The late October sky was a canopy of gunmetal gray that rumbled overhead with
deep growling thunder. Flashes of white raced through the swollen clouds as
if being chased by the spider web of lightning that crackled in its path. The
first tiny droplets of rain began to fall, and I in fear of becoming trapped
in a storm, ran into the first open door that I could find refuge in. The
place was warm and dry with the aroma of musty old books, truly a scent that
only a connoisseur of fine old literature could appreciate. But to my
surprise there was no vast collection of books here, no expansive library of
knowledge, there was only one, sitting closed on a carved mahogany table that
had the feet of lions.

A registry, I thought to myself as I crossed the threshold and entered. The
room was much more narrow than I had expected, ten foot across at best, but
the cathedral ceiling made the dynamics of it even more bizarre. I instantly
felt as if I were standing on the inside of a used milk carton. Not a good
choice of refuge for a true sufferer of claustrophobia, for if the room was
as wide as it were high, I might have been comfortable. The walls of white
plaster were long since crumbled away in most spots revealing the moldering
skeleton of slatted wood beneath. It was just an unnaturally thin room, a
desk and a book, nothing else. Disturbed by its unnatural dimensions, I
decided that I would stay for only a moment, just enough time to catch my
breath and run the half mile jaunt in the rain that now poured outside, up
the cobblestone streets of Cannonbury Row to my apartment on Gate Street. I
turned to leave with my hand upon the doorknob when I had the most peculiar
thought. The thought was to stay and even though every fiber of my being
screamed for me to leave, oddly enough I found myself inside the narrow room
facing the book.

The place was barren, devoid of life and normal sound. Cannonbury Row was a
notorious bustling avenue in the springtime infested with tourists sampling
the fine antique shops, quaint cafes, used bookstores and trinket dealers,
but so late in the year it was left practically a ghost town. I had no idea
in what empty shop I was standing, but I was surprised it had been left so
carelessly open. The gusting winds that blew outside were reduced to whispers
and the barrage of rain that pounded on the buildings roof drummed mutedly
like the tapping of bony fingers on tin.

Crossing the floor, I stepped to the table and inspected the book. Ordinary
enough I thought, old and weathered with a nearly demolished spine that shed
flaking black scales of paper. The book was large with no exterior markings
and the cover as black as pitch. I ran my finger over its stiff leathery
cover and flipped it open revealing the desiccated paper it held inside. I
scowled at its condition for such an old man should have been well kept. The
whole book was scripted in strange symbols that I could not identify.
Intricate patterns flourished on every page giving an ancient quality to the
book's interior. Leafing through its stained and yellowed pages I finally came
across a picture inside it. For a moment, I was unsure of exactly what the
drawing was of, so I lifted the book for better recognition. My body
shuddered. The long and narrow snouted face, the wicked curvature of fangs,
the long sinewy fingers with fingernails like shards of broken glass. It had
all the semblance of a vampire, but was thinly disguised in the body of a
man. The Egyptian headdress that it wore was that of a King, the crumpled
body of a boy lay at its feet, a young slave that must have been his feast.

I stared at the picture for countless moments, mesmerized by the horror of
this antediluvian thing. Disgusted, I slammed the book shut. The winds
muttered howls grew outside and echoed in the room and I heard a faint sound
hidden beneath it.

Whispers?

I looked towards the book again, it seemed to watch me as intently as a
predator might watch a prey. Again, I heard the now unmistakable sound that
tried so desperately to conceal itself within the wind.

Voices?

Guttural howling that made my skin grow cold. Nervously, I took my eyes off
the book and scanned the room to see if anyone had entered unnoticed,
possibly letting a bit of storm into the old place.

Hello?

Suddenly the room began to change as if my eyes could not be trusted. Dark
shadows that crouched in the bizarre angles of the room now bloomed outwards
consuming the place in a shroud of yawning gray. I watched as impossible
specters slid down the plaster walls and oozed like spoiled black blood from
the veined cracks in the high ceiling. Terror exploded inside of me as I
watched these ghastly things paint the room with darkness, spread out across
the floor and seep from every dark corner. I looked back at the book and to
my horror it was open, opened to the page with that terrible drawing of an
ancient monster that stared at me with boiling eyes. Shadows rubbed across my
quivering legs like hungry cats and I could feel the weight of them swiftly
crawling and clawing their way up the back of my jacket, clinging to my neck.

They were so terribly cold, those Godless things, so terribly black.

One of them began pushing at the back of my head with its long snaking
fingers blindly tangling in my hair like searching tendrils. Cold pads of
dead flesh rested upon my brow forcing me to scream. It gripped the back of
my skull and thrust my head into the open pages of the book. My face became
consumed by the stench of vile paper that had the texture of greasy dried
flesh. Then all became quiet, the slinking vapor retreated silently back into
the corners, up into the ceiling and down through the creaking floorboards,
all with the exception of one. It imposed my face in the book powerfully,
whispering ancient things into my ear.

I pulled the door tightly behind me relieved to finally be out of that place
and stepped out onto the glistening cobblestone streets of a place I did not
know. The rain was cold yet gentle and I stood a moment basking in the wet
spray that sprinkled my face. I then pulled the jacket that I wore over me in
fear of getting too wet. My moment of peace was broken by the low grumble
that filled my empty gut and I knew I had to eat. Looking at the condition of
my hands, I knew that there was still a lot of eating to be done.

The leathery, scaling things; they still reeked of old bookbindings and must.

~ The End ~