It’s my ancestors. My people. My tribe.

The white, leather bound book glowed as if an internal sun burned within its pages. Golden scribbles of a language I’d never seen before shimmered in gold on the face. As soon as I saw it I felt a sudden wave calm wash over me. I smiled faintly as I drew closer, comfort folksinger behind.

Oddly enough I was able to read the strange writing. The title being…

AWAKENING: BOOK OF AGES

Author…

My eyes widened. I spoke under my breath.

“William Starr.”

To think I knew everything about my best friend but no. That jerk.

I skimmed through the contents noticing chapters like the rise of creation, law and order of the universe, solar systems, ccivilizations on unknown planets, magic, and more.

If just holding this book made me feel like i was on top of the universe i could only imagine what the information inside could do for someone with dark intensions.

I set the book down, thinking of what to do next before the oak doors burst open behind me. I spun around in alarm, meeting the fiery gaze of the war goddess.

“Marona?” I laughed half in amusement and fear.

Her silver eyes narrowed. A bone chilling breeze swept across the room.

“Wolf, 6ou are here by arrest for the offense of stealing the Book Of Ages and opening it without authorization.”

All i could was stare disbelief.

I could be artested for reading?

I smiled inwardly.

I guess i didn’t really have a choice. 8 nodded, my head down and walked out of the library with angelic soldiers flanking me. The goddess leading the way.

She narrowed her silver eyes as a bone chilling breeze swept across the room.

“Wolf. You are here by placed under arrest for the umiversal offense of stealimg the Book Of Ages and opening it wothout authorization.”

All i could do was stare in disbelief.

Arrested for wanting to read? Thats new.

I smiled inwardly.

It was just lying there, on the ground. It looked centuries old and tatered at the corners. Emily, my best friend (who I’d been walking with when I found it), walked over and picked it up. She opened it to a random page.

“Wierd.” She muttered.

“What is it?” I asked.

“It’s definitely not written in english.” She said.

“Let me see.” I take the book from her hands.

I begin to read it allowed but stop.

“It makes sense.” I say slowly.

“What do you mean “it makes sense”? It’s in a different language and not even one that I recognise.” Emily asked confused.

“I mean I… I understand it.”

While digging through a box in the attic he found it. The book almost seemed to call to him. He even forgot what he had been looking for. Holding the book in his hands all he wanted was to read it. The desire was insatiable. The book had to be thousands of years old. The cover was in some ancient and dead language. Still knowing he wouldn’t understand the contents he could curb the desire to read it.

Joey tucked the book under his belt line and climbed back down out of the attic. He was leaving, he had to get somewhere private immediately. The book had even cause hi. To forget where he was. When he reached the bottom of the stairs he was surprised to find he was in his neighbors house. He looked around but couldn’t focus on anything but the door. He walked towards it and the Old Tom called out to him, “Did you find it?”

Joey turned to the living room that shared the entry way and the landing for the stairs. The house was as ancient as Tom. Maroon shag carpet cradled a floral set of couches and chairs against wood paneled walls. Tom sat in one of those floral chairs off in the corner near the window that looked out on the neighborhood. The book began to burn against his stomach as he turned his attention from the door. He spit out the first thing he thought to say, “No sorry Tom, I’ll have to come look another time. Just realized that I need to get home.”

Joey turned before he could see the smile creep across Tom’s face. The reality was Joey had no reason to be there. Something had called him there, he complied without question. When he got there Tom had asked him to fetch something from the attic for him. Tom was a cranky old hermit that most people steered away from. He had been alone for over a decade, no one was sure if his wife had passed or left him but no one was brave enough to ask. Those that had been in the neighborhood long enough lamented the current state of Tom’s home. It had once been a bright spot in thier neighborhood but now it looked to be condemned. A few of those the lamented the state of the home even recalled a time when Old Tom was a friendly and good neighbor.

As Joey walked out the door to his home Tom breathed out a deep sigh and under his breath said, “Good riddance and good luck Joe.” Joe wasn’t really every bodies favorite neighbor either. He kept to himself to the degree that it was offensive to others. He rarely left his home kitty corner to Tom’s. It to was in rough shape. Many neighbors would say it’s hard to take care of a home when you never leave it. He rushed passed the overgrown grass, up the paint shipped steps and through the splintering door. He threw it closed behind himself and pulled the book from his belt line. He rested against a near by wall and slid down it staring at the book the whole time.

Time became relative. He wasn’t sure if he started at the cover for 30 minutes or 3 hours but it had been a long time. Finally he opened to a random page mid-book. To his surprise he could read every word of it. What he read frightened him but excitement that seems to accompany the book bayed him on. It was either a journal or auto biography of sorts of some powerful and malignant man. The first line he read rang in his head over and over again. “I have become a God. You say your God gives life and now I take it. I am the God of death, fear me.”

two hobbies of mine include reading old books, and exploring buildings that’ve been left behind. things from the past give me a reason to constantly be out in secluded spaces or have my head stuck in-between library books. today, i traveled over 50 miles just to explore an ancient library from the year 1879, somehow still standing. no tourists. no silly teenagers graffiti. it’s just… old. covered in vines and green moss, trees fallen on it, weathered.

“what a beauty you are,” i mutter, step onto the still damp soil from my car and shut the door, locking it. it looks like any ordinary library, but there are carvings in the walls, symbols that make no sense but look so beautiful at the same time. my feet travel around, the book shelves are almost empty.

until i find one shelf.

a book, dusty, somehow completely untouched. i reach out and blow off the dust with my breath, not inhaling it. i step outside where the sun shines through the light grey clouds, the front says ‘DECAY’ and the author’s name has been written in strange symbols i don’t understand quite yet, but i plan to try and read this new… language, i would call it.

i flick through the pages, everything is written in a mixture of latin, russian, and mexican. strange. my eyes fixate on the first few words in the book, ‘through my findings, passing my visions, i sense the end is near and my legacy will burn in rage.’ is all i can translate at the moment, it takes a few seconds for me to realise i can read this.

“they’ll never believe me.” i chuckle, tucking the book underneath my armpit and rushing into my car, turning on the engine and immediately pulling onto the road, heading to my book club to tell the other members about this discovery.

In the depths of their new home, Nola stumbled upon a hidden secret. A box, concealed beneath the floorboards, beckoned to him with an eerie allure. Covered in a thick layer of wax, it exuded an air of mystery and foreboding. Curiosity gnawed at his insides, compelling him to pry open the box and reveal its contents.

Inside lay a book, its pages yellowed with age, written in a language long forgotten by the world. Yet, to Nola's astonishment, every word was comprehensible to him. It was as if the ancient text whispered directly into his soul, weaving a sinister tale of darkness and despair.

As Nola delved deeper into the book's forbidden knowledge, an evil presence began to seep into their lives. Shadows danced in the corners of his vision, and the once harmonious atmosphere of their home twisted into a chilling symphony of unease. Unbeknownst to Nola, the words he devoured with fervor were poisoning his mind, distorting his very essence.

Nora’s father was worried about him and terrified. One day, while Nolla was out, his father began digging through their mansion to see if he could find anything that would help him understand Nola’s condition. Finally, he heard faint whispers which lead him right to a mysterious book under the floor boards. The second he discovered the book his ears began to ring, and he fell to the ground in freight, as he heard screams unlike anything he had ever heard before, and the page is flipped and flew out of the book all over the room. Once the chaos came to a hauler, one single page lay in front of Nola’s father.

There written in blood was “अकल्पनीयभयानकक्षेत्रं, भवतः ज्ञानात् गुप्तं स्थितं जगत् उद्घाटयितुं स्वयमेव सज्जीकुरु । अन्तः एतावत् विशालः शक्तिः निहितः अस्ति, सा भवन्तं अप्रतिमक्षमतां प्रदातुं प्रतिज्ञायते। तथापि सावधानाः भवन्तु, यतः एषा महाशक्तिः अतिशयेन शुल्कं गृह्णाति। अन्ये तव हस्ते अकथनीयं दुःखं सहन्ते, तव प्रथमजातः शैतानस्य एव पङ्क्तौ बलिदानरूपेण अर्पितः भविष्यति। किं भवन्तः यत् विमोचनं कर्तुं प्रवृत्ताः सन्ति तस्य परिमाणं अवगच्छन्ति? अशुभम् अपि”

He was not quite sure what this text said, but he did recognize bits and pieces of the language, from his University days, studying history. He ran down to the library of their mansion until he found the book he had in mind flipping through the pages rampantly, he learned the language was, in fact, a dead language, “Sanskrit.” Hours pass as he tried to do whatever research he could in order to find a translation that made sense of the words on the page. As he got closer and closer to the correct translation, the books became too hot for him to even get near or look through the last, though he pushed through, covered in burns, stating in bewilderment at the words that were in front of him. It was not a perfect translation, but it was the best he could do.

“Prepare yourself to unlock a realm of unimaginable horrors, a world that has remained hidden from your knowledge. Within lies a power so immense, it promises to grant you unparalleled abilities. However, be warned, for this great power exacts an exorbitant toll. Others will endure unspeakable suffering at your hands, and your firstborn shall be offered as a sacrificial tribute to the clutches of Satan himself. Do you comprehend the magnitude of what you are about to unleash?”

Gradually, the transformation continued taking hold. Nola's once jovial demeanor withered away, replaced by a cruel and sadistic nature. His father, once a pillar of strength, became the target of his son's newfound malevolence. The book's insidious influence twisted Nola's perception, blinding him to the horrors he inflicted upon those he loved.

His girlfriend, a beacon of light in his life, suffered the brunt of his torment. The foreign language whispered wicked instructions into his ears, goading him to commit unspeakable acts of cruelty. What was once a tender love became a nightmare of abuse and pain, all orchestrated by the insidious book's dark enchantment.

It was not until Nola intentionally caused his girlfriend to miscarry, the weight of his actions crashing down upon him, that a flicker of realization ignited within his tormented soul. Horror and revulsion consumed him as he comprehended the depths of his depravity. Seeking redemption, he sought solace within the hallowed walls of a church.

Within the sacred confines, Nola pleaded for deliverance from the malevolence that had consumed him. The priest, sensing the darkness that clung to his very being, embarked on a perilous exorcism. As the cleansing ritual commenced, a vile substance akin to black tar, fire, and blood erupted from every pore of Nola's body.

The room echoed with screams, the cacophony of dying souls, and maniacal laughter as the sinister entity fought to maintain its grip on Nola's shattered spirit. With the priest's unwavering resolve, the abomination was banished back to the depths of hell, its hold on Nola severed.

Though the scars of his past would forever mark him, Nola embarked on a journey of redemption. He sought to make amends for the pain he had inflicted upon his girlfriend and father, striving to become a better man. In time, he found solace in the embrace of faith, ultimately becoming a priest.

As a priest, Nola shared his harrowing tale, warning others of the insidious ways in which evil can infiltrate their lives. He preached of the dangers of dismissing the seemingly innocuous, for behind the facade of normalcy, true horror may lurk. Through his testimony, Nola hoped to save others from the clutches of darkness and guide them towards the light.

Amazing These words I’ve never heard This before Today But it’s the way Of the ancients Not lent Or spent But their speak To me I can see All of their ways In what they say This is Amazing Tessa🦋

I will never forget my many meetings with Mr Hounslow Willemby, one of which led to what would prove to be the start of the biggest adventure of my life.

He was a strange fellow, there is no doubt. A tall man, with a hairline so receded, it seemed to start at the very top of his head, with the long white hair then tumbling in a thick mass down below his shoulders. His thick woollen suits, too—perfectly tailored to his thin frame—only served to exaggerate his already imposing height.

There was an intensity in how he would look at you; in how he would address you, making even the most mundane of subjects seem like the most important thing in the world. A learned man, with anecdotes and opinions on any topic, he was a perfect proprietor for the second hand book shop he owned, and lived above. Yes, he was a giant of a man in both stature and intellect.

It was on one of my regular visits to his shop—as I was idly leafing my way through a rather wordy manuscript concerning the fabled Maggazatti tribe of Central Africa—that we struck up a wonderful conversation about the disappearance of ancient civilisations. Neither of us, as I recall, was anything of an accredited expert—in truth we were nothing more than hobbyists—but Mr Willemby certainly had an amazing plethora of tomes, magazines, journals, encyclopaedias and the likes regarding the Ancient Egyptians, Incas, Aztecs, and even some lesser-known African peoples.

“I have an old diary somewhere,” he said, scratching his rather exposed crown as he climbed the shelf-ladder to the top shelf. He continued mumbling away to himself as he rummaged among some scrolls, papers, and who knows what else was up there, going by the thick dust clouds being thrown out. “Aha!” he declared, almost falling off the ladder. “Here it is.”

He stepped back down, dusting off the dark red cover, further fuelling the pollution circling the small shop. “I have no idea how this book got here,” he regaled, “nor who donated it. But it has been here for many, many years, just gathering dust as you can clearly see.”

As he walked back toward me he explained that the book had been in the shop for as long as he could remember. He was clueless as to its origins; the structure of the book, and the writings inside, nothing like anything he had ever seen.

He laid it on the table, wiping it with a cloth, revealing the most intricate gold leaf lettering. It was impossible to tell how old the book was, but it had certainly been in existence for hundreds, perhaps even thousands, of years. The lettering was a mystery; not because of what it said, but more in the way it looked so fresh and recent, as opposed to the cracked and veined covers and bindings of the book itself.

“The Testimony of Supay!” I read out.

Mr Willemby just stared at me, his sagging jowls and jaw testament to his complete and utter disbelief. “You can understand this?” he asked, his eyes wide in amazement.

“Why, yes,” I replied, a little confused. “Can’t you?” The writing was a little ornate, certainly, but perfectly legible, particularly with my good reading glasses.

He turned the book around, affording me a much better look. “You can understand the symbols?” he queried.

I laughed a little. “Symbols? They look like normal letters to me. Of course, I don’t…”

“To you they look like letters, but, to all who previously saw this book they are symbols. Much like the hieroglyphics of Ancient Egypt.”

He snapped the cover open to reveal an aged, sepia, papyrus-like fabric, covered from top to bottom in the most beautiful, but tiny, scrawlings. I say ‘scrawlings’, but that in no way reflects the horizontal and vertical precision of these extraordinary characters, written in many coloured—and I presume, natural—inks.

“Read the first line… please,” he beseeched me.

My curiosity was more than aroused now. The writing was clear, albeit small, and I could not fathom Mr Willemby’s difficulty. I leaned forward, raising my spectacles to my eyes once more.

“Herein lies a warning for the foolhardy,” I began. I looked up to my friend. “Well, that’s not the friendliest of beginnings, is it?”

“Please continue,” he said, overlooking my causality at what was of more than just passing interest to the man.

I cleared my throat, leaning in once again. “The doorway to El Dorado is shut. The pathway lost. Seek ye the fortunes of the damned, then forsake the protections of your gods.”

Mr Willemby clapped his hands together, placing his fingertips to his lips. “It can’t be,” he mumbled. “Please read on,” he asserted.

He at last seemed to have some inkling as to what we had before us, but I was still none the wiser. “The bountiful wastes, to the west of the great forest, by the division of Peruvia and Brasilia, shall play eternal home to the filched treasures and paraphernalia, the grasped loot of Conquistadore.”

I jumped as Mr Willemby clapped his hands once more. “I don’t believe it,” he gushed. “I don’t believe it. Do you realise what this is, Mr Morecombe?”

I admit, I was rather amused by his newfound enthusiasm and childlike manner, but I was still none the wiser. “I…”

“Supay was the mythical Incan god of the dead,” he said. “It was long rumoured that he was, in fact, a once-powerful Incan chief, who fled the invasion of the Conquistadors.” He turned the book back around, flipping the pages over, then looked up to me with the widest smile. “This, I believe, may be the key to discovering the location of El Dorado… and, with it, untold fortune and fame.”

“Mr Morecombe,” he said, very matter-of-factly. “I think we should take a little journey.”

The young archaeologist picked up his dusty brown leather satchel and put his water-damaged and crumpled journal back into it. He approached the old brown entrance to the recently uncovered tomb minding his step all the way and making sure not to move too quickly or to disturb the long dormant tomb. When he reached the door, he took out a small brush and began to slowly and gently brush away the layers of sand and dirt that covered the entrance's door. As he brushed away the remnants of the years past, he was shocked to discover that there was writing all over the door. His assistant, a short frail man with round glasses, approached the door from behind the young archaeologist. As he approached, he said "My God, this isn't Egyptian, I don't know what it is but I've never seen anything like it." The young archaeologist studied the door in front of him. Indeed, it was a language he had never encountered in his studies, he knew instinctively the language in front of him was one that had been lost to the tides of history. The language had the appearance of a mix of modern braille and ancient Egyptian hieroglyphics. Each character consisted of a small drawing, like those found in ancient Egyptian hieroglyphics, accompanied by a series of dots or scratches in and around the drawing. It seemed as though the characters were drawn first and the dots and scratches were added after to assign some sort of differentiation to each character. Some characters contained the same drawings, like that of a round saucer-like vehicle but one had three dots in the upper right region above the craft while another had a straight line beneath the craft with one dot on each side of the craft. What happened next was truly perplexing. As the young archaeologist stood in front of the door examining the characters that were etched into the door the most amazing thing happened. As if he had put the words into google translate and had been given a translation the characters on the door suddenly changed to English. In all the time it takes to snap a finger the door turned from an ancient artifact with an illegible language on it to a huge collection of English words and numbers that carried on in a seemingly endless passage. “Daniel” said the young archaeologist, his voice shaky and quiet. “What’s wrong William? This is a wonderful discovery!” replied the small assistant who was visibly excited and almost bumping into the walls of the tunnel around him as he exhibited the excitement he felt at the discovery “You will have made a name for yourself, and at such a young age, remarkable!” “Can you read it?” asked William in a quick, chilling manner. “Well of course I can’t” replied Daniel, “this is no language I have seen before.” “I can read it; I can read the whole thing and the message it portrays is a truly disturbing one. It says that according to the knowledge found in a book beyond this door that the world will be forced to encounter a celestial danger of which we must be prepared or else the knowledge found within and the knowledge found everywhere else will be lost. The door states that if the words beyond are not heeded that the earth and everything on it will perish.”

In a library full of books, one stood out, it was like a neon glow in the dark. “Read it!” My friends blabbed. “I won’t know the language.” I said as I blew raspberry. “De’ saam kajam” I’d read “X marks the spot” my friend Tessa M. would say “I know it?!” We would all stare at the X on the map. “Sal ja’ff Tam Marcelo” I would read again “Tam Marcelo is my grandfather! He has been missing for years” Tessa M. would yell confidently “Fe ta’am ema falo” i would read again “You must kill Kacys father” Tessa M. would croak… A few months later we headed towards my fathers house, as I held the pistol and pointed it at my father pleasure danced with pain. I knew he was a bad person, he left me and my mom. I handed the pistol to Kaylen, a friend of mine. I closed my eyes as I heard the sound of the bullet. As I opened my eyes, all I saw was red.