Mysteries of the Worm

Mysteries of the Worm...
The name has a way of sticking to your brain like a splinter in a finger, doesn't it? You could be doing anything at all in the world, eating, laughing, crying, and then all the sudden, out of nowhere, the name rushes to the surface of your conscience in a fiery rush of blood.
Mysteries of the Worm.
De Vermis Mysteriis in the original Latin.
People whisper that this book is myth. That is only fake, created by Robert Bloch and refined by H.P. Lovecraft. They are wrong. No human hand could've created something that monstrous. I have seen the book, felt its hideous, rotting power, and now I must tell my story. For the forces of evil contained within the book are growing stronger day by day. They killed my friend. They made me retire. And they want out.
Two years ago, around January, I was contacted by my good (and as previously described, late) friend in the paranormal exploration business, Robert Malcolm (to protect the relatives of my friend, I will not use his real name). He spoke of an ancient book that he had discovered while investigating an abandoned church near Bangor, Maine. Robert believed the book to be the very same that H.P. Lovecraft used as a basis for his fictional grimoire, the Necronomicon. Robert then sent me an email, detailing the history of Mysteries of the Worm.
According to the email, it was one of six "forbidden books", tomes kept away from the public by the Catholic Church during the days of witchcraft. Today, all but one of these books are published. The missing one is Mysteries of the Worm. It is believed that only six copies exist today. People even like to whisper that the best horror authors (like Poe, Lovecraft himself, and even Stephen King), have seen, or even own a copy of this book. So far, none of these rumors have ever been proven.
The last email I received from Robert Malcolm three days later was only a few words, but chilling nonetheless:
"The face is beautiful."
After several days of no futher developments from Robert, I decided to travel to his house and check up on him. Mysteries of the Worm is supposed to contain spells and rituals that pertain to summoning the Old Ones, a race of god-like beings, perhaps the very same that Lovecraft writes about. I wanted visit Robert to make sure he was okay, and, in some small part of my mind, to look at his incredible discovery and read parts of it.
I arrived at his house late at night. Although he lives close to my hometown of Arkham, his house in Greenshore (not its real name), Maine was still a hell of a drive to get to. Why? Snow had clogged up most of the main road, and my ####### GPS kept rerouting me every third turn. Finally, exhausted and frozen, I pulled up to his driveway.
The house was quiet. All the lights were off, which was odd. Robert liked to stay up working late into the night. He was a single man, something I liked to tease him with whenever we went (ghost) hunting together. I looked down at the wedding band on my hand, thinking of Sharon and Darren at home. I got out of the car and was instantly hit with the faint smell of rotting meat. I staggered to the front door and knocked three times. Nobody answered. I tried the door, and it was unlocked. I stepped inside, fumbled for the lightswitch, and realized that the wall was wet. And it was here that reality ended and the nightmare began.
The lights flickered on, painting a hellish scene underneath the fluorescents. Robert lay dead on the floor, intestines snaking every which way out of his stomach. Bile rose violently in my throat. I forced it down hard. Besides him was a butcher knife and a cracked, leather book. Although the floors and walls were drenched with blood, not a single drop had spilled onto the book. I bent down to pick it up, and I caught a glimspe of the title, in faded gold lettering.
DE VERMIS MYSTERIIS.
I stared at it for several antagonizingly long seconds before I glanced at the wall behind Robert. Drawn on it in blood was a face that continues to haunt my nightmares to this every day. The face was leering, lips pulled back in a vicious sneer that chilled my very blood. I head a tiny rustle and looked down at the floor again. The book had fallen open to a section of text that was unreadable from where I was standing. Fueled by a combination of terror and cool-headed curiosity, I bent down and picked up the book.
It was all written in Latin, but I could pick out bits and pieces of the passage. It described a ritual to... transfigure one's body in something grotesque. Suddenly, the letters unhooked from each other and began to run around on the page like confused ants. I tried to drop the book, but for reasons unknown, my hands were glued to the pages. The letters finished rearranging themselves, presenting the brand-new message. The book began to heat up in my palms. Almost on the spot, I began chanting harsh phrases and words that the human voice was not meant to chant:
"Yuggoth! Hastur! Eaters of Those Who Came Before! Find our brothers and sisters and bring forth the Darkness of a thousand Black Stars! Eat what is rightfully ours! Destroy! Destro-"
The book burst into bright orange flames within my hands. Whatever trance that had been held over me broke instantly. Mysteries of the Worm fell out of my hands and onto Robert's corspe. Whatever flame was there stopped immediately. I looked up from my dead friend to the blood-painted face on the wall. It held its crimson form sold, then it eyes moved. The blood face opened its mouth, and began screaming an inhuman shriek. I noticed there were two voices. Then I realized I was screaming too.
The scene the police found the next morning was described as "horrific" in the papers I read while in custody. They accused me for the murder of Robert Malcolm and the terrifying "cult symbols" that I had drawn on the walls. As if! Now I'm locked in a cell surrounded my murderers, rapists, molesters, and God knows what other sort of criminal. There is no parole.
Earlier I wrote that the book is growing stronger day by day. And yet, you think, it caught fire in my hands. How could something so utterly destroyed by fire continue to rise in power?
One word: Me.
The book... did something to me. Possessed me, if you will. If my theory is correct, I somehow managed to absorb the contents of the book. And its power. In theory, I am the knife that could tear apart the thin veil of what we call reality. I think it was a good idea that I was locked up.
Because I could destroy the whole world if I wanted to.
Category:Lovecraftian
Category:Books
Category:Ritual
Category:Theory