The Book

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I lay here sick and dying. Only the nearly melted candle and that damnable leak to keep me company.
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I am to weak and sick to move. Images I can’t be sure of flicker against the receding darkness of my consciousness. None of the living here care. Just as it should be.
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The curtains of the old, board hard four poster are pulled shut and the air around reeks of death, sickness, and bodily excretions. The room outside of the curtains is dark but I could not tell you whether it was day or night, for there are no windows. I am completely cut off.
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I strain to glance at the tally on the bedpost. The primitive claw-marks of a human in captivity. It had been a long time since I had added to that. There were only 20 markings. I realized at that 20th day how stupidity is a swift killer and evil even more so.
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By now, I’m all angles and planes, skin and bones, pale as new fallen snow. My eyes used to be ocean blue but have now left only a dull grey. My brown hair was long and full, now there is only a single layer of thin whitish blond strands that are to tired and limp to even tangle.
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The least they could do is let me die in quiet, but no, I was locked away in this room which should be a full of at least a foot of water. I swear the sound will drive me insane before the disease does.
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Now that I think about, I wish they’d just kill me. It would mean so much less suffering…and I could finally get away from this place that never tried to save me.
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I remember the first time I glanced at the volume. A weathered leather cover embossed with a gold pentagram. I knew it was wrong and yet I, stupid naïve me, opened it and began to read. At first it was mere fascination with the unknown. After all, I had grown up in the church, all I knew was God and his teachings. How was I to know that this simple worn tome would be my ruin?
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The author was a poet. His words made the darkness enticing instead of foreboding. I looked forward to the ends of my chores so that I could lock myself away in my room, this room, and read of the blood bought promises the book described. That was when the dripping started…an inconspicuous symbol of my life going down the drain as I turned the yellowed pages.
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Soon I wished to do more than just dream. I wished for more than my simple country existence. I wished, no, craved to leave these simpletons behind. But I could not do it on my own. And so I prepared for a true ritual. I read the ingredients.
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Desire. I needed to strongly want this, I needed to want this more than I had ever wanted anything in my life.
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An image. I chose pieces of nature from my own backyard. Leaves, a cobble stone, and my pet, a white mouse named Lucifer. And then I prepared a mental fantasy. Myself running through the unknown streets of some city where others like me, who desired more than they had been given, lived.
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And, an offering. I killed the sparrow myself and brought it inside, placing it on a makeshift altar.
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And then I began. I carefully picked up the knife I had procured and slashed it across my shoulder. A wiped the blade across the floor drawing the first of the lines needed to complete my task. By the time my pentagram was finished my body was covered in bloody wounds. I arranged the candles and lit them. The smoke burned in my self inflicted injuries.
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I began to chant, calling a servant of Satan to me. I was nearing the end of the ritual when I felt another body behind mine. I stopped and turned, to stare straight into the slit crimson eyes of the one I had hoped to call. He was male, tall and thin, ebon hair falling to his shoulders and pulled back from his face with a red ribbon. He wore an oriental style shirt of scarlet and gold, and a pair of loose beige leggings. A jewel encrusted staff was held in his right hand. He smiled in an predatory manner, eyes glinting with hidden malice. He extended an pale unmarked hand to where I sat and pulled me to my feet. He towered over me.
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“What do you wish of me child? You called me and yet you are silent. Speak now or I shall leave.” His voice was level but he seemed impatient.
“Wait! I-I…” I stuttered out.
“Spit it out brat, what is your wish?” He was becoming annoyed.
“I wish to have the power to leave here, and leave no one to know that I was ever here.” I blurted out. Another wolf like smile spread across his face.
“And what will you give me?” He asked. I hadn’t thought about payment and so I would regret the next words that came out of my mouth forever.
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“Anything. Take anything you want.”
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The grin twisted into a triumphant smirk and he took my hand. He raised his other palm in a pulling motion and a thread of white came from the centre of my hand. I watched in shock as he pulled my soul from inside of me. My eyes became lifeless, as though I was a zombie and I fell to the ground. He laughed and disappeared.
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I had power but, who knew that, like other open wounds, the hole left where my soul had been could become infected. As it was, the many lesser demons of the astral plane had nested within me and spread disease throughout my system. I barley had time to begin planning before I was bed ridden and left for dead by those I had sought to kill.
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What’s this? The leak…slowing? Another sign I suppose…and so, I pass to the gates of Hell and the fires which burn within. Stupidity and greed my downfall. I beg that who ever finds this story heed the warning within. Innocence is merely a façade for those things which lurk beneath…and now to my eternal torture…
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