The Book

The House was out of the way. It sat upon a lonely hill. It was the only landmark of the vast moor. Looking down from its high vantage point, nothing disturbed the House’s perfect wilderness; nothing save the lone figure of a sombre faced man slowly making his way up the winding path of the hill.

Jonathon Turner frowned as he proceeded along the hard cobbled path. The only sound in the air was the almost mournful whistling of the chilled wind, and its rustle through the dry grass. He took a deep breath of the cool night air and raised his eyes to the house he was approaching. The house was both large and old. Its finery produced an unreal effect with its juxtaposition on the lonely moor.

As Turner stood ready to go through the open gate in the ornate railing that marked the grounds of the house he felt a sudden shiver. He pulled his large grey-brown coat around him and stood in silence surveying the house. He decided what was needed was a mental recollection of the events that had led him to this extraordinary place.

The whole business started with a book. Turner had been browsing in the library after work. The library was old. The rich, wood panelled interior and old-fashioned décor, along with the musty odour of old paper gave the building an antiquated feel.

The very oldest books in the library were in a separate room and apart from the library catalogue. As he walked along the bookshelves, he peered at the books intently. He ran his finger along the top of the old pages. Most of the books looked similar. There were dark reds, greens and blues. The covers were similar sizes and made out of cloth or leather.

Suddenly, Turner’s finger stopped. He had found a much smaller book. It was a third of the size of the other books and had a plain red cover. The unusual book intrigued Turner and he felt compelled to borrow it. The librarian told him that the books within the separate room were in fact too old and delicate to be removed – they were for reference only. Even so, Turner found he simply could not put it back on the shelves. He settled down to read it.

Before long, it came to the library’s closing time. He stood up to put the book back on the shelf. As he looked out of the window, he saw the soft snow had turned to cruel rain.

Turner stepped out of the library into the miserable dark and made his way home. When he was over half way, he felt a distinct shiver reverberating up and down his spine. He also felt a slight tingling sensation in the end of his fingers. For no particular reason he grasped inside the pockets of his large warm coat. To his surprise, he pulled out the little old book. He realised he had forgotten to put it back.

The dream settled like a mist on the hills. Turner was shivering, but not with cold. His fingers trembled and he could not move them. He felt an unknown craving descent upon and grasp upon his heart like a vice. An old man then came to him, gave a wistful smile and handed him a book. He then walked away into the darkness.

Turner felt the longing go, the shadow lifted. However, as he held the book terror built up inside of him until it burned through every muscle in his body.

Turner screamed as he jerked and sat up in bed. He was exhausted and had a headache.