The rain is so beautiful tonight. It always felt like a fresh start. Like the Earth washing away the memories of the days before. I miss the sensation of the cold. Not really the cold itself, but the way it made me feel. Alive, as if each drop that hit my skin shocked straight into my core and reminded me that I was a living being. A part of the natural order. I miss all the things that made me feel alive, which humors me to think because most of them seemed so unpleasant at the time. Cold, pain, fatigue, hunger. Things I used to dislike, now filled me with nostalgia and a sense of longing. That’s what I’ve come to realize. The simple things, the things we take for granted, the things that just are, those are what I miss most.
It’s been so long since I felt the cold the way I missed it. Long enough that you’d think I’d be used to the numbness. Still, I have come to believe that getting used to feeling a certain way is far more simple than getting used to feeling no way at all.
I didn’t seek out this life, or rather lack thereof, but was cursed with it, so to speak, as a consequence of my arrogance and curiosity. I have always been the type to desire what I can not have, and knowledge, when guarded, becomes the object of ultimate desire. So you can imagine how completely at the will of my desires I found myself when I first discovered the black arts.
Here, at my fingertips, lived all the secrets I could hope to learn. Secrets of life, death, and what lies beyond. Secrets of human potential and the true power of the universe. Naturally, I dove into them all like an eager child, learning everything I could as quickly as possible. It seemed, to my delight, that I possessed a certain talent for magic and a mind capable of absorbing information as quickly as I could present it. Unfortunately, as many have learned, running before you walk will more often than not lead to a fall, and my fall would prove to be quite tragic.
My fall began the way most do, with a stumble. A book, to be exact, is what I stumbled upon. I spent a great deal of my time back then in book shops. Particularly vintage and antique shops, scanning the shelves for anything that might be of interest. It was a typical afternoon, in a typical antique book shop that I came across a book. It was quite typical, being bound in black leather and of a standard book size. However my eyes stopped at it because, on the spine, in a rusted copper color print, was a symbol unlike anything I had seen before. It looked as if it was made up of various religious symbols, all woven together into something new. Looking upon it for an extended time, it began to feel as though it was alive in a way. Not to say that it moved, but rather that it felt like it was reaching out, trying to connect with something or someone.
Taking the book from the shelf, I carefully examined the front and back covers. Aside from the symbol, which was also printed on the front cover, there was no title or author name. Opening the cover, I found that this anonymity continued across the initial pages. A rush suddenly swept through my body and I was overwhelmed with a compulsion to take the book. I can not explain why, even now, but I did not pay for it, or even ask the shopkeeper what it was. It was as if I was overcome with a certain clarity that this book was meant for me and me alone, and I must keep it secret.
By the time I returned home with it, the compulsion had faded and I felt all together confused by my own behavior. This confusion left me uneasy and I decided it was best to put the book away for the time being and explore it further after a night’s sleep.
Awaking the next morning, I felt as if I had barely slept at all. My dreams had been particularly unusual and rather unsettling. The longer I was awake, the fainter my memory of them became, but there remained an uneasy feeling of something like being tangled, or perhaps consumed. I decided to put it out of my mind and as I did I remembered the previous day’s events, and the book. After a quick breakfast and dress I went to my desk, where I had left the book the night before. It was there, sitting harmlessly on my desk, as if waiting for me to return to it.
As I sat down, I ran my fingertips across the symbol on the front of the book. I was so curious. What on earth could it be? Perhaps something from an ancient culture of which I was not versed. Or perhaps some sort of more modern, new age pagan creation. The book seemed somehow both old and new at the same time, like an original copy of the bible kept in mint condition. Carefully I opened it. The first few pages were blank, as if the book was attempting to warn the reader, to give them a chance to turn away before going further. I, of course, continued to turn the pages until I came to the first one containing writing.
The writing was, like the symbol, completely unfamiliar to me. I tried to identify any part of it, rummaging through my brain for any knowledge I had of languages, but nothing seemed to match what I saw written before me. Continuing to flip through the pages I became engrossed in the writing and strange symbology the book contained. I found myself staring for long periods at certain words and symbols.
As if snapping out of a trance I suddenly realized I was hungry, and getting up to get what I assumed would be lunch, I noticed the clock. It was well into the evening. I had, without realizing, sat and studied the book the entire day. It startled me that I had lost so much time without even noticing it pass. I made myself some dinner and then went to rest my eyes which were, I noticed, suddenly very tired.
The next few days strung together in a similar fashion. The more I studied the book, the more eager I became to study it further. By the end of the week I was feeling quite fatigued, as I had not left my apartment since bringing the book home. Several days I had forgotten entirely to stop for meals. I started to believe I was beginning to understand the book in a way. The writing and symbols were still completely unknown to me, but as I studied the composition and layout of the pages I became certain that what I possessed was some sort of coded grimoire. It was, I concluded, a collection of rituals and spells. Certain words repeated in bold, lead me to believe they referred to the gods, or great beings, of this text.
I had been studying the black arts for many years, and understood with great respect that magic of any kind is not meant to be used by those who do not fully understand its purpose. I tell you this to help you to understand the unwavering and all consuming hold this book had on me that, by this point, I was with great determination planning to attempt one of the rituals it contained.
As if drawing confidence directly from the pages of the book, I became convinced I had developed an understanding of the text. The ritual I chose, I believed, contained the power to grant me vision beyond this world. To see past the realm of life and earth and into the cosmos itself. It was as if my ultimate desire had been placed in front of me and now I was ready to take it.
The night came that I was ready to perform the ritual. On a hilltop, far enough from prying eyes that I would not be disturbed, I set out my altar and began my journey to transcendence. Reaching towards the dark sky, I began to chant the words from the book. A language that should not be understood by man, and yet flowed from my lips like a cursed song. As I continued my chant the sky around me started to quake, filling with waves of wind that seemed almost viscous. Lightning, a color wholly indescribable, struck through the sky followed by thunder. I felt the blast of sound reverberate through my body as I continued to chant. A sensation of power flowed through my skin and my eyes felt as if they were stretching, preparing to take in the entirety of existence.
I felt in my heart a mixture of terror and excitement stronger than I ever had before. I screamed the chant as loud as my voice could project as a bolt of the otherworldly lightning struck down, straight through my fingertips and filled my body. Closing my eyes as it hit, I felt a sudden familiar feeling of being tangled, or consumed. Opening my eyes, in horror, I saw from the sky, streaming down and into myself, not lightning, but long creeping tendrils. They rose from within my body, up into the sky and what seemed like beyond the sky, connected finally to what can only be described in words as a mass of some kind of enormous and terrible being.
A body that had no front or back, top or bottom. Like ground meat held together by wriggling worms and indented all around with bulging eyes that seemed to see me all at once. The site of it filled me with a primal terror unlike that ever experienced by any human still of sound mind.
As the tendrils filled my body I could feel some part of me being consumed and replaced. My very soul being ejected to make room for this thing taking over. Black rotten smelling fluid streamed from my eyes and ears and my body shook so violently it might have snapped, and then suddenly, as if it had been a dream, it stopped. The sky cleared as I fell to the ground screaming. For a long time I laid in that spot, sobbing and screaming.
It has been many years since that night. Nevertheless, the terror of it has not left me. It lives inside me now, occupying the space once reserved for my humanity. Whispering in my ear and retching my stomach into knots.
Demanding it’s only desire. Life.
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