The Boy and the Book

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic
What will you find in the book?

Submitted: March 25, 2013

A A A | A A A

Submitted: March 25, 2013



I'm in a concrete room, the only source of light is a cracked light bulb which hangs precariously from old wires. It mimicks the thread of spiders. The darkness seems to wage a war with the weak light that seems as if it will die out at any moment. I'm a young boy, perhaps seven. Wearing wrinkled slacks and an old T-shirt. My feet are bare and I feel the icey sting of the floor.

"Where is it!?"

A course voice pierces my chest, paralyzing me... It comes from a man standing before me in the middle of the room. He wears jeans and a stained white T-shirt. He appears before me, grotesque, for I realize he has the flesh of a man who has not yet eaten in monthes. His hair is long, but thin and damaged. A goatee drips from his chin, verdant in appearence. His lips are peeling and rage riddin eyes hang so deep I can almost see the flesh of his eye.

"WHERE IS IT!?" The mean shrieks again.

He comes unto my eyes and ears in a haze.

"I- I don't know!"

In a series of flashes he advances upon me and grabbing me by the throat, my head is slammed into the wall.

"Tell me where it is you lying bastard!"

All of a sudden I am no longer the boy and my body becomes a vessel. I now see the boy's face, unlike mine, eyes hollowed. His facial expressions show nothing but apathy. The room is empty besides the boy and the man, but I watch in confusion as the boy's head cracks to the right, past the man and lifts up a limp hand to point.

"In the book...." He says in such a low rasp as to almost be a whisper.

I am the boy again pointing at the table across the room that was absent before and upon it rests a thick, heavy leather clad book. Reminesent to that of a bible. The man then leaped to the table throwing the book open as it's thick cover thundered against the table. He flips through the pages violently as they barely maintain their grip to the archaic leather spine.

"Where is it?" I hear myself now.

I can feel nervous sweat drip from my brow. I can smell the recking stench from the man. My eyes ache and strain as I flip through the book. I feel anxiety envelop me. The pages of the book are as empty as a city's night sky.


The lucidity of this nightmare is unrelenting. As the vessel that is now myself is coursing with a plethera of emotions. Rage is a seething boil, though there is something deeper than that. In the core of this man I feel an anxiety never felt before. It rattles my soul, but as the room spins and the pages continue to fly back and forth can do nothing to quell it. All I may do is stand in this hellish paralysis.

Suddenly, though the book has been rifled through several times, I stop at a page that is now filled with pictures. These ancient paintings seem biblical in stylesimilar toworks of Michael Angelo. Yet something is puzzling about them. The paintings, though in a renaissance style, are that of everyday people.

"I gotta find it..."

I feel the man wipe the sweat and grimefrom his brow. My spirirt is bewildereed when I start to feel tears well in the mans eyes, but my puzzledness is shattered. Screeching iron pierces my chest and the screams come in threes which crack through time, as a second pike slips through the mans cheeks wrapping chin and neck. It is rough and cold against the flesh. The third drives into the calf, scraping the bone, it wraps the bone, grinding. Until it finds the joint, splitting the limb. Agony consumes me as the man's cries become my own. The pikes wretch the pain sticken body around where the boy waits, but there is no boy now, but an inhuman being. A black void replaces what was once innocent blue eyes. Two words creek out of its mouth, like that of a primortal hinge finally moved after and eternity of remaining standfast.

"Times up..."

Te lips of the innocent now crack into an insidious grin. I can see the reflection of the man in his eyes. Like crystal balls made of obsidian they are. The spheres tell me the mans fortune now. As the forth pike I see position above the man's head. Coiled like a snake, poised to take it's prey. It strikes.

Sweat pours from every pour of my body and I gasp for life. A nightmare, a nightly slice of death, all this was. I wipe the sweat from my brow and I get up from my bed and leave the room to compose myself. I reach for the bottle beyond the cupboard and guzzle it's bitter contents. With a burn in my stomach I step quietly back to my chamber. As I step on the threshold the glass slips from my fingers as I stare at the archaic document upon my desk. A quill rests in ink next to it, it's presence sinister and haunting. Then I hear the laughter that makes my spine coil as I slowly turn to my window and in the twilight I watch in dread the formation of a cracking grin.

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