Lexicon of Cimmerian Horrors

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: August 07, 2017

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Submitted: August 07, 2017

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The small, dark room was cluttered and damp. It had a low ceiling and suffocating atmosphere that set me on edge the moment I had entered. Looming oaken shelves filled with volumes of books covered most of the dark, stone walls. The floor was cluttered with loose papers upon which words and symbols had been frantically scribbled in some incoherent pattern. There was a medieval quality to the room and I could easily conjure up images of stolid monks slaving in solitude over the many manuscripts which now adorned the shelving.

My eyes were drawn to an opulently carved, wooden writing desk in one corner of the chamber, but more specifically a single, black tomb half covered by the other books and documents strewn across the desk. I made my way across the room towards the desk, carefully stepping over the disarray of items laid about the stone floor. I reached the desk, carefully moved aside the other articles, and made to pick up the book. As soon as my fingers touched it, I recoiled in disgust. The book’s binding had a repulsive, oily texture to it and gave me the sensation akin to when one reaches into a crevice and grips something only to become horribly and sickeningly aware that it is alive. After a moment my curiosity overcame my horror and I put aside my initial aversion and picked up the book. My skin crawled at its touch but I steeled myself and opened the book to a random page.

The words written inside the volume were not in English and did not resemble any language, modern or ancient, of which I was aware. Despite being completely unfamiliar with the dialect, I was somehow able to vaguely understand it. It was not that I was able to decipher their literal meaning, but rather I could “feel” what they were meant to convey. I attempted to say one of the words and to my surprise, and perhaps also my dismay, I was somehow able to vocalize it. The sound was awful. Not in a loud and frightening manner, but rather they possessed a terrible quietness. It was the sound of ash settling after an entire civilization was expunged from existence by cosmic fire. It was the sound of the dying breath of the last member of an ancient race. It oozed morbid horror and utter hopelessness.

As I whispered the word a strange presence seemed to fill the room, dimming the few candles that gave it light. I paused, but only for a moment, as I was overtaken by some morbid fascination for the words. The same curiosity that draws people to stories of murder, torture, and other inhuman crimes. I began whispering the words again, slowly at first and then faster. I felt a stirring of air, although there were no windows, and the papers on the floor rustled, almost seeming to echo the words from the book back at me. I finished the first page and turned it, only to gasp in horror at what I saw. The dark presence in the room seemed to intensify and the rustling whispers become more like muffled screams of agony. The picture on the page was so horrible that I lack the words to describe it. It was as if the subject of every nightmare had been put to paper by some raving lunatic. It was not only the drawing itself, but the way it was drawn that made it so awful to behold. There was something unsettling about the incongruity of its shape. As I continued to stare at it, hypnotized by its dreadful nature, my vision began to blur and the thing in the picture seemed to turn its eyes to look out at me. I was suddenly overtaken by nauseating convulsions. I fell to the ground, writhing and coughing up blood. An abhorrent, helpless terror filled me from head to toe, my vision tinted crimson, and I fell into the merciful blackness of unconsciousness. But even in the murky darkness of my comatose state, the words continued whispering...

 

 


© Copyright 2017 L.P.C.. All rights reserved.

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