too did I come into acquaintance with one Richard Pickman. Despite what many tabloids and penny newspapers would have you believe, no overly strange occurrence happened involving Mr. Pickman and myself. It is true that I saw his studio, his works. He struck me as a brilliant painter, if a bit macabre. No, I am certain that he is dead, wholly and entirely. Yes, I am aware of the fake Pickman paintings that surface from time to time. I, unlike certain sensationalist newspapers, am certain of their falseness. After all, how can a man who died in Boston in 1926 paint a picture in Berlin in 1943? I seem to have answered all of your questions. Oh, one more? No, every real Pickman was burned by his relatives after his disappearance. And why would I be interested in such gruesome paintings anyway? No, there is no secret vault in my home, and if there was, I certainly wouldn’t tell some stuck up Herald-Picayune reporter! No, you may not inspect my home for any reason! Please leave immediately!

My, I seem to have lost my temper there. Should be more careful about interviews. People look at me oddly anyways, because of the rumors of my seeing the source of Pickman’s genius. If they knew the truth, they’d deem me mad and let me rot in Konigsreich Sanitarium or some such place. Some days I wish I could just tell them, but I know it would be the end of my days as a respected art professor at Hexehugel University of Art. The doctors said that the Bavarian air would be good for my health after the incident that lead to Richard Upton Pickman to seemingly disappear from the waking world. I feel the chill of the open window against the warmth of the fire in the back of the study. But now the fire is dying down. I’d better add a log. A voice-

“Gluten tag, Professor Nickolson. It’s been a while.”

I recognize the voice. The low growl, with a hint of soft undertones, making me feel both comforted and terrified at once. A blur of movement, and he’s brought out a snack for himself. From my short glance at it, it appeared to be some sinuous, elongated cut of meat. I turn away. No matter how many times he eats in front of me, I never get used to it. I pour myself a glass of scotch. Pickman doesn’t drink.

“Richard Upton Pickman. I don’t recall seeing you since, oh, at least 1946. What have you been up to, my friend?” I ask.

He answers, “Anouther painting for the collection, my dear colleague.”

He has always called me his ‘colleague’. I never quite understood why. After all, I’m just a teacher. I haven’t painted anything truly original since 1917, when I was sent home from the war with a lost leg. Pickman got me anouther, somewhere. Devil knows where, or how he found one that fit! I still limp a little, something to do with mismatched nerves and blood types and such. It’s all good though, the limp helps keep up appearances.

“I think this one is one of my best. I call it, ‘The Hills of the North’.”

Pickman places his snack down, half-eaten, on the carpet. I do hate it when he does that, and often scold him for it. Of course, each time he claims to have forgotten, and places it again into his satchel bag. Now, I’ll need to replace the room’s carpet yet again. Oh well.

“I… I Don’t know what to say! It’s so… Complete! It reminds me of your earliest works, when you worked such magic with the still life, the landscape! And yet it features that perfection of facial expressions you so often create! My dear Mr. Pickman, you have just perfected your art form!” I cry.

Pickman replies, “I wouldn’t say all that, but yes, it is good, isn’t it?”

He had always been giving me paintings. For as long as I’ve known him, he has painted for me surreal, yet all too real, images of terror and fear. It was always his gift, the macabre. As Michelangelo was to sculpture and Da Vinci was to science, Pickman was to art. Not as the world knew him, of course. He was never given the acclaim he deserved. I suppose that may have been a contributing reason to his disappearance.

“So, any news from the world of dream?” I ask nonchalantly.

Pickman, with an air of boredom, picks up his snack and explains, “Oh, you know. The cats of Ulthar are on the warpath again. I think it may be against the Sparrows this time. Other than that, I met with our mutual friend Randolph Carter a week or so ago. He told me to send his greetings. He’s on yet anouther of his foolish dream-quests.”

“Carter? Oh yes, I too saw him yesterday. His adventure-lust has apparently been sated for the time being. I suspect his new tattoo may have something to do with it.” I say.

In a moment of quiet, we each listen to the gentle breeze through the trees. Bavaria seems so like heaven on earth at these times. Me, my best friend, a glass of scotch, and the warm fire. Yes, it’s moments like these that you forget about your troubles, when a private interview goes awry, when a nasty rumor involving Pickman’s models is easily pushed aside. We sit, content. This truly is the good life.

I sure hope I did this good. I guess it could use a little work. I might post a prequel about Prof Nickolson and Pickman at some point. Also, if you can't get the clues (and have never read Dream-Quest), Pickman is no longer human.