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The Doorstep on the Thing Robert was a prosaic man. A boring man, to be more precise. He was a chartered accountant, and while within the heart of many a chartered accountant lies a dashing spy, or mastermind criminal, such was not the case with Robert. He had no interesting hobbies and his interests were limited to tax law and the history of bookkeeping. Others in his office referred to him as Boring Man, able to put large crowds to sleep with a single sentence. He believed in nothing he could not see or hear. If he had an imagination, he might have refused the job he was offered as head of the account department at Miskatonic University in shadow-haunted Arkham. Now, Arkham is a town to set anyone's hair on end. Its nearest neighbor, Innsmouth, has been burned to the ground by the government twice, and no one ever figured out why the government keeps doing underwater nuclear bomb tests near Devil's Reef. Of course, the radiation has mutated most of the fish around Arkham, so fishing of any kind is forbidden. That's probably a good thing. As far back as the 1600s, none were willing to eat fish caught near Arkham, so the govt. ban hasn't affected much. Besides, Arkham's a dying town anyway. Very few outsiders go there nowadays, and Robert was not a welcome visitor. He was shocked at the property prices. He got a Gregorian mansion for less than he was paying for his apartment in Melbourne. Of course, it was haunted, but he didn't care. He got the bloodstains off the stairs, and the ichor off the upstairs bathroom, and the unidentifiable decaying mass out of the altar through the secret passage behind the fireplace. He also managed to get the imprint of the ?????'s* face off the attic window using some Windex. The only thing he couldn't get rid of was the weird smell. It was strongest in the front hall, but it spread throughout the house. He tried disinfectants, soap, bleach, and even acid, but nothing worked. When he asked others at his office if they had any suggestions, they all just said that it had been there since the house was built, and no one had ever managed to get rid of it. Some even hinted that it might be a good idea if he just gave up trying or something awful would happen to him. Never try to hint anything to Robert. It doesn't work at all. He won't get it. Finally, Robert decided enough was enough. He was going to get rid of the smell if he had to tear up the entire hall to do it. He'd been thinking about changing the floor anyway. Laminate is so much more practical then wood. He tried to find some workers to do the job, but no one was interested. They just kept dropping veiled and not so veiled hints about how he should leave well enough alone. He ended up deciding to do the entire job himself. It'd be cheaper that way anyhow. He started prying up the floor at the back of the hall. There was another floor, this one marble, underneath it. Once he got the wood floor up, he started on the marble. There was another floor under it. This one was brick. Robert decided that whoever built this house was a bloody idiot. He knew he was making progress, because the smell kept getting worse and worse. He opened all the windows, and still could barely breathe. So, he got a gas mask. Robert is nothing if not practical. Under the brick floor was a concrete one, and under the concrete was flagstone, and under the flagstone were huge cyclopean blocks of solid stone. Once he hit the stone, Robert had to rethink his plan. It was possible that there weren't any floor joists at all, and that this house was not up to code at all. He decided to bring in an expert. He called his cousin Finny from New York, a demolitions man for the city. Finny took one look at the floor, and suggested dynamite, or moving. Robert decided on the former. Finny set the charges, and then left to go back to work. Robert walked a few blocks away, and then set off the dynamite. The resulting explosion was quite impressive, and broke every window in the house. When he walked back inside the house, Robert groaned. Every block in the floor except the one from under which the smell was coming had been blown up. He was now at his wits end. Perhaps the floors had driven Robert a little crazy, or maybe he was just too stubborn for his own good. He grabbed his crowbar and started trying to pry up the doorstep stone. His frustration gave him strength, and he pulled the stone up. He propped it up, and looked underneath. There was something under there, but he couldn't make out what. He ran upstairs and grabbed a flashlight. He ran back downstairs and looked under the stone again. Robert now lives in Melbourne, in a nice new apartment. He works for the government as an accountant, and by all accounts is quite happy. Just don't mention Arkham to him, unless you like hearing a grown man scream. And as for what was under the stone, he's not telling, but I know. My curiosity got the better of me, and after he ran screaming from the house, I went and looked. I guess Robert has something against 200 year old pastrami sandwiches on rye with pickles. There is a happy ending to this story. I found my sandwich. * Possibly some kind of weird ape
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