By Martin Linson
Contained below, is the last, entry in Dr. Henry Wilcox’s journal. This journal was recovered from his abandoned home after his disappearance was investigated; the missing person case for Dr. Henry Wilcox’s remains open as a cold case.
My name is Henry Wilcox, I am a specialist in religious and occult studies at Oxford University, not that they’ll admit to the later of my studies. It is December 29th 1924, I am writing this account for the sake of anyone whom might find my body or this journal if not on my body. I must write this down before I am consumed by that which whispers in my mind now. That which was thought as myth, told as legend, passed through religion and mythology, has actually become known to me, to be all true.
Some faiths have completely erased or hidden its existence, or even any recollection of the stories. Only those deep into the occult may have even heard it mentioned, and by that, it can also go by many names. It merely depends on the beliefs of those that tell the stories, The Obsidian Tome, The Black Bible, Codex Beyond the Devil, The Abyssal Verso, I could go on. All of those names refer to the same book. The only tome of its kind in existence, speaking of before, before everything, during the time before light, when all that existed was darkness. Any of the prominent religions would most likely kill anyone who obtained this evidence, as it puts everything into question.
I’m getting ahead of myself though. I must try to maintain focus. As the days wane, I feel my sanity slipping. The visions of the black bastion were happening more frequently and longer each time. I’m beginning to wonder if they are in fact visions, or if merely the page I’ve been in contact with is sending me to its place of origin?
Again, I must maintain focus. It was four months ago, no three months ago when I received the package from my colleague Dr. Edward Chaste from Cambridge. We had collaborated together on several occult projects, much all falling short sadly. We went separate ways as we chose similar studies at different universities; however our continuing research allowed us to reconnect, I would not realize it would be his last package on my stoop ever delivered on September fourth, 1923.
I ripped at the package without any hesitation, or notice to the package’s obviously hastily thrown together container, or that it had lacked an address for return, just his name hastily strewn across it along with my address. Standing over the torn apart parcel I stared down at a slightly imperfect rectangular sheet of some sort. It was pitch black, almost backer than black if it could be said, obsidian looking in nature, but the feel of some sort of tanned skin. It wasn’t that of a human, or any beast known to man, at least for some time now.
I only gave it a slight touch and just merely at that my mind was sent elsewhere. The first time I would see the Obsidian Bastion against the even maddening blacker sky behind it. Unsure even how I was observing anything in darkness like this, but was somehow possible. There was nothing else, a wasteland of nothing besides this jutting out fortress from nowhere. I was frozen in terror, a primal fear beyond that which any human has felt, perhaps except those of our earliest descents. Being in the mere presence of this bastion had me frozen to the core in a fear I’d never even knew existed. My hand instinctively pulled away from the page as I was sent immediately back to my living room package opened up on the coffee table, standing over the page, not taking a seat on the couch behind me as my trousers had also been soaked from my experience.
The shock then hit me as I stumbled away from the table, my foot getting caught on the table leg and tripping me up. I reached out towards my desk to catch myself, only to impale my hand on stand which my letter opener was standing upright. I screamed out in pain as my footing was regained, grasping my hand as I swung around, cursing at that damn page, as I pulled the letter opener out of my hand. A spurt of blood had shot out the back of my hand and suddenly floated above the page, beginning to circle about six inches above the page.
Now again entranced by the page, I walked back forward, having forgotten about my urine soaked trousers, as I placed my bloody hand above the page letting the blood drop. The page seemed to grab hold of the blood and almost suck it out from my hand as it pooled above the page. Pooling still six inches above in a rotation circular pool until it apparently had obtained enough, as the blood spread to the shape of the page, then fell upon it as the page seemed to instantly absorb the blood in almost a flash boil. The room smelt instantly of a repugnant burnt blood smell and as I looked down at the page, I saw for the first time writing. It was some unknown calligraphic form I’d never once seen.
I snapped out of the trance, as I pulled myself away. The pain in my hand returning and pulling me away as the throb of the hole was real. Going to the lavatory I properly cleaned and bandaged my hand after taking a shower to clean up from my experience. Upon my return I moved past the living room and to my study, picking up my glass and bottle of scotch as I returned to the living room, taking a seat on the couch, opened the bottle and poured a glass, setting the bottle on the table.
As I picked up the glass I notched this time a photo peeking out from under the page. Taking care I pulled and tugged at the photo, dislodging it from its trapped place and taking a glance. I appeared to be a photograph of the book as to which this page originated from and it appeared to be much older than I had anticipated. It was stacked pages with what appeared to be pitch black obsidian plates of some sort as covers. Somehow the covers had been drilled through, as some kind of pitch black straps had laced through the back binding it all together. That first night ended like that.
I continued my research, going through my sources for occult, behind the scenes, and even my shady contacts. No one had ever seen or heard of anything like this. I transcribed the script that I’d seen as it faded away, and I would find would return to life when enough blood would be applied again to the page. I did find however the page didn’t react to animal blood, as I’d taken a rat that’d been caught at the university, and cut it open over the page. It’s blood mere spat upon the page and did nothing. It had to be the blood of a human it seemed. I do believe Dr. Chaste has discovered perhaps the first ever known book of any religious or occult type.
I’d heard of strange and crazy things happening from found ancient artifacts, but I’d never once had given any of that actual rational thought, that they were factual. I’d assumed they were tails to garner support for the field or more individuals interested in the study. I had never once thought that any of those whispered stories were true. People vanishing after finding objects with nothing left behind, mysterious deaths of those surrounding discoveries, or researching certain fields of the occult.
I began to believe this more and more as the weeks and months waned on, as I would find myself more and more often staring up in that same primal fear at the obsidian bastion behind the nightmarish black sky. It never became easier to take either, one would think, however it just became worse with each visit. Almost as if each visit was more real, and each was in fact longer. This made me hypothesize that it was only a matter of time before I would most likely end up there permanently, as I’m guessing is what happened to Dr. Chaste as well.
Unsure as to why he would have dismantled the book entirely, perhaps all together it would have a power none should ever have. I knew he was always of sound mind, I can only imagine his thinking behind unbinding it and sending it away would be to keep whatever it was for further away. Each time I tried to decipher the language on the page I would eventually get a splitting headache, as if my brain was trying to crawl its way through my eye. This pain would not subside until I had removed myself from the room with the transcribed text, and remained away from it for some time. Each time I attempted the pain would last longer.
It is now that I write this, as I’ve given up on the study of the text and the page. My head is in constant pain as I just drink scotch after scotch, which dulls the pain slightly at the least. However I know not what day it is, or month any longer, I don’t know how much time I’ve spent there, or in my own home any longer. It feels like I’m there longer now than here, and with each primal frozen jump, I’m terrified that it’s goin
The journal account ends there, as all that was found in Dr. Henry Wilcox’s house was a plethora of empty scotch bottles strewn about his floor, a half emptied glass, this journal, and the pen on the floor. As stated, his missing persons case remains open.
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