Audiobook: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uGkAfme9hk8&list=PL3aPtOos4Hv6Fryyrc0vktY3p6KtYD1DY&index=1
“You can trust me on this one, Fredricks, for I have read from the thing myself.” Martin trembled a bit as the last few words passed his teeth and lips, whispered as if with a dying breath. “Not only does it exist, but it does what the rumors always suggested,” Martin hesitated. “And more…”
Fredricks scoffed slightly, as if he were about to laugh, but caught himself when he noticed the absolute seriousness on his old friend’s wrinkling face. “You mean to tell me you’ve actually seen the text with your own eyes?” It was clear that while he trusted Martin with his life the claim was pushing his ability to suspend disbelief.
“Yes!” Martin hissed through his tightly sealed jaw. “You’ve trusted me on far more unbelievable truths than an old occult text.”
This was unquestionable to Fredricks, who dared a moment to remember their discovery a decade past in an old Egyptian tomb, but quickly pushed it from his mind.
“Believing you found a manuscript related to the ancient one is something entirely separate from believing it does as folklore and mythology suggest.”
This was also unquestionable, and Martin furrowed his brow in frustration. “Let me prove it to you.”
Fredricks paused as if time itself was frozen. For a flashing instant he felt as though he had ascended from the third dimension, considering all possible outcomes in his immediate future as far as the mind could comprehend, to determine the possible risks ahead. Surely this was just another dusty old book – myths of that wretched thing, written on human flesh and in an ink of striking violet, were well enough known in the area for there to be elaborate fakes, or even an original and objective inspiration. And yet if there was a chance that the thing was authentic to the tales the fallout from interaction with it could be irreversibly detrimental to both of them.
Martin grew slightly impatient, “I must know your answer old friend. Are you coming on this journey with me?”
The question snapped Fredricks back into his body, and as he looked into Martin’s eyes with overwhelming nostalgia, he could not help but agree to accompany the man on what may be their last adventure.
The walk from the café to their location took an hour’s time, and Fredricks could not ignore how much better Martin handled the distance and pace than he did, at the same age. A chill rushed down his spine in relation to this realization and in connection with the text they were supposedly about to observe. If this were truly the ancient tome, old tales agree that helping with the effects of aging would be one side effect. Another part of Fredricks could not help but feel his old mate may be planning some sort of ruse at his expense.
“Not much further,” croaked Marin to Fredricks, as if the former had read the latter’s thoughts. “My associate likes to live off the beaten path, it allows him to experiment with the book at will.”
Fredricks had been lost in thought for a while it seemed and, looking up, was surprised to see the houses growing further apart, and the city slowly disappearing into the distance behind them. Ten more minutes and Martin turned off the main dirt road onto a private one, leading a way back to a large farmhouse at the base of the mountains.
“Who is this associate of yours?” Fredricks was not fond of meeting new people, and he was surprised Martin would not have mentioned this to his well-known companion. “I had assumed we would be seeing the book alone in some library.”
“Impossible, though I am quite happy that is the case. Surely if the relic was in a dusty library or museum like ours we would never have known that the thing was authentic.” Martin smiled, acknowledging the dissatisfied look on Fredricks’ face regarding his lack of an answer. “The man’s name is Douglas, never shared a last one.”
“That is not a lot of information to go on. How do you know him, Martin?” They were now crossing through a closed but unlatched gate – company was expected.
“I met him through a young student at the library. Imagine that, an undergraduate with something to contribute!” Martin could not hide the smirk on his face. “Apparently the boy did a research report on ancient texts once, and Douglas was one of his interviews. Did not have much to share with me, but I couldn’t pass on the opportunity to meet him.”
Fredricks would have preferred to ask more questions, but the moment they ascended the porch steps Martin knocked firmly upon the entrance in a strange pattern. It was only a moment before an extremely old, bent man with failing eyes and a thick grey beard opened the door with a wide, near-toothless grin.
“Fredricks, this is Douglas.” Martin gestured for the former and Fredricks shook the frail hand of the man before him. “Douglas is blind and can no longer speak, this is how we ended up coming to work together.”
Fredricks looked at Martin out of the side of his eye. “How do you communicate?”
“Douglas hears just fine, and his writing is rather jagged but easily decipherable with minor patience.” Douglas smiled at the two other men in agreement and understanding, and slowly turned to invite them into his home.
The place was almost barren, there was extraordinarily little furniture and what existed appeared ancient and crumbling. Not a single picture was observed by Fredricks’ piercing gaze, and again he felt a deep fog of discomfort, as if what Martin found may actually be real.
Turning down a small hallway old man Douglas opened a door and entered, slowly feeling for a light for his sighted guests. The door swung out towards Fredricks, and until Douglas and Martin were already through Fredricks was unable to see the nature of this room. Upon realizing it was a stairwell to the basement his heart skipped a beat. For a moment he considered making up some excuse to leave, or simply turning and making for the front door. Yet Martin was an old friend and claimed to know Douglas enough to trust the man. Fredricks could hardly consider his school buddy was leading him to a place he may be harmed, and so with a deep breath Fredricks followed in the footsteps of the others.
The basement was massive, it must have stretched under the entire farm from what Fredricks could tell. Douglas sat down in a comfortable looking and worn chair he easily navigated his way to, and Martin walked over to a large table and set down his jacket, clearly familiar enough with the area to be comfortable.
“So where is this book of Mr. Douglas’, Martin? I have dinner with the family in an hour or so and it is a long walk back.” Fredricks was lying, but there was nothing which could keep him in that basement any longer than necessary.
“Relax my friend, it is just over here,” and with a deep exhalation Martin reached for a large book on the nearby shelf, covered with a sort of cloth. The very aura of the thing drew Fredricks in immediately, and he met Martin at the large table – which he now saw was an altar of sorts – in a few excited strides. Martin set the thing down on the table for Fredricks to investigate, and the latter immediately reached out for it. Martin pulled the cloth aside, and Fredricks let out an audible gasp.
The thing was stunning. Despite its size the pages, including front and back covers, were absolutely made from the skin of some animal. This was not completely unheard of with old books of the area, and it certainly did not prove this was human skin on which was written the psalms of the Purpurean Priest. On the cover were intricate geometrical symbols Fredricks had trouble tracing with his eye, glowing in a brazen amethyst as if it could light up the room were the switch off and high thin windows curtained.
The touch of the tome was awful, and Fredricks could only so much as use a fingertip to turn the pages. None of it was in English from what the aging professor could tell, and what language it was he could not determine himself. As he gazed upon the empurpled hieroglyphics he fancied they may be older than even Sumer, for it appeared to be a primitive take on Cuneiform. Fredricks blinked to wet his eyes, for as he stared they had begun to blur, creating the images of squirming and writhing among the beautiful lettering as if the words were living beings.
Martin was smiling widely, and as he looked up, Fredricks noticed that Douglas was staring directly at him, as if the previous footsteps of the former still lingered in the ears of the latter. “You were chanting,” Martin said almost reading his friend’s mind again. “That’s how he knows where you are.”
Fredricks face into twisted into one of pure confusion. “Chanting?”
“Yes, chanting from the book.” For a moment, the smile of his ancient friend did not appear so comforting.
Then Fredricks burst out laughing. “You blokes almost had me!” he cried out, grasping at his ribs as the laugher began to make his old body ache. “Where did you get this thing? How long did this take you to set up?” Martin continued to smile, and for a moment Fredricks thought of this as confirmation of the prank and its near success. But as he drew breaths to calm himself Fredricks noticed that he could not stop his laughing. In fact it grew more maniacal, and louder, more rapturous and grating. Fredricks fell to the floor holding his chest as his heart began to ache and tears of horror swelled up in his eyes.
Douglas was standing now and made his way to the crumpled Fredricks and smiling Martin. He signaled for Martin to place the book before him, and without hesitation Martin turned to a page with a large drawing on it and no words. A forest of some kind, mountains in the distance, standing stones in a circle around an altar made from the base of a tree. Masked figures crept on the edges of the woods as if awaiting to spy on some precession by moonlight, the masks being the only coverings of males and females alike. The image took up three-fourths of the page, with another image taking up the entirety of the far left, a drawn frame separating the being within from the midnight altar rituals. It resembled a large human dressed exactly the opposite of its worshipers – fully robed and without a mask, so far as the image was concerned no face was rendered, instead hiding in shadow beneath a hood of deep violet. Its robes extended into the picture proper, meeting like clasped human hands above the blasphemous wooden altar.
Douglas now put his hands on the page and began to chant. Martin just remained there smiling as if frozen in time, just like his mother always promised when he made strange faces at her as a child. Fredricks’ body laughed and spasmed on the floor, but his mind was completely separated from it. All he could think of was a way to get out, a way to end this cursed fit which mocked all joyousness in the world. As he forced his head to look around the room, Fredricks noticed others emerging from the shadows at the edges of the basement, shadows he swore were not there when he originally descended the creaking steps.
Looking up he could clearly see Douglas lost in trance to his psalm, cantor to a hideous religion that Fredricks could no longer doubt was true. Douglas’ previously milky eyes now glowed a deep indigo, and he spoke faster than a sane human should be able to form words. The things he said were horrible, and despite not understanding the language Fredricks felt he could somehow interpret the words now and then. “Great gulfs of space… consciousness cycling through the third dimension… the great Priest of Purple…” and what truly horrified him was something about the “sacrifice freshly offered.”
It was this that snapped Fredricks out of his trance – his will to live another day. As the lavender-masked congregation closed in, Fredricks was able to rise from his writhing and pull his trusted revolver from its place on his waist. Douglas did not appear to notice, and Martin stood as frozen as before, a mindless slave long gone to the witchcraft of this crippled aging prophet. Fredricks pulled the trigger, splattering Douglas’ brains across the altar, floor, and face of his former friend. In this moment Martin fell to his knees, and right before Fredricks’ eyes deteriorated from skin to muscle to bone to ash. The congregation shrieked and scattered as Fredricks shot two more warnings into the floor above while rushing up the stairs and out the front door as fast as he could.
Nobody followed Fredricks, though he continuously looked behind him to be sure. Nobody had known he was with Martin that day, and nobody had known even of the existence of Douglas and his house of horrors, outside of cult members who would never come forward in connection with the crimes. He had not thought to take the book with him, but Fredricks instinctively knew he had just ended the life of the only remaining man able to read from the text, to work whatever magic existed within it.
It was dark now, and as Fredricks walked on he could not help but feel the journey back was taking twice as long. He and Martin had walked straight on the streets from the city to Douglas’, and yet on return he had already been walking two hours, the city nowhere to be seen. On and on he walked, and though he was not one familiar with the stars of the night sky, a strange feeling passed over him that the constellations were not those he was familiar with in childhood.
Soon the city appeared on the horizon, and for reasons unknown Fredricks felt a greater and greater sense of dread the more steps he took in its direction. Peering closer he noticed the skyscrapers leaning slightly, the higher floors appearing to be in a state of extensive ruin. The street cracked beneath his feet, and homes which once populated the outskirts of the city now left no hints of existence besides crumbled stone foundations.
Fredricks continued to slowly walk, remembering the terrors of the old days, the tyrannical leadership of the great city and poverty starved children in the streets, the great upheaval and war and the fallout that came after. Even as he turned down the street where he had lived once with his wife and children Fredricks felt nothing – indeed he found he could not even remember their names or faces. Now Martin’s was fading fast from his mind, their friendship lost to the mists of time, and all that remained was that horrible smiling face.
As his legs grew weary and he could no longer journey, Fredricks sat down on the outside perimeter of what must have been a park, maybe one he played with his wife and children in. As much as he racked his brain he could not picture them though, and when he tried to remind himself of it, Fredricks realized even his own name was no longer recorded to memory. Looking down at his feet, the man began to weep, and between heaving gasps and tears, opened his eyes for one brief moment. A strange carved slab lay at his feet, the carven words painted in with a shining shade of violet. To his left and his right, to his front and behind him lay similar stone slabs as far as the eye could see. He adjusted his position so he could observe what the hallowed text read – “Anna Marie, Jocelyn, and Jayson Fredricks” – and though it sounded familiar, he could not recall why. All he remembered was old man Douglas’ secret language, that for some reason the man no longer remained to help him return home.
And with that the nameless man laughed wildly once more, his gasps and snorts echoing off the walls within the ancient and abandoned city, until his heart stopped, and a veil of deep purple covered his eyes, embracing him as its own child.