Chapter Two.
The debris of splintered wood and chipped paint rested on the floor in a chaotic pile beneath Ben’s feet. Standing there, peering into the dark concrete chamber, he felt a sense of triumph. From above, a single pillar of light broke through the hole in the ceiling where his foot had first gone through, illuminating a small patch on the floor. Crates and boxes cluttered the walls, forming an empty circle in the middle of the room. The desk rested against the far wall, swallowed by shadow. Dust blanketed everything, and the air hung heavy with the haze stirred by his sudden arrival. It was a stale snowstorm of gray powder.
Ben failed to fight off a sneeze as he stepped in. The flashlight beam lit up the swirling particles as they settled onto every surface. Moving slowly, he swept the flashlight over each container, hesitant to approach the desk with the skeleton beside it. Some boxes were filled with strange stone artifacts cradled in packing straw; others held books and odd relics. Everything looked ancient, and ready for a museum. His excitement mounted as he sifted through the trove of objects, doing his best not to look toward the corpse.
Eventually, there was nothing left to search but the desk.
He lifted his gaze to the book. Then to the body.
The skeleton sat in the chair, leaning back against the wall. Its flesh and clothing had long since rotted away, leaving behind a fossilized remnant of a past life. A chill ran up his spine as he crept closer. He had never seen a dead body before, but it didn’t horrify him the way it did in movies. The bones sparked more curiosity than fear. To stay grounded, Ben ran his fingers across the desk, cutting lines through the thick dust.
He stood there, lost in thought, until his hand came to rest on the book, just inches from the skeletal hand. It was massive, bound in cracked leather and larger than any volume he'd seen. Even annotated Bibles couldn't match its heft. A strange bronze emblem adorned the cover, and the cracked hide gave it a sinister texture. Ben stared at it, transfixed, until his attention returned to the bones.
He crouched and met the hollow gaze of the skull. The eye sockets were pure black. No glimmer, no trace of what once lived there.
One boney hand dangled beneath the table, still gripping an antique revolver. The finger rested on the trigger. In its other hand, which was resting atop the massive tome, was a black notebook that time seemed to have overlooked.
As he picked it up, the bones crumbled in his hand.
He flipped through the pages until he reached the last.
The myths were all true. The book is in fact evil incarnate.
It has taken me months of research and study, but I’ve finally confirmed it—this is the ill-fated Ala Azif. Why have I been so cursed as to actually find the damned thing? Of course, I went looking for it. But we all thought it was just a myth. A curiosity to occupy our minds and pad our wallets.
But here it is, in my possession. And here I am, with a gun in my hand.
If you let it, it will take everything from you—just to watch you squirm. Your dreams, your sanity, your life—they’re all forfeit the moment you open this book. Your reality will no longer belong to you, but to the sleeping gods who helped pen this damnable thing.
I sit in my house writing this with nothing left in the world. My family is dead, taken from me by… things. I can’t shake the feeling the book was responsible.
But if I told anyone, they’d lock me in a padded cell. Fill me with chemicals. Break me for real.
So instead, I’ll join my poor family in the hereafter. And hope God shows mercy, despite my meddling.
Don’t open this book. It brings evil and destruction. All will be lost…
Franklin
Ben frowned. “Suicide, huh?”
Still holding the journal, he examined the skull again. A gaping hole ran from the mouth through the back of the head, evidence of the fatal shot. A matching crater marked the wall behind it. Suddenly self-conscious, Ben withdrew his hand from the remains.
Turning away, he returned to the massive book and stared down at it. He exhaled hard, sending a cloud of dust into the air. The brown leather revealed its deep grain beneath the debris, and the emblem gleamed with new detail. He brushed the cover clean, tracing the interwoven lines and circles of the cold bronze sigil until his finger reached the latch.
He hesitated.
The warning rang in his mind.
But how serious could it be? It was just a book.
He took a breath. Then turned the lock.
With a click, the latch popped open and dropped onto the table.
Ben couldn’t help himself. He had to know what was inside.
Superstition and belief had fascinated him since childhood. His father had filled his shelves with old archaeology texts and encyclopedias, and they’d read them together. He set the flashlight down and opened the book.
The heavy cover slammed against the table. Each yellowed page rasped like parchment as he turned them with deliberate care. Strange symbols and illustrations greeted him—languages he couldn’t recognize, drawings of creatures that defied anatomy, and rituals whose purpose he could only guess at.
Then he saw it.
One symbol, alone on a page, held his gaze. His mind froze. The image pulsed softly. Was it an illusion? Maybe, but it tugged at something deep and ancient inside him. A sound crept into the back of his mind, quiet at first, then rising—a whisper, a murmur, then a chant, roaring behind his eyes.
A vision surged through him.
And then, clarity.
Moving like a sleepwalker, Ben returned to the bones and picked up the loose fingers, laying them out on the table. He searched through the crates until he found a ceramic mortar and pestle, then brought them to the table. He dropped the finger bones inside, ground them into a fine meal, and poured the remains into his hand.
Muttering a word he didn’t recognize, he blew the bone dust into the air.
The powder swirled, then coalesced. It gathered into the shape of a man.
First came limbs. Then the torso. Then a head.
A white silhouette stood before him, powdery and incomplete, yet somehow sentient. Its features were mere impressions, and its expressions barely moved in the dusty glow.
“Why does it hurt here?” it asked, its voice broken and echoing, like memory filtered through static.
Terra Incognita — reading order