The Necronomicon

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Alhazred wasn't the first to find the Necronomicon. But perhaps he was the last person who believed he could read it without losing himself in the process. The chamber in which it lay was unmarked. No plan, no map, no corridor led there. It existed only when someone was willing. And that night—when the sky was quieter than usual, when the wind was still—the door had opened. Not for him. But through him. The book lay in the center of the room on a pedestal of black stone that seemed to have been carved from frozen memory. No dust covered the cover. No light illuminated it. And yet it was visible, in a way that could be perceived not with the eye but with the inner voice. Alhazred stepped closer. Each footstep sounded too loud, even though the ground was soft. He felt the book's gaze long before he touched it. The cover was made of a substance that looked like leather but felt like taut skin. Warm. Awake. Pulsating. No writing adorned it. Only fine lines that, upon closer inspection, began to move—or had his mind merely sensed it? He placed his hand upon it. The room breathed in. And the book opened. The pages were dark and heavy. They had no solid structure, but seemed as if they were made of smoke, of condensed meaning. Signs grew beneath his gaze, winding into words he didn't understand, yet knew nonetheless. Not because he knew them, but because they knew him. He read of cities buried in dreams, of beings composed only of negated concepts. Of voices that moved through thought like dust through sunlight. Every sentence was a wound. Every page a curse. And yet he couldn't stop. Not because the book forced him. Because it needed him. With every page, he felt himself changing. Not externally. Internally. Memories began to flicker. Names crumbled in his mouth. Places he had once loved felt foreign the moment he thought of them. He wanted to fight back. But the book was already inside him. Or had it written him? Then came a blank page. He stared at it. It stared back. He understood. It was time. He placed his hand on the parchment. Nothing happened. And yet everything happened. Something inside him was loosening. As if his name, his will, his memory were being drained. The page filled with what looked not like ink, but like shadows flowing. And in the center it was written: His name. Not written. Burned in. The book slowly closed. The base vibrated. The chamber lost its shape. Alhazred stood there for a moment, empty but complete. Then he was gone. But those who open the Necronomicon today sometimes hear a whisper between the pages. Not a voice. But as a look that looks at you before you forget your own name.