Never in recorded history was there a more enormous fall from grace than that of Hieronymus Kolvaleskaia. Hieronymus was a rising star in the world of mathematics. He came from a long and illustrious line of ancestors with enormous intellect, and he lived near an equally famed college with a glorious library which had a vast array of books on any subject the heart desired. This library is where he spent many hours of his adolescence. And his hours of academic study were rewarded when he won an excellent academic scholarship with luxurious living arrangements included. He seemed to have all the stars favorably aligned - but that would soon change. 

It was the university’s annual carnival. The aroma of funnel cake, popcorn, cotton candy, and other delights for the tongue smothered the air. Lit-up and colorfully painted signs for rides and attractions hung high in the sky and enticed you like a moth toward a bug zapper. The sounds of vaudevillian acts, howls of unbridled enjoyment, and the tempting calls of barkers to games that prompted college men to win prizes for their lady loves rang high. I would’ve wagered no man alive would’ve gotten a sliver of sleep that night with the uproarious cacophony of the grand carnival.

I was at the carnival enjoying the rides and food. Hieronymus was there with me because mainly he had nothing else better to do; it was the week after the big tests and he couldn’t really study himself to sleep, not with all of this racket. I had known him personally since childhood. I wouldn’t say we were friends per se, more like acquaintances. He had always preferred his relationships at arm’s length, believing that they would interfere with his passion for academic pursuits. After a while of me enjoying the attractions and food, and him being a disgruntled tagalong, a lonely caravan caught my eye. It was on the outskirts of the carnival and painted a firetruck-like red except for faded golden yellow letters, which read:

                          “Mr. Whytt Burton, Master, and Oddity, of All-Known Reality”

              “Read Palms, Cast Curses Upon Your Worst Enemies, Cast Good Luck Charms”

                         “Make a Poor Man Rich, Make a Sick Man Well and More” 

 This caravan’s promises quite intrigued me of this Mr. Burton gentleman, so after a bit of convincing Hieronymus and I went in. 

When we entered, the room was extremely dim. The candelabra that lit the table in the middle of the room was the only source of light in the entire caravan. I could discern some of the decor. From my observation, I noticed that from the walls hung shelves which were littered with a few cursed dolls, exotically beaded necklaces, a crystal ball, and dozens of books that contained formulas for medicinal potions and of magical practices long since claimed and ousted as pure quackery. On the very table itself lay some more magical knick-knacks, and behind the table was a discernible silhouette of a man in a top hat, his arms folded in front. Mr. Burton, I assumed. He sat there unnaturally still, like a marble statue frozen in place forevermore.   

I was uncertain if he was awake and me and Hieronymus were about to leave when he spoke. “Gentlemen,” Burton started, “Enchantee, uh tip frum thuh hat frum may tuh you.” We came closer to the figure. “Take uh seat boys'' Burton spoke up again, “whut bay chur poison?” We each took a seat as close to the light as possible to make our faces clear to the gentleman, and I took a clearer look at him. He wore an immaculate top hat and a beaten-up suit; which set him apart from typical traveling magicians and fortune tellers. On his wrists, I saw his cufflinks that continued his eldritch theme, a pair of silver-gilded skulls that shined and reflected Hieronymus’ face, with ruby eyes that twinkled like a madman’s eyes. Burton’s top hat shadowed most of his face, only exposing part of his mouth and chin, but his bewitching silver eyes glowed from the darkness. After a glance at me, his eyes darted toward my colleague. “Yawl must bay Hieronymus Kolvaleskaia'' Burton inquired. “Yes, I am,'' he answered, puzzled. “But I hadn’t the slightest impression that I was well-known outside academic circles.”

“Let’s gist say, word gits around,” remarked Burton. “Do yawl bleeve in magic an thah lahk, Mr. Kovalevskaya?” 

“All parlor tricks and ghost stories in my mind,” replied Hieronymus bluntly.

 “Wayul than, maeybe thus will entice yawl, '' Burton said as he pulled out a tarot card from under the table and placed it face down. Hieronymus picked it up and flipped it to see the contents. It had what I believed was an algebraic inscribed. There were two spiral-like squiggles and an equal sign in between. “Thus iz whut circles hav dubbed Thuh Lobachevsky Theorem,” uttered the fortune teller. “It wuz drawn by Nikolai Lobachevsky, gist fav minutes before hay died. Many unfortunate mathematicians hav succumbed tu tuh maddenin' power it conveys,'' he warned. “A fewr unlucky yawl can bay wunna them, boy. But Ah don’t know bout yawl but thuh headline, ‘Brave Man Conquers Cursed Math Problem’ might sound good in uh newspaper sumwhere.” 

The look on Hieronymus’ face grew gradually entranced by this proposition, like a man watching a cobra dance. “Do you have a hint of some sort?” he remarked.

 “Lucky fahwar yawl it gist so happens thet ovur thuh years thay wuz able tuh try out uh number thet might do thuh trick,” he answered. “But Ahv gotta warn yawl,” he followed. “Key word bein’ might solve. And yawl can monly place it monly on wun side or thuh other.” 

He slid the card slowly onto the table. Hieronymus quickly snatched the card and put it on top of the last card. I took a peek and from what I saw it had only the number 5. “Do I have to return these?” he asked.

 “Yawl can keep them, an uh wun more thang good luck, yowr gunna need it,” replied Burton, a subtle, sinister chuckle creeping under his breath. After he stopped speaking and Hieronymus had exited, I put some money down on the table for his services, but immediately he put it back into my hand. “Ah don’t accept money, hadn’t rilly needed it myself”, he politely answered. I wished him a good night, then I left the caravan. 

By the time we exited, the bustle of the carnival had mostly died down, so we bid each other a good night. Hieronymus and I went out to our dorms for some sleep. Although I slept little that night, my mind was wrapped around the word of caution Mr. Burton had advised, wondering how many people had been entrapped by this simple but reportedly complex equation and what of this madness might ensue for Hieronymus if he ever attempted this doomed feat. 

But after a week or two, it seemed my worries were unjustified. He attended his classes on time as he would usually do and he seemed to be social, at least for him anyway. But then, he seemed to come later and later in his classes. I thought nothing of this at first. Occasionally, he had been slightly late in the past. This was because he devoted his free time to sharpening his mind like a knife. But then, over time, my worries of Hieronymus becoming fixated on that cursed Lobachevsky Theorem rose again. 

I realized it was true when he started not showing up to his classes at all and locked himself in his abode. I eventually gathered enough courage to go to his dorm and ask him what had happened to him and if he needed anything. “Bring me some food,” he growled impatiently from the other side of the door. I quickly retrieved some food from the local café. “Will that be all?” I asked. “Yes, for now, thank you,” he answered, still in a growl, still without opening the door.

And in my subsequent visits, he would request things and I would retrieve them like a dog playing fetch. These errands were of a usual sort; food, water, and other such creature comforts. After a while, my tasked quests changed focus. He requested the local library’s supply of certain fields of mathematics; and it was always subjects that he already knew by heart and had perfected for years. He was scanning them, seeing if they could give him anything to provide him a clue and hopefully a way to solve the cursed mathematical rabbit hole he had tumbled down.  

   I didn’t have to contemplate for long. I was on my way to his dorm to check up on him when I heard a loud, shrill scream coming from his dormitory. The sound of a body thumping on a staircase followed it . I dashed toward the scene. On the ground lay the groaning, crumpled body of the dean. He was conscious, but badly hurt. “What happened?” I asked, after checking him.

 “I came to announce I was revoking his scholarship for not attending class in the last few months,” whispered the broken dean, “he pleaded for me to give him a pass, and when I refused the daffy loon threw me careening onto the stairs right there.” Afterward, I bolted toward the nearest phone and called the police. 

As the police and I came back, there was a crowd of people surrounding the stairs and where the dean lay. People were murmuring about the crazed college student, speculating on the event that unfolded before them and how he came to be in this state. The police and I wove through the crowd and climbed up the steps. As I was about to twist the knob, a voice spoke on the other side of the door. “Stop where you are,” it commanded, animalistic and guttural. I turned the knob and creaked the door open. “I told you to stop,” the voice shouted. I could tell that it was Hieronymus, but it was more indiscernible, and spoken in the delivery of a man completely crazed. The police and I crept into the room. 

The floor was littered with bowls and the library books I fetched for him, containing all things mathematical, torn-out pages with notes covering the walls. Right in the middle of the furthest wall was a bizarre shrine with those forsaken tarot cards in the middle. He twisted away from the shrine, facing the police. He was emaciated, a walking skeleton, a reanimated corpse not long since dead. His face sunken and sharp, his eyes glittering with madness. He reminded me of Burton's cufflinks of that night long ago.

“I told you to stay where you were!” Hieronymus screamed. “But you didn’t listen!” “ALRIGHT,” he roared. “You didn’t listen, now you’ll SUFFER FOR IT!” He launched himself at the police officers with ferocity. He slashed at them, hissing and snarling as he did. Some of the police scrambled away in terror and hollered for reinforcements. When he was done with the police he’d captured and unleashed his primitive wrath on, he glared menacingly at me. He slinked toward me like a wild beast stalking its prey. I backed away from him as much as I could, subsequently falling down. Then I slid away from him as much as possible, but had backed myself into a corner.

I prepared myself for his brutal attack as he slithered towards me. I knew right there it was going to be curtains for me. When he got near me, he raised his hand and stretched out his fingers. As he was in mid-swoop, I heard something grab his hand and jerk him back. I opened my eyes to see men in white coats and the police reinforcements. I gathered a sense of relief and got up. Several police officers held his arms back as he barked and foamed at the mouth like a rabid dog.

In the commotion, I snatched the tarot cards and fled from the scene. Hieronymus was incarcerated indefinitely at the psychiatric hospital next to the university. The card and the Theorem that was written on it stole his future along with his sanity. The authorities and the public could not understand why he turned rapidly insane. Although I knew why he had gone mad, I couldn’t make my story believable even if I tried for a million years. Even now, I still have a hard time coming to grips with that one problem that caused the downfall of my friend. 

 It has been many years since that day, and from time to time, I visit him. He is still as crazy as he was all those years ago. Occasionally, on lonely nights, my mind wonders about the bewitched equation. For I had lost the tarot card which contained it a few years ago in a storm, and I’m of the assumption that it is lurking somewhere, or perhaps returned to Mr. Burton. Ruining more souls out there. Although the downfall of my friend is quite tragic, I know that he wasn’t the first to fall into its spider-like web and I’m convinced he’ll not be the last.