The Black MadnessMature

My first attempt at horror. Disregard any spelling errors.

The Black Madness

By Ian Taylor


           I am writing this down to explain what has happened in the years I have possessed the Ramrod. I have seen what had happened when a mere thought of that horrid scroll crosses ones mind. I am weak, and Ill, and bear a great tiredness and exhaustion, and a sign hangs in my breast like a dark lantern. I am old. It is a cost I had to bare while in possession on the Ramrod. The law informant carry my name in there midnight searches, and there quiet, subtle voices are summoning me from afar. And their voices, much closer, shout my name with unholy patience. The weight of my crimes will decide my final resting place.

        Before that time, I must put down here all that I can, concerning the Ramrod, and which lie in wait at the door of every man, for this is a weapon of knowledge that has been handed down of old, but which has been forgotten by all but a few, the worshippers of the Ramrod, and me, the possessor.

             And If I do not finish this task, take what is here and destroy it, for time is short and mankind does not know, nor understand, the evil that awaits it, from every barrier, from every sickening thought at the altars of madness, which is my mind.

             My time is shortened, and I must complete as much as I can, before I am taken away by the voices from afar. The moons days are numbered upon the earth, and the sun, and I still know not the meaning of the Ramrod. I can hardly speak to recognize my own voice. I am changing, The Ramrod is changing me. My memories have been very confused. There is even much doubt as to where they begin; for at times I feel appalling vistas of years stretching behind me, while at other times it seems as if the present moment were an isolated point in a grey, formless infinity. Perhaps this is the doing of the Ramrod, drawing its possessor into a never ending cyclone of insanity. I am not even certain how I am communicating this message. While I know I am speaking, I have a vague impression that some strange and perhaps terrible mediation will be needed to bear what I say to the points where I wish to be heard. My identity, too, is bewilderingly cloudy and unrecognizable. I am suffering a great transformation—perhaps from some utterly monstrous outgrowth of my cycles of unique, incredible experience with the Ramrod.

                 These cycles of experience, of course, all stem from that evil infested scroll. I remember when I found it—in a dimly lighted place near the black, oily river where the mists always swirl. That place was very old, and the ceiling-high shelves full of rotting volumes reached back endlessly through windowless inner rooms and alcoves. There were, besides, great formless heaps of books on the floor and in crude bins; and it was in one of these heaps that I found the thing. I learned its title from a missing section of it lying on the floor; but it fell open toward the end and gave me a glimpse of something which sent my senses reeling.

                I remember how I read the scroll at last—white-faced, and locked in my room that I had long devoted to strange searching’s for the meaning of the Ramrod. My was very still, for I had not left in many moons. I think I had a family then—though the details are very uncertain—for the scroll has made my memories a washed out painting. Just what the year was, I cannot say; for since then I have known many ages and dimensions, and have had all my notions of time dissolved and refashioned. It was by the light of candles that I read—I recall the relentless dripping of the wax—and there were chimes that came every now and then from distant belfries. I seemed to keep track of those chimes with a peculiar intentness, as if I feared to hear some very remote, intruding howl or scream of something monstrous from them.
             Then came the first scratching and fumbling at the my window that looked out high above the other roofs of the city. It came as I droned aloud the ninth verse of that primal lay, and I knew amidst my shudders what it meant. For he who reads the Ramrod wins a shadow of terror, and never again can he be alone. I had evoked—and the scroll was indeed all I had suspected. That night I passed the vale to a vortex of twisted time and vision, and when morning found me in my room, I saw on the walls and shelves and fittings that which I had never seen before.
            Nor could I ever after see the world as I had known it. Mixed with the present scene was always a little of the past and a little of the future, and every once-familiar object loomed alien in the new perspective brought by my widened sight. From then on I walked in a fantastic dream of unknown and half-known shapes; and with each new passage of the Ramrod I read, the less plainly could I recognize the things of the narrow sphere to which I had so long been bound. Dogs had a fear of me, for they felt the outside shadow which never left my side. But still I read more—in the hidden, forgotten scroll to which my new vision led me—and pushed through fresh vales of space and being and life-patterns toward the core of the unknown altars of madness.

             What unknown evil have I committed, what God have I offended? That my going out should be the accompanied by the fearful howling of creatures without faces. They travel in silence on the rooftops, I see them, but they know not I do. They fear if they claim me sooner than what is required, that there god will punish them, so they watch and observe my every move. But as they stray from afar, I still fear them. I have traveled worlds for the Ramrod, and still it does not protect me from the demons the Ramrod had described so vividly.

               I have seen these creatures turn the moons rays into liquid, which they poured upon themselves for a purpose I could not divine. I was becoming them, I fear for myself. I’ve seen them turn into a strange kind of beast when they read the Ramrod, whereupon horns grew from heads that had not horns, and teeth from mouths that had not such teeth, and hands become as the talons of eagles or the claws of dogs that roam the desert areas, mad and howling, like unto those who now call my name form outside my room. I am overwhelmed with horror, for they are close.

              The stars grow dim in there places, and the moon pales before me, as though a vale was blown across its flame. Dog-faced demons approach the circumference of my room. Strange lines appear on my door and walls in the shape of evil pentagrams and crucifixes and the light from the window grows increasingly dim with the outline of there horrid frame. A wind has risen, dark waters stir, they have me. This is all that I have know in my short existence, now I rest an eternity in there hands. Please my friend, I fear there is nothing that can be done for me, but I call for your assistance.


Aleck Thatcher

* * *

I write this for my own benefit, if one could be gained, as some sort of journal or record of my experiences.

              Unhappy is he to whom the memories of childhood bring only fear and sadness. Such a lot the scroll gave to me-to me, the dazed, the disappointed; the barren, the broken. And yet I am strangely content, and cling desperately to that scroll, when my mind momentarily threatens to reach beyond to the other. I thought I was transforming, but in all my doubts, the scroll sprung a leak of light in its passages of terror.
                When I realized I was unaffected, although my voice was still not my own, I escaped from the creatures grasp and began to wonder, hoping to find my family, If one did exist, and staked my life on finding any sort of answer to this scroll.
               On my journey, I landed upon an address which was engraved in the stone of a castle wall with my name. The castle was infinitely old and infinitely horrible, whereupon was full of dark passages and having high ceilings where the eye could find only cobwebs and shadows. The stones in the crumbling corridors seemed always hideously damp, and there was an accursed smell everywhere, as of the piled-up corpses of dead generations. It was never light, so that I used sometimes to light candles and gaze steadily at them for relief; nor was there any sun outdoors, since the terrible trees grew high above the topmost accessible tower. There was one black tower which reached above the trees into the unknown outer sky, but that was partly ruined, a near impossible climb up the sheer wall, stone by stone.
              I must have lived years in this place, but I cannot measure the time. Beings must have cared for my needs, yet I cannot recall any person except myself; or anything alive but the noiseless rats and bats and spiders. I think that whoever nursed me must have been shockingly aged, since my first conception of a living person was that of something mockingly like myself, yet distorted, shriveled, and decaying like the castle. To me there was nothing grotesque in the bones and skeletons that stowed some of the stone crypts deep down among the foundations. I fantastically associated these things with every-day events, and thought them more natural than the colored pictures of living beings which I found in many of the moldy books. From such books I learned all that I know. No teacher urged or guided me, and I do not recall hearing any human voice in all those years-not even my own; for although I had read of speech, I had never thought to try to speak aloud. My appearance was a matter equally unthought-of, for there were no mirrors in the castle, and I merely regarded myself by instinct as akin to the youthful figures I saw drawn and painted in the books. I felt conscious of youth because I remembered so little.
             Outside, across the putrid moat and under the dark mute trees, I would often lie and dream for hours about what I read in the books; and would longingly picture myself amidst gay crowds in the sunny world beyond the endless forest. Once I tried to escape from the forest, but as I went farther from the castle the shade grew denser and the air more filled with brooding fear; so that I ran frantically back lest I lost my way in a labyrinth of nighted silence.
             So through endless twilights I dreamed and waited, though I knew not what I waited for. Then in the shadowy solitude my longing for light grew so frantic that I could rest no more, and I lifted entreating hands to the single black ruined tower that reached above the forest into the unknown outer sky. And at last I resolved to scale that tower, fall though I might; since it were better to glimpse the sky and perish, than to live without ever beholding day.
              In the dank twilight I climbed the worn and aged stone stairs till I reached the level where they ceased, and thereafter clung perilously to small footholds leading upward. Ghastly and terrible was that dead, stair less cylinder of rock; black, ruined, and deserted, and sinister with startled bats whose wings made no noise. But more ghastly and terrible still was the slowness of my progress; for climb as I might, the darkness overhead grew no thinner, and a new chill as of haunted and venerable mould assailed me. I shivered as I wondered why I did not reach the light, and would have looked down had I dared. I fancied that night had come suddenly upon me, and vainly groped with one free hand for a window embrasure, that I might peer out and above, and try to judge the height I had attained.
               All at once, as I ascended the tower, a wave of knowledge seemed to pierce my memories; images of a worn family, trying desperately to fulfill a never-ending task. Sightless to what awaited me, I continued crawling up that concave and desperate precipice, I felt my head touch a solid thing, and I knew I must have gained the roof, or at least some kind of floor. In the darkness I raised my free hand and tested the barrier, finding it stone and immovable. Then came a deadly circuit of the tower, clinging to whatever holds the slimy wall could give; till finally my testing hand found the barrier yielding, and I turned upward again, pushing the slab or door with my head as I used both hands in my fearful ascent.

             There was no light revealed above, and as my hands went higher I knew that my climb was for the nonce ended; since the slab was the trap-door of an aperture leading to a level stone surface of greater circumference than the lower tower, no doubt the floor of some lofty and capacious observation chamber. I crawled through carefully, and tried to prevent the heavy slab from falling back into place; but failed in the latter attempt. As I lay exhausted on the stone floor I heard the eerie echoes of its fall, but hoped when necessary to pry it open again.
           Believing I was now at a prodigious height, far above the accursed branches of the wood, I dragged myself up from the floor and fumbled about for windows, that I might look for the first time upon the sky, and the moon and stars of which I had read. But on every hand I was disappointed; since all that I found were vast shelves of marble, bearing odious oblong boxes of disturbing size. More and more I reflected, and wondered what hoary secrets might abide in this high apartment so many eons cut off from the castle below. Then unexpectedly my hands came upon a doorway, where hung a portal of stone, rough with strange chiseling. Trying it, I found it locked; but with a supreme burst of strength I overcame all obstacles and dragged it open inward. As I did so there came to me the purest ecstasy I have ever known; for shining tranquilly through an ornate grating of iron, and down a short stone passageway of steps that ascended from the newly found doorway, was the radiant full moon, which I had never before seen save in dreams and in vague visions I dared not call memories.
                Fancying now that I had attained the very pinnacle of the castle, I commenced to rush up the few steps beyond the door; but the sudden veiling of the moon by a cloud caused me to stumble, and I felt my way more slowly in the dark. It was still very dark when I reached the grating-which I tried carefully and found unlocked, but which I did not open for fear of falling from the amazing height to which I had climbed. Then the moon came out.
                Most demoniacal of all shocks is that of the abysmally unexpected and grotesquely unbelievable. Nothing I had before undergone could compare in terror with what I now saw; with the bizarre marvels that sight implied. The sight itself was as simple as it was stupefying, for it was merely this: instead of a dizzying prospect of treetops seen from a lofty eminence, there stretched around me on a level through the grating nothing less than the solid ground, decked and diversified by marble slabs and columns, and overshadowed by an ancient stone church, whose ruined spire gleamed spectrally in the moonlight.
                 Half unconscious, I opened the grating and staggered out upon the white gravel path that stretched away in two directions. My mind, stunned and chaotic as it was, still held the frantic craving for light; and not even the fantastic wonder which had happened could stay my course. I neither knew nor cared whether my experience was insanity, dreaming, or magic; but was determined to gaze on brilliance and gaiety at any cost. I knew not who I was or what I was, or what my surroundings might be; though as I continued to stumble along I became conscious of a kind of fearsome latent memory that made my progress not wholly fortuitous. I passed under an arch out of that region of slabs and columns, and wandered through the open country; sometimes following the visible road, but sometimes leaving it curiously to tread across meadows where only occasional ruins bespoke the ancient presence of a forgotten road. Once I swam across a swift river where crumbling, mossy masonry told of a bridge long vanished.
                 Over two hours must have passed before I reached what seemed to be my goal, a venerable ivied church in a thickly wooded park; maddeningly familiar, yet full of perplexing strangeness to me. But what I observed with chief interest and delight were the open windows-gorgeously ablaze with light and sending forth sound of the gayest revelry. Advancing to one of these I looked in and saw an oddly dressed company, indeed; making merry, and speaking brightly to one another. There was an odd aura of bright light surrounding these people. I had never, seemingly, heard human speech before; and could guess only vaguely what was said. Some of the faces seemed to hold expressions that brought up incredibly remote recollections; others were utterly alien.
                  I now stepped through the low window into the brilliantly lighted room, stepping as I did so from my single bright moment of hope to my blackest convulsion of despair and realization. The nightmare was quick to come; for as I entered, there occurred immediately one of the most terrifying demonstrations I had ever conceived. Scarcely had I crossed the sill when there descended upon the whole company a sudden and unheralded fear of hideous intensity, distorting every face and evoking the most horrible screams from nearly every throat. Flight was universal, and in the clamor and panic several fell in a swoon and were dragged away by their madly fleeing companions. Many covered their eyes with their hands, and plunged blindly and awkwardly in their race to escape; overturning furniture and stumbling against the walls before they managed to reach one of the many doors. After such, the light disappeared.
                The cries were shocking; and as I stood in the brilliant apartment alone and dazed, listening to their vanishing echoes, I trembled at the thought of what might be lurking near me unseen. At a casual inspection the room seemed deserted, but when I moved toward one of the alcoves I thought I detected a presence there-a hint of motion beyond the golden-arched doorway leading to another and somewhat similar room. As I approached the arch I began to perceive the presence more clearly; and then, with the first and last sound I ever uttered-a ghastly howl that revolted me almost as poignantly as its noxious cause-I beheld in full, frightful vividness the inconceivable, indescribable, and unmentionable monstrosity which had by its simple appearance changed a merry company to a herd of delirious fugitives.
                 I cannot even hint what it was like, for it was a compound of all that is unclean, uncanny, unwelcome, abnormal, and detestable. It was the ghoulish shade of decay, antiquity, and desolation; the putrid, dripping eidolon of unwholesome revelation; the awful baring of that which the merciful earth should always hide. God knows it was not of this world-or no longer of this world-yet to my horror It seemed familiar to me, and then I knew it was the creatures I had recently ran from. I saw in its eaten-away and bone-revealing outlines a leering, abhorrent travesty on the human shape; and in its moldy, disintegrating apparel an unspeakable quality that chilled me even more.
                 I was almost paralysed, but not too much so to make a feeble effort toward flight; a backward stumble which failed to break the spell in which the nameless, voiceless monster held me. My eyes, bewitched by the glassy orbs which stared loathsomely into them, refused to close; though they were mercifully blurred, and skewed the terrible object but indistinctly after the first shock. I tried to raise my hand to shut out the sight, yet so stunned were my nerves that my arm could not fully obey my will. The attempt, however, was enough to disturb my balance; so that I had to stagger forward several steps to avoid falling. As I did so I became suddenly and agonizingly aware of the nearness of the carrion thing, whose hideous hollow breathing I half fancied I could hear. Nearly mad, I found myself yet able to throw out a hand to ward off the fetid apparition which pressed so close; when in one cataclysmic second of cosmic nightmarishness and hellish accident, my fingers touched the rotting outstretched paw of the monster beneath the golden arch.
             I did not shriek, but all the fiendish ghouls that ride the night-wind shrieked for me as in that same second there crashed down upon my mind a single and fleeting avalanche of soul-annihilating memory. I knew in that second all that had been; I remembered beyond the frightful castle and the trees, and recognized the altered edifice in which I now stood; I recognized, most terrible of all, the unholy abomination that stood leering before me as I withdrew my sullied fingers from its own.
           I was terrified beyond reason, but in my terror, my previously sullied memory, had granted me a look back at the image of that family. And in an instant, as quickly as it had came, realization washed upon me, the family, who had resided in that castle were indeed my family and my coming to the Ramrod was not my choice, but Destiny. For it runs in our family, to become something we were not.
            But in the cosmos there is balm as well as bitterness. In the supreme horror of that second I forgot what had horrified me, and the burst of black memory vanished in a chaos of echoing images. In a dream I fled from that haunted and accursed pile, and ran swiftly and silently in the moonlight. When I returned to the churchyard place of marble and went down the steps I found the stone trap-door immovable; but I was not sorry, for I had hated the antique castle and the trees. Now I ride with the mocking and friendly ghouls on the night-wind, and play by day amongst the catacombs of the castle. I know that light is not for me.
                 For although the scroll has finally calmed me, I know always that I am an outsider; a stranger in this century and among those who are still men. This I have known ever since I stretched out my fingers to the Ramrod. I had stretched out my fingers and touched my undying, and unavoidable future. My dearest friend will accompany me shortly, and he will soon find out the truth, just as I did. For better, or for worse.

* * *

                I fear for myself and my friend from the letter he has sent me. Somewhere, to what remote and fearsome region I know not, Aleck Thatcher has gone. I wasn’t with him the last night he lived among men, and I heard of his screams when the things came to him; but all the peasants and police in Garmwood County could never find him, or the others, though they searched long and far; but that scroll protected him. And now I shudder when I hear the frogs piping in swamps, or see the moon in lonely places.
                I had known Aleck Thatcher well in America, where he had grown rich, and had congratulated him when he bought back the old castle by the bog at sleepy Vioendale. It was from Vioendale that his father had come, and it was there that he wished to enjoy his wealth among ancestral scenes. Men of his blood had once ruled over Vioendale and built and dwelt in the castle, but those days were very remote, so that for generations the castle had been empty and  decaying.

              After he moved to Switzerland Aleck wrote me often, and told me how under his care the gray castle was rising tower by tower; how the ivy was climbing slowly over the restored walls as it had climbed so many centuries ago, and how the peasants blessed him for bringing back the old days with his gold from over the sea. But in time there came troubles, and the peasants ceased to bless him, and fled away instead as from a doom. And then he sent a letter and asked me to visit him, he wanted to tell me of this object he had obtained on his journeys, also his memory seemed to be fading for he was lonely in the castle with no one to speak with to save the new servants and laborers he had brought from the north.

                The scroll was the cause of all these troubles, as Aleck told me the night I came to the castle. I had reached Vioendale in the summer sunset, as the gold of the sky lighted the green of the hills and groves and the blue of the castle, where on a far islet a strange olden ruin glistened spectrally. That sunset was very beautiful, but the peasants at Garmwood County had warned me against it and said that Vioendale had become cursed, so that I almost shuddered to see the high turrets of the castle gilded with fire.

              Alecks motor had met me at the Garmwood County station, for Vioendale is off the railway. The villagers had shunned the car and the driver from the north, but had whispered to me with pale faces when they saw I was going to Vioendale. And that night, after our reunion, Aleck told me why.

               When I heard the fears which had driven the people from Vioendale I laughed as loudly as my friend had laughed, for these fears were of the vaguest, wildest, and most absurd character. They had to do with some preposterous legend of the castle, and of creatures that dwelt in the strange olden ruin on the far islet I had seen in the sunset. But foremost among the weird fancies, and alone in its absolute unanimity, was that of the curse awaiting him who should dare to read the Ramrod. There were secrets, said the peasants, who must not be uncovered; secrets that had lain hidden in darkness about the scroll for centuries.

                Under the swirling towers of void, concealing the sun from sight, we traveled toward this ruined castle; and I began to wonder if Aleck was at all truthful in his letters I had received from him. The castle, to my sight, was not at all similar to which he had described to me, and deep inside myself, I feared my life was in danger for a reason I could not fathom.

             As we traveled forward ever so slightly, his gaze toward the castle followed suit. It was blank and void, as If all emotions was stripped from him once we passed the threshold of the land. Our vehicle rolled across the olden brick road and from inside, all I could hear was the hum of the engine and the rustling of the wind against the ancient trees. Those trees rattled my spine more than the fears of the curse for I was pondering on how they were still blessed with life. Their bark was black, weathered, and look as if they were burnt long by a large fire, but the leaves were as green as the springs early dawn.

              Alecks motor stopped with the slight screeching of the breaks a few meters forth from the castle doors. I waited for Aleck to exit first for I was a foreigner to this land, and had not known my way around, however he sat for a moment with fear spread widely across his face. He took a deep breath and spoke to me in a voice I had not recognized as my friend I had once known, “Stay close Waylon, for I cannot guarantee your safety beyond these doors,” he finished as he exited the motor with hast, and began toward the castle door without halting for my presence.

             I stood frozen in fear, I felt as if, if I took another step I’d somehow fall into a black void of nonexistence. My hands were shaking and I was sweating, however I started to walk toward the castle doors slowly, my boots leaving a trail through the dead grass and weeds to where I stopped a few steps behind Aleck, who was opening the door. “Come Waylon, do not falter” He said staring at me. His hand gestured at the door as a I spoke in an almost whisper, “And what If I enter? What should I expect?” He broke from his hold on the door and slowing made his way toward me. Aleck was a large man in stature, well over 6 feet, while I myself at a measly 5 foot 11 inches. He was intimidating to look at surely, but him as my friend, I knew he wouldn't hurt me.

Waylon, friend, you must help me.”

I don't know how I can help you Aleck. I don't even know where I am” My body was shuttering with fear like heavy wind across a tree.

This is my home, Waylon, do you not recognize it?” He asked laying a hand on my shoulder. His touch was cold of ice and I wondered about his well being. Was he Ill, or did that scroll make him this way?

I don't recognize you” I replied with the fear that my response might trigger some sort of angry out-lash from Aleck. Instead, he released his hand from me and turned, “I needn't recognize myself in the mirror to know who I am, Waylon”

What would you have me do?” I said as he turned toward me again. His face dropped, but with a sense of acceptance.

Kill me”

What?! I cannot!”

Waylon, I may not recognize myself in the mirror, but like I stated, I know who I am. Or what I am. I can't live like this any longer.” Before I could speak, he sprung his right arm outward and caught hold of a medium sized knife that seemingly appeared out of nowhere. “Please..” He continued, offering me the knife.

The knife a dark, rusty iron-based with faded engravings on it running down a curved blade.

Use it Waylon, now...” He spoke with a raspiness in is voice. His words were becoming slurred and incoherent, I could hear a faint voice coming from him as he spoke, a different voice, but seemingly the same, it was speaking in a rhythm. “Tik....tok...on the they come, with the or there...will you spare...a small part..of your claire..”

Claire?! What?!”

His voice started changing again, “Waylon...please... I......whether or or they come to seal the knot...” He broke off from my presence and started swinging his arms in the fashion of a conductor of a symphony, continuing with his rhymes.

Here I be...must you can I with and there...they will share...all of you...with a now...or don't've had your this town...”

He continued to speak as I approached him with the knife at the ready. How was I to do this, to take my friends life? But he was no longer my friend, the Aleck I knew in past years, he was consumed by that evil, that scroll. I had to.

Once I drove the knife into his neck, I knew, that evil inside him wasn't going to die with him. Aleck was dead, his face void of life, blood was seeping through his mouth and his eyes turned white, yet the evil continued to speak to me, “Now you sneer...standing up to what you fear....don't worry...I'm still here...and never leaving...this place of fear...remove this knife...from my neck...before I send your soul straight to hell...”

It's words installed fear in my eyes, and the evil saw it. I removed the knife from it's neck, the corpse of my friend still standing, dead, the evil inside him, using it.

It took a step back, held the wound, and popped it's neck. Then it's head veered in my direction, “Now, that's better”

It spoke in a deep, gravely voice, sounding as if It was being torn apart by fear and evil. “I really must apologize, I understand seeing your friend this way must be debilitating in some fashion.”

I dropped the knife on the gravel, I was trembling in fear.

Here's the problem Waylon, I...well....we cannot let you go because of what has taken place this evening. So here's your choices, give us Claire's child, or you die. “

I spoke using all my might to break through my fear. “C......chi...”

What's that? Speak up, these dead ears are terrible”

Child? W..why the child?”

Well Waylon here's the thing, by my lords order, I must confiscate the child of who read the scroll.”


Whoever reads the scroll, I take there child and spare them. Usually one would get a choice, but you decided shoving a knife in his throat was the better option”

But the child..the child is mine”

You suspected it, yes?”

It was all sinking in.

I looked at the corpse of my friend, him staring at me, one hand on his hip.

What do I do?”

Tell me where his child is, and I let you go.”

I hesitated, but answered in the most confident voice I could muster,“Providence, Rhoade Island” I interrupted him, “She's not my love, not anymore.”

Well that makes it easy on me. Go back to whatever place makes you happy.”

The body of my once good friend collapsed on the ground, void of all life now, even the evil being once taken control of him.

I scanned over his castle once more, window by window I saw their eyes, glaring at me. I knew that not all evil was indeed “evil” they have a boss, like us all, following orders. I may never understand the origin of this scroll, or want to, all I know is it's in their hands now.

This journal I'm writing in, I will hide somewhere no one is likely to find, in an old library I once frequented with as a child, now abandoned, it's a perfect place.

Laying next to my dead friends body, was a small black book. I glanced inside, it was filled with Alecks writings of his fears of the scroll and himself. Halfway through I could not read, it was filled with strange markings I had not scene before, perhaps another language. I didn't think much of it at the time, so I stuffed it in my jacket and made my way back to Alecks motor. I had a life to get back to.

My life. It was normal, now scared by what has occurred, I'm not sure what to do with myself anymore, this knowledge doesn't go away with time. I had a long flight home...


The End

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