The Book Of Souls

[Pat]

 

The Book Of Souls

 

By P. R. Tucker

 

Prologue

 

Who ever thought reading could hurt a person? Yes, perhaps it could damage their eyes, but no one ever believed reading had the potential to kill. Alas, like many people in this world, they were wrong. There is one book in existence that is pure evil, that falls directly into the category of "reading never hurt anyone"; the only thing is, it did hurt someone. Six people, to be precise. Another analogy that comes to mind here is "curiosity killed the cat". Brett Harvester found that out the hard way, as did his six friends.

 

The book was known as The Book Of Souls. When it was created, no one knows, but the book was used to contain a great evil. A soul stealing demon, that could not be defeated. The final decision was to trap the demon in a book. They soon found out, however, that this was a grave mistake. If a person took even a single look, at a single word, in that book, the soul-stealing demon would possess them. They would be trapped within their own minds, with no means of escape. The demon would focus on reading the entire book, as to steal the victim's soul. Many were victim to this book before it found the hands of Brett.

 

Chapter One

The book is found; a friend is lost

 

John slowly walked away from the high school, backpack sliding off his shoulder every few seconds, filled with an incredibly large amount of homework. A scowl was on his face. He had just left his English teacher's room, after she had lectured him on his essay. That bitch, she just can't understand that I'm not Edger Allen god-damn Poe, can she? There was nothing wrong with my essay, yet she had to just pick and pick away at it, he thought to himself. It was true, his English teacher was very strict. She expected only the best from her students. If only she knew that not everyone was destined to be a famous author. Then again, maybe she knew, but wasn't ready to believe it? John wasn't sure. He was just sure that she was a fat whore. The backpack continued to slide off his shoulder. It annoyed him. Stay on my shoulder, damn it, he thought to himself. He usually couldn't control his volcabulary when his temper was high, and it was high before he even stepped into the class room. He stopped, and finally dropped the backpack to the ground. "You stupid piece of sh*t!" he said, before punting the backpack across the sidewalk. It landed with the thud of books hitting a hard substance, a thud everyone was so used to hearing in high school. He zipped it open, looking at his homework, wondering if there was something he could put off. Unfortunately, there was nothing, but there was his overdue library book. He knew putting it off would only mean paying more when he finally would return it. He stuffed it back into the backpack, threw it back over his shoulder, and was off to the library.

 

He slowly pushed the old, revolving door at the front of the library. He stepped through, the smell of old and new books alike filling his nostrils. It was a smell he was quite fond of. He did have a short temper, but he loved books, reading, etcetera. Most of his friends didn't know, and he proffered it that way. Brett knew, but Brett was the same way, except it was no secret with Brett. John had never seen him without his nose in a book, be it large, small, paperback, or hardback. They took trips to the library every Tuesday, but yesterday, Brett was still recovering from a long battle with the flu. Today was Wednesday, and the book they had checked out last week together was overdue. John disliked turning in overdue books, he thought it made him look irresponsible. He shrugged off that feeling, however, and walked down the long isle to the front desk. There was Mrs.Cambridge, the librarian, typing away at her small computer. John put the book onto the tall desk. "Turning in last Tuesday's book, are we, Brett?" asked Mrs.Cambridge.

"Yes," he replied.

"I will need a twenty-five cent late fee charge."

John nodded, and took a quarter out of the pocket of his jeans. She grabbed the book, and slid it into the chute that all returned books were sent into. "So, where's Brett?" asked Mrs.Cambridge.

"He's still sick," he replied.

"Oh, is he now?"

"Yes."

"That's not good. Well, I suppose whatever you pick out, he'll enjoy."

John half-nodded. There had been many a time where John and Brett had argued over which book to check out, and he wasn't sure how that would go today. He decided something in the older horror genre would please Brett. He made his way around the desk, and into the left isle, the horror section. He finally came across something that struck him with interest; a row of shelves with no books. Intrigued, John went into the row, looking around at the shelves. Not a single had a book in it. He had never traveled this far back, he didn't even know before today that the library went this far back. At last, he came across one dust caked book. He picked it up, and blew the dust off. The book looked to be ancient, maybe even older than that whore of an English teacher, he thought to himself. He read the title. "The Book Of Souls?" he asked himself, "What kind of a name is that?" He opened the book, and two seconds later, let out a horrifying scream. He left the row silently, book tucked under his arm. He went back up the isle, and to the main desk. "Did you find a book, John?" asked the woman.

"Yes."

"What type is it?"

"Horror."

"I never did like the horror genre myself, I always thought it was a bit--"

"Can we hurry this up? I want to get home and start reading."

She looked at him, stunned. He had a bad temper, yes, but he had never sounded like that. Something was different about his voice. Something she didn't like.

"Sorry.. I just think it looks like a good book."

"Yes, well.. I hope its as good as it looks!"

She grabbed the book, and opened it.

"Odd.. the stamp card is gone."

"You can trust me, can't you, Mrs.Cambridge?"

"I don't know, John.."

"Please? I really want to start reading!"

"Well.. This one time, but don't expect it again! I'm counting on you John, don't make me regret this decision."

She would regret that decision more than anything in her life.

 

John reached his house, his nose already in the book. He slung off his backpack by the fireplace, and ran straight into his bedroom. He plopped on the bed, and read. Every little thing drove him crazy, from cleaning up after the dog to taking out the trash. Can't they just give me a minute of peace and quiet? thought John, as he continued to read the book. But there was something different. John wasn't reading the book. It was no longer John who inhabited that body, it was a beast. A beast who was hungry for any soul within his reach. John didn't realize it, but the beast was taking over him slowly. He felt weird, though. He felt as if he wasn't entirely there, like he was fading away, ceasing to exist. He shook his head. That's crazy, he thought, why would I be drifting away? I'm perfectly fine, every thing's normal. But this was a lie. He knew deep down that nothing was normal. He felt panicky, ready to jump at even the slightest noise. He wanted to put the book down. He wanted to go do something else. But he couldn't, it was as if he didn't have the strength to move. He felt as though he had been tied to his bed, with his arms propped up, the book placed squarely in his hands. He wanted to scream. He was losing control of his mind, and he began to realize it. He tried to scream, but all that came out was a muffled yelp. He heard a voice in his mind, a voice that sounded nothing like his own. A voice that sounded like pure evil. It said "I'm in your head John. And I'm taking you over. There's nothing you can do except sit back, and relax. I will have your soul soon." No, no, that's impossible, he told himself in his mind. Souls don't exist. But he could still hear the voice. It was ringing in his ears now. His head hurt like someone had just smacked it with a baseball bat. He began to sweat uncontrollably. What is going on? he asked himself. He had never felt this way before. It was a disgusting feeling, it made him want to puke until he passed out. It was as if something evil was building up inside of him, something that wanted out, something that wanted blood. He was merely the host for the parasite, you could say. And the parasite refused to let go. "No, John, I'm not finished yet. I want your soul, and I'm not leaving till I get it!" John froze. His body went numb. He began to shake, as if having a seizure. The evil presence grew larger, stronger, making him feel like sh*t on a bun, as he would say. He merely cried soft tears as the evil presence took over his body, took all control. John had been forced out of his body.

 

He was confused. Where was he? What was this place? It looked like the library, but with no large middle desk, no Mrs.Cambridge, and no books. In place of the books were large crates, crates bulging at the seams, ready to burst at any given opportunity. He took one of the small ones off a shelf and opened it. Papers flew out, and spilled all over the floor. He picked one up. It was a detailed description of his fifth birthday. "Mommy's bringing the cake, I can see it, it's so big! I can't wait to take a big bite of--", he dropped the paper. It was a memory. He was in his own mind, trapped, with nothing around but crates upon crates of his own memories. He screamed a scream that sounded nothing like him. It sounded like that same five year old child, waiting for the cake. But this scream was not of joy; it was of fear. Pure fear.

 

--

 

I realize it's a bit short, but a wise man once said quality > quantity. Chapter two, coming soon.

Edited November 14, 2007 by EmoPat

[Oxidizer]

Nice set-up, well written. You should be proud!

 

I'll keep an eye out for the next parts.

[Ez[TPP]]

Another story well done Pat

Keep up the good work.

[Pat]

Oxidizer, is there anything you didn't like about it, anything that bugged you? I really want constructive criticism (not like Eminence did for the Wishing Well though, no offense, I did ask for it after all).

[Oxidizer]

 

In all honesty I can't find any faults with what you've got that won't naturally progress to become a 'better' piece with experience. I think it's pretty good. The only real 'problem' I had was that I couldn't get into it easily - but that's purely because it's not my usual sort of thing.

 

I hope that didn't sound patronizing - it was meant as a compliment - I just suck at explaining. You should see some of my stuff from this time last year - they're basically piss-poor scripts with equally bad description slapped in with it. No joke.

 

So yeah, I haven't really got any advice, other than practise makes perfect? Or something to that effect.

[Ryunday]

Nice story Pat.

 

I know you want some constructive criticism, but I really don’t have any. Except, like Oxi, I find it kind of hard to get into. But, again like Oxi, I think that might be because its not really my sort of thing.

[Eminence]

Oxidizer, is there anything you didn't like about it, anything that bugged you? I really want constructive criticism (not like Eminence did for the Wishing Well though, no offense, I did ask for it after all).

So you don't want an honest opinion - you want it to be sugar-coated?

[Pat]

Oxidizer, is there anything you didn't like about it, anything that bugged you? I really want constructive criticism (not like Eminence did for the Wishing Well though, no offense, I did ask for it after all).

So you don't want an honest opinion - you want it to be sugar-coated?

That's not exactly what I meant, Em. What I mean is, I don't want ten paragraphs on how the story is the worst piece of sh*t ever written. I do want to know what I can improve on, but not if there's so much I need to improve on that I should just give up writing completely.

[Eminence]

And you feel that's what my critique on your latest story was? Come on man, all of it was constructive - what else do you expect from me? My critiques have been that way since day one.

[Pat]

 

And you feel that's what my critique on your latest story was? Come on man, all of it was constructive - what else do you expect from me? My critiques have been that way since day one.

I know, I know, but when you see that much criticism, it makes it feel like it's personal. I know, it's not, but it felt like it.

 

Granted, The Wishing Well was a piece of sh*t, so it deserved every bit it got. I'm halfway through the second chapter, so I'd like you to go ahead and comment on the first, to make sure the second is the best it can be (if you think this is worth continuing).

 

By the way, you should really get on MSN more often.

[Pat]

Sorry for the double post, I'd edit my post above and add it, but a bump couldn't hurt. Besides, it's been six days.

 

Chapter Two

The book's appetite grows

 

John had sat on the floor of what he guessed was his imagination for what seemed like hours. It was just too much to take in all at once. It wasn't possible.. was it? Could a book really have taken his body over? No, no, that was absurd. It was just a book. But what about this... this place? What was this place? Where was he? These were all questions he asked in that period of time, although no matter how much he asked them, he could not find an answer. He tried to reassure himself that it was only a dream, that he must've fallen asleep on his bed while reading. But deep down inside, he knew that this was no dream. Whatever it was, it was nothing close to a dream. A nightmare, at best.

 

He had found on two occasions within the time he spent sitting, that if he concentrated, he could see what his body was doing. He could see what the book was doing in his body. It sickened him to think of that. The first time, he still had his nose in the book. John saw symbols on the page that he was unable to decipher. They reminded him of hieroglyphics. The second time, he had been eating dinner with his family, throwing an occasional glance at the book laying on the table beside him. These periods were only temporary, and he had difficulty each time. It was as if the thing in his body was trying to push him back, to keep him where he was. But why? What did the thing not want him to see? He had a feeling that it was something important; something that could cost him his life. He sighed, and closed his eyes, and began to concentrate.

 

The thing was laying on the bed once again, but something was different. He was on the next-to-last page, but instead of the symbols, there was a blinding white light. John began to feel a smirk cross his face. The thing turned the page, and the light flashed. John shook his head, finding himself back in his imagination. He turned around, and gasped in horror at what he saw. It was fading away, becoming grey, as if a heavy fog was covering it. The crates would fall, then dissapear. He turned in the opposite direction, and began to run. The fog began to follow him faster, and faster. A few times, he even felt half of his foot go off the edge of what had dissapeared, and what was still there. He ran, and ran, until he came across a second fog, heading straight for him. He looked left and right, finding fogs coming from that direction too. The thing was erasing his memory, and he was ceasing to exist. He screamed, a scream that would seem inhuman to anyone who would be unlucky enough to hear it. It was painful to the ears. It sent chills down his spine, and yet, he couldn't stop. There was no point in even trying now. He looked down, noticing nothing beneath his knees. Before he could blink, he saw nothing below his waste. As the fog crept up his torso, a single tear rolled down his cheek. And just like that, John Peterson was wiped from existence, and only one person on earth remembered him; Brett Harvester.

 

 

• • •

 

Brett lay in bed, watching TV, his temperature slowly decreasing, right around the time John was watching the demon in his body eat dinner with his family. Something felt wrong, and it wasn't just his aching, feverish body. He thought something was wrong with John. He got out of bed, stood up, got dressed, and decided to take his temperature. It was 99.1 F. Well, that's no so bad, he thought to himself. I guess it wouldn't hurt to go ask Mrs. Peterson if anything's wrong. He put on a jacket, and left his bedroom.

 

He stepped into the brisk November air, and took a large breath. The cold air filled his lungs, and he smiled. It was too nice of a day - despite the time being 8:17 PM - to be cooped up inside, especially when the last time he had a breath of fresh air was last Thursday. He sighed, and walked down the steps onto the cobble stone path leading to the driveway. Upon exiting his room, he had heard his mother's snoring, a sign that she had continued her usual routine of falling asleep during an episode of "The Andy Griffith Show". He was thankful for this. If she was awake, she would've heard nothing of him even taking a step out of bed. He opened the garage, and flicked the light switch up. Nothing happened. He swore under his breath, and started fumbling around, trying to find his bike. He heard a small scraping noise - a rat, perhaps - and turned over to his right. At first, he didn't believe he was seeing it. Then his eyes began to focus to the dark. It looked as though there was a face on the wall. Not just any face, however; John's face. He began to feel scared. Suddenly, he heard the crackle of electricity running through aged wires, and the lights came on. It was just an illusion. His mind playing tricks on him. He pushed it out of his mind, and found his bike. He wheeled it out of the garage, and flicked the light off. He turned around to where he had seen John's face, but now saw nothing. He shrugged, and closed the garage door.

 

 

• • •

 

He pulled into the gravel driveway beside the Petersons' house, hearing the small rocks shift around the dirt underneath them as his bike coasted toward the back of the house. He finally came to a stop at the side, and leaned his bike against the wall in between the two overgrown hedges. He walked around to the front of the house, and knocked on the door. No answer. He cupped his hands, and looked through the glass panel that covered half the door. It was dark. He knocked harder, with still no reply. He sighed, and walked back to his bike. He pulled it away from the wall, and reached his leg over the seat, when he heard a loud scream. An almost inhuman scream, that sent shivers down his spine. It only lasted a second, and then it was gone. He slowly reached his leg back over, and propped the bike back up against the wall. He took a step onto the gravel, hearing the loud crunch of the small rocks. He winced, and looked toward the back of the house where he first heard the scream. Silence. He eased up a little, and continued walking to the window of John's bedroom. In Junior High, John had always used the window to sneak out at night in order to go to Brett's house, and vice versa. He couldn't remember the last time he had crawled through. Back then, the window looked so tall. Now, it was only a few inches above his waste. He grasped the bottom of the window, and pushed up. Nothing happened. He grunted, and pushed harder. The window began to creak with protest, then slid up quickly. Brett nearly fell into the open window, not expecting this. He climbed in, grabbed a book off John's floor, and used it to prop the window open. He looked around. He could see the imprint of John's body on the sheets of his bed, but there was something else there as well. At first, Brett couldn't believe his eyes. It just wasn't possible. It was the upper half of John's torso, slowly fading away before his eyes. And before he could blink, it was gone. He heard something behind him, and turned around. The book he had used to prop open the window was shaking feebly. He walked over to it, and pulled it out from under the window. It crashed down with a loud "Thud!", but Brett payed no attention. The second he had grabbed the book, it had stopped shaking. He looked at the cover of the book. "The Book Of Souls," he said to himself, "what the hell?".

 

Brett was a Christian, and he believed heavily in his religion. If someone were to tell him the story of the book, he would've believed them right then and there. He tried to open the book, but the cover wouldn't budge. He pulled harder, and the cover still refused to move. Eventually, he manages to open it, and only realizes the grave mistake he has made by doing so after he puts three of the fingers on his right hand into the book. With a loud "THWACK!", the cover closes on Brett's fingers, crushing them. The sound of splintering bone can barely be heard over Brett's scream. Pain shot up his arm and down his spine, making colors flash in his eyes, and making him feel dizzy. He tried to pull it off with weakened strength, but found himself in the same position he was in not two minutes earlier. All of a sudden, he heard the sound of tires crunching on small pebbles. Tires, and an engine. It was Mrs. Peterson! Brett quickly ran to the window, the book dangling on his fingers, numbness taking over his entire right arm. He shoved the window up with a surprising jolt of energy, and climbed out onto the yard. He heard the car door of Mrs. Peterson's Toyota Camry slam shut, and quickly ducked into a bush beside the window. He saw her walk up to the door, not five feet from his face, then enter the house. The window slid a little in the frame, then came crashing down. The glass cracked heavily the first time, without Brett noticing. This time, it shattered completely, showering him in small twinkles of glass. He heard rapid footsteps, and the sound of John's bedroom door hitting the wall behind it. He took the opportunity, and ran for his bike. He hopped on, and was reminded of his right arm's numbness. It was going to be impossible to ride with only one hand! He thought, and slipped the book in between the wires for his brakes. Instead of grabbing the right side of the handle bar, he merely propped his hand up against it, for balance. He peddled as fast as he could to his house, hearing blood drip from the book. He took a second to think, and turned around to head for the hospital. He prayed they would be able to remove the book, but he had a feeling it wasn't going to budge.

[grim reaper22]

Good side of me:nice story,I like how it goes in a good glide together here

 

bad side:In the begining you said six people priecisly,but then after you said

 

on man and his six friends,see 1+6=7,but you said 6,7 not being 6 this causes a tantrum but because of that here and :breadcat:

[Pat]

I never said Brett was one of the six victims, did I?

[Oblivionz]

Great story, Pat. I like the way it all flows together. Keep posting it!