Chaosium
by Jesse Bartels
Mark Aron was apprehensive of the tome laid out in front of him. It was bound in leathery skin, and the twisted face on the cover seemed to leer at him, daring him to open it and take in its horrifying contents. Mark knew the evils of this book. It was the Necronomicon, that mysterious scrawling of the Mad Arab, Abdul Alhazred, and Mark had been searching for it for six years. He first learned of it when perusing through Occult literature. The Book was brought up many times in the various books on the subject. Upon learning of it's ominous, fear inspiring power, he knew that his destiny was to recover and read this book. He searched for two years without success. It was not until he studied the occult at Miskatonic University that some inkling of The Book's location came to him. With further searching, he found out that one of five known copies was in Egypt. After graduating from Miskatonic he scheduled a plane trip to Cairo, where he found a secluded bookshop, and purchased the evil volume. He had to part with a great deal of money, but that did not matter. What he had searched for was now his.
Mark looked back down at The Book and ruminated. His whole life had built up to this moment. Was he ready to face this evil? Slowly he reached down and pried open the front cover. After several hours of reading Mark had to close the book. He was shivering in a cold sweat. He knew The Book contained great power and evil, but he had not expected this. Mark shut his eyes tightly. This knowledge could not be shared with any mortal! He grabbed the book and flung it across the room. He stared at it for a few moments, breathing heavily, and then ran to his bedroom, flinging himself under the covers.
He had strange dreams that night. Hellish, demonic dreams. Unspeakable monsters beckoned to him, and he saw something. He couldn't see it clearly, but he knew what it was. The feaster of souls, the Great Old One. Cthulhu, the greatest of all the Elder Gods. One look into the many-tentacled face of the creature could drive any man mad. Mark awoke in a sweat. Or did he? He could not tell if he was still dreaming. Mark shook himself. He knew that soon these dreams would drive him mad. A sudden thirst overcame him and he jumped out of bed. He walked to the kitchen where his water cooler was, and he held down the lever. He heard no splash, no bubble, nothing at all. Mark glanced at the container. The water had frozen.
Confusedly, Mark stumbled back to his bedroom and got back under the covers. Something wasn't right here, he thought. He heard a noise coming from the outside of his window. Mark froze. He couldn't go out there. It wasn't safe there. It wasn't safe anywhere.
Mark slowly inched out of his bed and tiptoed to the door. He gripped the knob, paused, and then shoved it open. He tripped over the stairs and fell. But instead of hitting the ground he kept falling. Falling, falling, falling. A blinding white light then hit him, and he gazed upon a horrifying creature that crawled out from the abyss. Thousands of squirming tendrils protruded from the scaly mass of a visage, and there were many gleaming black spots in the middle of its head, which Mark assumed were eyes. It did not have ears, instead it had two pulsating fins on either side of its head. To Mark's horror, the thing spoke. The ethereal voice that emanated from within could not be described in mortal words, and the language was foreign. However, it was spoken in a way that Mark could comprehend. Here is what it said:
"Ph-nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn."
Everything around Mark was drowned out by his bloodcurdling screams.
Mark was found two days later in his bedroom. He was in the corner, wrapped in a fetal position and rocking back and forth. The only words that came forth from his lips were, "Cthulhu." He was found to be suffering from hallucinations and dementia, and was incarcerated in Arkham Asylum the next day. He died a year later. In his cell the word 'DOOM' had been scrawled in his own blood.
The End