Book of Death
By: Nairi Eirian Jaden
The book sat in front of me, it's yellowed, worn pages sitting open on the desk in which I stood in front of. The book had been bought on a whim at a local bookstore in town that morning, I had been in the area doing my weekly errands when I had decided to stop inside the dusty store for a quick look-around before going about my day. I rarely stopped in there much anyways, the last owners hadn't been too keen on seeing me browse the old tomes and running my hands along the cracked leather spines. There had been so many books that I had picked up at random then quickly put back onto the shelf when one of the ancient shopkeepers had come around the corner to shoo me away from their precious words. Before I had gone inside for that quick look, I hadn't been inside the shop in at least six months; I hadn't dared to go back in for fear that I would be leaving handcuffs instead of my own accord.
The only reason why I had gone in today was the banner over the entrance-way that read: UNDER NEW MANAGEMENT; otherwise I would've been quite content, although with a bit of dismay, to walk by those glass windows again. Books were, after all, one of the things I could never put down and had been a way to escape the odds and ends that had been my life up to this point. So I had made a detour before I went to my last errand and walked into the bookstore with my eyes turned to the register and the young man standing behind there; I was surprised that it hadn't been the old crone who used to sit behind there, her withered face scowling every time I had stepped foot in there. Instead I had been greeted by the pleasant face and a cheerful 'Welcome' instead of the scowl and look that used to tell me to hurry up, pick what I wanted, pay, and leave as fast as I could. This time I had decided to take my time and look at the titles instead of picking something at random in hopes that I would enjoy the world inside.
I had spent nearly an hour looking at the spines of those books, picking one up and leafing through it before putting it back and taking another book to do the same. I suppose I am thankful that my errands did not have a specific time table to go by, as my errands typically did, since I had gotten myself lost in the world of words; I had picked out four other books before I had gotten to the one that sat opened in front of me. There had been no intention of buying it, not the slightest, but I had seen the title on many trips prior and had flipped through the pages once or twice. The Book of Death was the title, and I had judged it to be a book for the occult, I had been wrong the first time I had glanced through the pages; it had, and still was, a book of short stories that had death as the theme. Some of those stories were of macabre themes, the kind that you read about online to give a sense of horror; others were down right saddening, not the tearjerker kind but ones that needed pictures of a kitten or two to help afterwards.
Even now as I close the book I don't know why I bought it, I had only gotten it because I had a feeling I would be in that shop again to glance through the pages as I had just done. Better to get it now instead of fighting the urge to stop by the bookstore again, no? Still, I had never been one that enjoyed the horror genre too frequently so getting this book had been a step towards my fill for the month, and I would most likely not read it again until many weeks later. Interestingly I found myself drawn back to that book hours later when I finished my home bound chores for the day; as I sat on a chair in my living room I flipped through the pages until I had gotten close to the end of the book. I had always stopped close to the beginning, maybe a few pages after that, but I had lacked the courage to read further then that. So why was it now that I was in the comfort of my own home, did I suddenly feel braver to venture further into this old tome?
The page turned and rested on a yellowed page covered in light brown spots that made some of the words hard to read. The title of the story, under the stains and aged page, was Slumber of Death; even the title gave me the cold shivers. As I read the first several page I let myself be engrossed by the words, by the intricate style that the author used, and how little it seemed I was not trying to throw the book across the room because of the theme. I don't remember how long I sat there and read, time seemed to slow down as it did whenever I read, I didn't even realize that the only light in the house, the lamp that was on the small table next to me, had gone out. I sat there in the dark, my blank, lifeless eyes staring at the same paragraph it had been on for the last moments of eternity; I hadn't even been able to turn the page to the end of that short story. I would never know the true ending of the book or the stories contained in the dusty pages of the cover, my body sitting there for several days and several nights until someone decided to check up on me. Oh the horror that must have been on the face of the one that had found me!
By then it had long been far too late for me, I was already gone and no longer there to finish what I had started or to warn the next reader not to touch this book. Never would I wonder how many people had this book before more and suffered the same fate, never would I wonder why I had been drawn to a book that I would have not read otherwise, nor would I ever find out how simple words could cause a person to fade into the other side. That would be left to those who could placate their yearning for information, to hopefully find my wandering spirit and pass on their gift of knowledge once their own spirits moved onto the planes of the shadows. Or maybe I was hidden in the pages of this very book that cost me my life, just waiting to be let go from the pages of death.
I had learned a horrible lesson about my passion of reading, that even though a book may be different underneath the tarnished cover, there are still some that best be left on the shelf to gather dust once again.
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