I jolt awake, the remnants of a restless sleep clinging to my mind like cobwebs. Shadows dance across the walls of my cramped apartment, illuminated by the flickering light of a dying bulb. There’s a heaviness in the air, a suffocating sense of dread that has become all too familiar. I wipe the sweat from my brow and sit up, hearing the persistent hum of the city outside—an unsettling backdrop to the chaos unfurling inside me.
Ever since I stumbled upon that accursed book, the Necronomicon, my life hasn’t been my own. Weeks have passed since I first discovered it in that decrepit little bookstore on the corner of 8th and Elm, a place so obscure it felt like a figment of my imagination. The shopkeeper, a gaunt figure with hollow cheeks and a smirk that sent shivers down my spine, had whispered of its secrets, of the knowledge it contained. I bought it for a pittance, driven by curiosity and a reckless thirst for understanding that ought to have raised every red flag in the universe.
The pages of the Necronomicon felt oily beneath my fingers, reeking of mildew and something else—I can’t quite place it. Had I been sane, I would have left it right there, hidden among the dust and shadows of that cursed shop. But I read it. I read it late into the night until dawn’s light clawed through the gloom, changing the arcane symbols into something legible, something enticing. I learned of beings that lurked beyond the veil, forces waiting, hungry for the chance to seep into our world, their cool, unyielding fingers brushing against reality like a beggar at the gates of a cathedral.
Now, paranoia grips me like a vice. I can’t shake the feeling that something—or someone—is pursuing me. The whispers began softly, like the rustling of leaves just before a storm, filling my mind with incomprehensible thoughts, fragments of ancient languages that coiled around my consciousness like serpents. I hear them in the dead of night, their syllables as slippery as eels. Sometimes, they seem to come from the very walls, as though the apartment itself is alive, a sentient being intent on encasing me in the horror I’ve unwittingly unleashed.
The streetlamps outside flicker erratically, casting strobing shadows that stretch and twist, grotesque caricatures that mock my sanity. I peer through the grimy window, scanning the street below. Perhaps it’s just a trick of the light, but something is there—it’s watching me. I can feel those eyes boring into the back of my skull, a predatory gaze that makes my skin crawl. I tell myself it’s nonsense, that I’m just a victim of stress and sleep deprivation, but the gnawing dread lingers.
Every sound intensifies. The chirp of crickets becomes a cacophony of eerie urgencies. I can hear the clatter of a trash can in the alley, poorly timed with the distant wail of sirens, and it all merges into a malignant orchestra that feeds my growing hysteria. I can’t escape it; the weight of the Necronomicon lies heavy in my bag, as if it knows I want to rid myself of its insidious presence. But I can’t—my grip is just too tight, held in place by the curious power it once promised.
There are nights when I consider burning it, ensuring its ashes mingle with the unholy air of this loathed city. But the thought of severing my only link to the arcane keeps me from taking action. I can’t shake the feeling that if I destroy it, I’ll lose more than just the book. I’ll lose control, and something will spill through the cracks, something waiting for me to falter.
On one such night, I step out for air, the stale atmosphere of my apartment stifling me. The streets are desolate, save for a few drunks and the usual stragglers lurking in their own personal hells. I am drawn toward the old park, where the trees loom like twisted giants gnarled by centuries of secrets. The moon shrouded itself in a veil of clouds, deepening the shadows around me—a perfect cover for whatever thing might be tracking my every move.
It’s here, amidst the scattered remnants of a once-vibrant life, that I feel it—the unmistakable sensation of being followed. I glance over my shoulder, half expecting to find a shadow slipping back into the darkness. But all I see is the silhouette of a stray cat, its eyes gleaming like twin moons. I shake my head, forcing the paranoia back, but it lingers, an unwanted companion that has found a home in my mind.
“Stop it,” I murmur to myself, digging my nails into my palms. I feel the weight of the Necronomicon shift in my bag, as if it senses my distress and relishes it. I turn away from the park and head home, quickening my pace as that lurking sensation escalates—something is still watching, waiting.
Just as I reach my building, a figure emerges from an alleyway, cloaked in shadows. An icy dread coils around my spine. I half-expect to see the shopkeeper, his wretched smile fixed upon his face, but it’s a stranger, a woman with dark hair cascading like a waterfall of ink, her lips turned downward as if she bears the burden of the world. I hesitate, unsure whether to approach or flee.
She steps closer, the scrap of dim light from a flickering streetlamp illuminating her features. There’s a depth in her eyes that suggests knowledge, perhaps even understanding. “You have something they want,” she states, her voice low and implacable.
“What do you know about it?” My voice trembles as I tug the bag closer to my body, the book inside a festering wound.
“They’ll come for you,” she warns, glancing around as if the shadows themselves are eavesdropping. “You must get rid of it. It’s not just a book—it’s a door, a key to the unimaginable. There’s a darkness in you now, a mark upon your soul.”
Fear grips me, choking off my words. I want to push past her, to disappear into the anonymity of the city, but I’m entranced, ensnared by her eerie certainty. “Who?” I finally manage to ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
“Those who were wronged, the ones you awakened,” she says, her eyes glimmering with an unsettling light. “They seek vengeance, and they will claim you as their own. Burn it before it’s too late.”
The words echo in my head as she steps back into the shadows, merging with the night until she’s lost to sight. I stumble backward, the weight of the Necronomicon pressing against my ribs, burning as though it knows its time is drawing near.
That night, I lay in bed, wide-eyed and hyperaware, drowning in delusions of being watched. My heart raced with every creak of the building, and I felt traces of unseen fingers brushing against my skin, a cold breath whispering secrets I desperately wished to ignore. Sleep eludes me, each rumble of the city a reminder of the horror I had unleashed.
Days bleed into nights, and the world feels alien, fraught with dangers lurking just beyond the fringes of perception. I can’t remember the last time I stepped outside without a crippling sense of foreboding. I know they’re coming. I hear their whispers in every crack, every rustle, growing stronger, angrier, swelling like a tide ready to break.
Finally, the day arrives when I can take it no longer. The burden is too much. I gather the nerve to confront my fears, to destroy the vile Necronomicon. I gather up the few belongings I have, tucking the book inside. A sense of purpose ignites my steps as I head to the old park, the shadows swirling around me, darker than ever.
The moon hangs before me, a sickly yellow eye, as I find a secluded spot among the trees. My breath quickens; everything comes crashing down—the resonant whispers, the piercing stares, and the knowledge of what I’ve done. The book feels heavy in my hands, a silent plea begging to be spared, but I cannot afford pity for something that has become a curse.
As I strike the match and watch the flames consume the pages, my heart swells with anticipation and dread. But just then, the air thickens, the atmosphere changing, as if the world itself is holding its breath. The shadows writhe and twist, and out of the depths—the very darkness I’ve sought to escape—figures begin to materialize, swirling around me, their forms alight with an unearthly glow. I can see them in the firelight, faces twisted in agony and rage, shapes slipping through the cracks of fractured reality.
They are the ones I awakened.
The moment I realize my mistake, it’s too late. The flames flicker, sputter, and suddenly extinguish, leaving me in pitch darkness, swallowed whole by my own creation. There’s no escape. The whispers morph into a terrible cacophony, drowning me in their rage. I’m not just a vessel for their vengeance; I’m the target now.
I want to scream, but no sound escapes me. They pull me into their abyss, my vision swirling into chaos—a swirling vortex of dread and despair as a thousand voices murmur the secrets of the universe. And I understand, oh, how I understand.
That cursed book wasn’t the key; it was the trap. I’ve become part of the Necronomicon—a page within its unending story. The darkness claims me, a piece of me forever lost to the horrors that exist beyond comprehension.
And in that final moment, amidst the spiraling shadows and the echoes of my own despair, I lose my last shred of self.
Author: Opney. Illustrator: Stab. Publisher: Cyber.
