The Book
That is not dead which can eternal lie.
And with strange aeons even death may die.
I had decided to stay in that evening, being tired and incapable of much conversation after a long day itemizing invoices. There was a dinner party that I had been invited to, but having half a guinea fowl left from the previous night, coupled with my state of being at the time, I had decided to retire early, read something for a spell, and fall asleep as quickly as I might.
Halfway through finishing off the fowl, I noticed that the bones therein were particularly brittle, and would often break as I tore at the meat. After a few more bites, I began to choke lightly, one of the bones having lodged itself unfocused in my throat. I swiftly drank some wine, and after an enormous gulp, dislodged the corrupt structure soundly. I could feel it uncork itself and slide relentlessly down the path where to finally pierced the stomach and succumbed to its slumber.
After washing the meal’s dish-wares, I moved into the study where I perused my library. It seemed that every volume I owned had been read, most so many times to the point of near memorization, and I was of a mind to experience something new, something that lent itself to a world counter to my current state. Not of horrendous excitement, per se, but at least the type of book that would prick my interest enough to keep sleep away until at least a more reasonable bed hour.
After an almost intolerable time spent searching the shelves for such a volume, I came, quite by accident, the look of a book that I had not known I had owned. It’s cover was leather, with a strange symbol bedecked upon it, which rose upward in a stern, yet almost tentative manner. Upon opening it, the book released a cloud of dust and the sounds of dry, cracked firewood. I had clearly not read this book before, and could not for the life of me recall where I had procured it.
I decided it no matter, and retired to my bedroom where I maneuvered the lights to a reading wattage and sat down, wrapped in a soft blanket to keep warm.
What came next in this retelling, I cannot be certain of. I believe I must have fallen asleep, quite shortly after opening the book, as I do not recall ever reading a single word of what I now consider to be its accursed prose. No, I did not read one drop of its damnation, I swear to you, now.
Upon opening my eyes, I observed with uncanny fright and monstrous confusion, the wicked book lying at my feet, and a skinless guinea fowl, its bones protruding from its sagging and mangled flesh, tearing at the pages of the open book with its appalling claws.
And once noticing my movement, it stopped, sharply turned its head, and stared at me, its eerie glass eyes reflecting my fear back to me, lodging itself deep in my throat.
Unable to scream, my horror buried itself deep in my belly where it rankled and sank deeper than I know how. What I imagined to be my own scream, blood-curdled and hotly alive, erupted from the fowl, a shriek to shake the very house to its foundation.
I must have swooned to sleep for some time thereafter. I was later awoken by a neighbor, who had come to investigate after complaints of stench had caused concern. I was anxious at this person, unrecognizable at first. He looked at me with a queer expression, and then pointed down to my feet. And there lay the ravaged and grave body of a baby boy, its bones having all been removed, and stuck in its rotting flesh, feathers, fresh and as clean as the morning air outside.
