Old Drew Id
First Post
Session 2 (5/14/2003) Pre-Dawn Gloom
Session 2 (5/14/2003) Pre-Dawn Gloom
Joe tried to take a deep slow breath, but the air came in jagged gulps like hiccups or how a kid breathed after crying. He had to get a hold of himself. He had to relax and maintain some control, and get some focus here.
He slowly raised his head up from the sink. The cold water running down over his head had helped. He could still feel the burning under the skin on the back of his neck, and the sticking, tingling-needle feeling in his eyes. His pulse was racing, and he could hear his heart pounding in his ears. His head was swimming in pain. His stomach lurched again, but he fought the nausea with pure willpower.
He looked at his hands. They were cold and pale, clutching the porcelain white-knuckled. There was fresh blood everywhere.
He dared a glance into the mirror. His nose was bleeding, trickling down his lips, down his chin, and dripping onto his shirt. His eyes were dilated too much, and they were bloodshot. He took another ragged gasping breath and again tried to relax.
It was the book. The book was doing this to him.
Joe knew he should throw it away. He should throw it away, or take it back to the library, or just bury it. But he should get rid of it. It was killing him. He knew it was killing him.
But he was so close.
He unrolled a wad of toilet paper and held it up to his nose. He sniffled and felt the blood run down the back of his throat.
Joe turned back to the bathroom door, and gripped the door frame for support. He staggered back into the main room and sat down on the corner of the bed.
The room was in a shambles. Paper clippings were strewn all over the room. The magic book from the library…the Necromonicon or whatever it was, was open on his desk. He had been reading by candlelight. He couldn’t remember now why he had done lit the candles.
Joe wondered if he was going crazy. Was this what it felt like to go crazy? He sniffled again and fought back the urge to gag. He managed a slow and only slightly shaky breath.
The floor was covered in clippings. He wasn’t sure how much money he had wasted, but he had done a hell of a job. Scattered all over the floor were hundreds of pieces of Doctor Strange comic books. Joe had been slicing and dicing them all night. He had cut up every copy of every issue he had. He cut out certain words and phrases. He cut out diagrams and pictures. He couldn’t say why. He didn’t know.
That magic book knew. It inspired him to do it. It wanted him to do it.
He had taken out an old album, like a photo album, but once used for holding and collecting baseball cards. He had spent the last few hours carefully taking those bits and pieces of paper, and rearranging them into this new album. He added in scraps of paper, drawings and words that came to his mind. Ramblings. Piecing together words, putting together phrases. He didn’t know what he was doing. It was all making sense to him, and none of it was making any sense at all.
He had been in some kind of trance. He knew that much. Something like a drug, only more powerful. Something awakening in him, something changing in him. Something horrible and something very, very old.
Joe sat on the corner of the bed and stared at the album and did not move for a long time. He felt the sun coming up on his back, and watched the rays of early morning sunlight slowly edge their way across the ceiling, then outlining his shadow onto the wall.
Joe pulled the bloody tissue away from his face. His nose had stopped bleeding some time long ago. He looked up again at the Necromonicon, or whatever that thing was on his desk, then down again at the album of clippings. And then he knew what it was.
Joe had created a spellbook.
Session 2 (5/14/2003) Pre-Dawn Gloom
Joe tried to take a deep slow breath, but the air came in jagged gulps like hiccups or how a kid breathed after crying. He had to get a hold of himself. He had to relax and maintain some control, and get some focus here.
He slowly raised his head up from the sink. The cold water running down over his head had helped. He could still feel the burning under the skin on the back of his neck, and the sticking, tingling-needle feeling in his eyes. His pulse was racing, and he could hear his heart pounding in his ears. His head was swimming in pain. His stomach lurched again, but he fought the nausea with pure willpower.
He looked at his hands. They were cold and pale, clutching the porcelain white-knuckled. There was fresh blood everywhere.
He dared a glance into the mirror. His nose was bleeding, trickling down his lips, down his chin, and dripping onto his shirt. His eyes were dilated too much, and they were bloodshot. He took another ragged gasping breath and again tried to relax.
It was the book. The book was doing this to him.
Joe knew he should throw it away. He should throw it away, or take it back to the library, or just bury it. But he should get rid of it. It was killing him. He knew it was killing him.
But he was so close.
He unrolled a wad of toilet paper and held it up to his nose. He sniffled and felt the blood run down the back of his throat.
Joe turned back to the bathroom door, and gripped the door frame for support. He staggered back into the main room and sat down on the corner of the bed.
The room was in a shambles. Paper clippings were strewn all over the room. The magic book from the library…the Necromonicon or whatever it was, was open on his desk. He had been reading by candlelight. He couldn’t remember now why he had done lit the candles.
Joe wondered if he was going crazy. Was this what it felt like to go crazy? He sniffled again and fought back the urge to gag. He managed a slow and only slightly shaky breath.
The floor was covered in clippings. He wasn’t sure how much money he had wasted, but he had done a hell of a job. Scattered all over the floor were hundreds of pieces of Doctor Strange comic books. Joe had been slicing and dicing them all night. He had cut up every copy of every issue he had. He cut out certain words and phrases. He cut out diagrams and pictures. He couldn’t say why. He didn’t know.
That magic book knew. It inspired him to do it. It wanted him to do it.
He had taken out an old album, like a photo album, but once used for holding and collecting baseball cards. He had spent the last few hours carefully taking those bits and pieces of paper, and rearranging them into this new album. He added in scraps of paper, drawings and words that came to his mind. Ramblings. Piecing together words, putting together phrases. He didn’t know what he was doing. It was all making sense to him, and none of it was making any sense at all.
He had been in some kind of trance. He knew that much. Something like a drug, only more powerful. Something awakening in him, something changing in him. Something horrible and something very, very old.
Joe sat on the corner of the bed and stared at the album and did not move for a long time. He felt the sun coming up on his back, and watched the rays of early morning sunlight slowly edge their way across the ceiling, then outlining his shadow onto the wall.
Joe pulled the bloody tissue away from his face. His nose had stopped bleeding some time long ago. He looked up again at the Necromonicon, or whatever that thing was on his desk, then down again at the album of clippings. And then he knew what it was.
Joe had created a spellbook.
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