Photo by William Krause on Unsplash

I write this down as a solemn warning that once you know the truth, there will be no regress to that pure innocent bubble that you once knew. The veil will have been lifted, and you will see. A peek behind the curtain will be your reward, but before you proceed, know this: many people read that crimson book, and go mad from what they learned. By some miracle, I escaped with my sanity in check, but the ruins of my life, as it is now, taunt me every day. All that I am about to say is likely better left unsaid, yet if I still haven’t swayed you, I hope I can serve as a signpost in the crushing darkness for those coming after, a faint light pointing the way in a suffocating black sea. 

Looking back I should have seen the omens: the unnatural mugginess, the curling of pages into ash. If only then I knew what that hole-in-the-wall book shop, smashed between an Applebees and a convenience store in the middle of Midmorrow airport portended for me, I would have stayed put at my gate. Every day I retrace my steps in my head, searching for answers, wondering if all this insanity could have been avoided, but to be honest, part of me thinks I must have been mad from the jump. I remember feeling off that day like every move was a struggle. Back in those days, I was a writer of middling success, coming off the last leg of a book tour. I was supposed to leave that morning, but my flight got delayed due to a malfunction. The prospect of facing a five-hour delay with a suitcase full of my own unsold books seemed maddening, so on that day, I found myself pacing that modest terminal in that tinytown in the middle of Nebraska, searching for anything to read. 

That’s when I saw it, the easily-missed red sign in cracked lettering that read Heartland books. It seemed as if I was the only one that could glimpse it for the few other souls populating that barren terminal merely walked by, eager to enjoy Applebees’ latest microwaved delight or stock up on a mountain of candy and trashy magazines detailing all the hottest celebrity mental breakdowns, dissected for the public’s elation. I can’t say for sure, but it was as if that tiny sign and that tiny shop called to me. I had made it a bit of a habit to venture to out-of-the-way bookstores. Whether it was a cellar full of books in a divorcee’s second house or a trailer full of tomes on the side of the highway, doing events at these places made the rest of the process somewhat bearable. From the perverts to the disassociated to the loopy, you see a level of honesty you can’t quite get anywhere else. 

The door rang as I entered seeming to alert the only other person in the shop, an abnormally tall thin man, with a smile that seemed to stretch into the horizon. He had a crop of thinning grey hair that peaked out from a cap and sported a long thin red cane. He gave me an eclectic grin and bowed low. 

“Ooooh, a customer!” He said, almost giggling at the sight of the first human he had seen in days, “I am Amadeus Wayworth. Welcome to Heartland Books, where our books tend to strike…at the heart of the matter at hand indeed.” 

“Ah yes, Mr. Wayworth, my flight got delayed so I was hoping to pick up one of your fine books here to entertain me while I wait,” I said, mustering as much politeness as I could. 

It was at this very moment I caught a whiff of smoke. My eyes widened a bit and my nose wrinkled. The scent was unmistakable, and for a moment, it seemed like the books on the shelf were crumbling into ash, as if I’d caught a brief glimpse of an alternative world where embers only remained. I blinked, and everything was back to normal, Mr. Wayworth having moved not a muscle since he introduced himself, like a cat about to strike its prey. 

“Marvelous,” Mr. Wayworth said, “We do have a few of our more perfunctory reads up front here, but for an accomplished one such as yourself, Mr, Nefrit, you surely will be interested in something more refined.” Before I could inquire as to how exactly he knew my name, Mr. Wayworth had slunk behind the front desk, down a few steps, and along a walkway flanked by several towering rows of books. I knew that my rushing after him took only a few minutes, but in the moment, it felt like time had been extended to fifteen minutes or even an hour. It became hard to tell, and as I hurried after him initially as I would get close, he would dart away down another aisle muttering to himself, gone in a flash, my only clue being the feline giggle and the incessant muttering to himself. 

It took quite a hustle on my part to catch up with him as he darted down various rows and aisles, but I finally found him perched atop a ten-foot-tall ladder. As he climbed down, I wiped away several beads of sweat that had begun to form atop my brow. With a small hop off the last rung, Mr. Wayworth, book in hand, put a friendly arm around me guiding me further into the bowels of his shop. 

“Ah yes, I’ve found the perfect one. It’s a first edition. The author’s name is Edgar Albert Guest. The title, The Crucible of Life.” Mr. Wayworth’s eyes were wide as if he was watching a grand performance splayed out before him. I hadn’t heard a word he’d said because as we were taking our stroll through the books a door caught my eye. At first passing, it seemed like any old door, made of simple metal and plastic, painted a muted white. As I looked, though, I could hear a voice or a series of voices coming from beyond the door. They were of an earthy, smokey quality, all singing in perfect harmony a song that I could not understand. The word’s sounded unlike any language of man, but something more natural to life itself. It was all rather beautiful, so much so that I fell into a sort of trance. 

“What’s behind that door?” I asked, unable to take my eyes off of it. 

“Oh, nothing. That just leads—“

Before he could finish, I had already made it to the door with my hand around the knob. I turned it slowly. The door gave way to a thin hallway leading further down. It never occurred to me how a bookstore this size could exist in an airport. I tend to consider myself blessed with an abundance of logic, yet in this case, my supply of reason had all but dried up. As I ventured down the corridor, I did take note of the temperature. It seemed to have cooled a bit. The further down I went, the louder the singing grew, drowning out the pleas of Mr. Wayworth to turn back. I followed that hallway for what felt like another hour or so, though, again in reality it must have been minutes. I passed dozens of doors during that time lining the passageway. As I came to each one I could hear the most horrible sounds coming from their depths, gnawing and gnashing, horrible cries for help, and evil laughter. The singing grew louder as well, making these horrendous sounds from behind the doors seem far off as if each dissonant chord had traveled a great distance to let me know of its existence. Something inside me said not to find out the source of these noises for if I did, I knew I would never return, and so I continued on. 

My path twisted and turned for what felt like miles until a wide double door blocked any further advances. The singing had grown so loud by now that I imagined I was in the middle of an opera, on stage with the actors. My ears throbbed with pain, yet even then the song’s beauty shone through drowning my brain in its wonder, calling to me with a message that struck my soul. I turned the knob of the double doors ahead of me, revealing a circular room. As I entered, the singing stopped, as if something had sucked out all the air. The doors shut behind me with a loud thud. As I crept into the room, I noticed a single ray of light illuminating a figure in the center. At this point, it occurred to me how lost I truly was, and so I hurried up to the figure to inquire just exactly how one could leave this surreal place.  

“Excuse me, I seemed to have gotten turned around. I was wondering if you might be able to point me in the right direction.” 

The figure did not move or turn to acknowledge me. I reached out my hand to touch his shoulder, when all of a sudden the figure recoiled away from me, whimpering with his hand covering his face like I was some sort of holy avenger here to smite him where he stood.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…“ 

My voice trailed off as the particular details of the figure’s face finally registered in my conscience. I don’t know how to tell you but this figure was me. I was looking at myself, though, clearly a version of me that had been beaten down by some force or enigma. I was in so much shock that it took many minutes longer to hear what this other me was muttering to itself. 

“We’ve been tricked. This isn’t real. None of this is real.” The figure repeated those words over and over as if all his other senses of language, words, and meaning had evaporated save for these three phrases. His eyes darted back and forth, searching for something that did not exist. It was a peculiar sight, one that instantly caused my head to spin. I was on the ground before I knew what hit me, and everything went black. I could not tell if I came to minutes or hours later. The figure was gone. The single illuminating ray of light remained. As I stood and regained my footing, I looked around for an exit of any kind. To my surprise there was none, the walls were smooth, no trace of the way I came or any other passage. I was trapped. 

The air felt heavy in my lungs as I struggled to breathe. I could tell my reality was cracking, and it might be only mere seconds before I ended up like the figure I had met what seemed like moments earlier. I could feel my brain strangling my senses, throwing up walls left and right. I closed my eyes and attempted to steady my breathing, counting the things I was sure of to keep me grounded. I could feel my consciousness fighting me tooth and nail, as I forced into the forefront thoughts of my kid, who had just turned seven a few weeks prior. I dredged up visions of my book, a work of art that somedays I loathed and others I felt a small inkling of pride. I thought about my ex-wife, her smile, and her eyes. I thought about how lonely I had felt these past few months on tour. I painted broad scenes of all the places I’d been on this tour and all the weird people I’d met.

As I flipped through all the odd faces that ranged from true fans to disinterested kooks, my breath began to even out and my brain loosened its grip. Before me, I noticed a door that was not there before. Looking back, I noticed another, heading back the way I came. I chose to continue onward, buoyed by this small victory, the notions of a plane and a life to get back to vanishing into thin air once more. I was determined to get to the bottom of this. I continued forth. The path led down a long flight of stairs that spiraled around and around leading to another door. 

I opened it, revealing a single room, one that gave me the impression of a small church. As I entered the hair on my neck instantly stood up. I noted rows and rows of metal pews with a lectern up front facing me. The walls were bare, and the ceiling was painted a deep red. I heard the crackling of fire that grew louder the closer I got to the lectern. I turned to see a figure, wearing a deep crimson robe, standing up from a kneeling position. 

“You made it,” he said, removing the hood of his robe and revealing the face of a sickly pale, balding version of me; his voice, though, not my own but instead a smooth baritone, almost melodic in nature as if this version of me was possessed by something else. The figure moved with a speed that betrayed his frail form. It was then that I noticed the book, sitting closed on the lectern. I felt myself drawn to it. The book’s jacket was a deep scarlet, and its spine was marked with various symbols. On the cover, depicted in faded oil colors was a furnace. The more I looked at it, the more my surroundings seemed drained of color. 

“If I read that, do I become you?” I asked, partially in jest, though, at this point, I could not be entirely sure. 

“I’m what happens if you don’t,” he said, with a toothy grin that stretched his lips thin. 

I inched closer to the book, as my hands hovered over the cover I felt an unnatural heat that intensified exponentially the closer my hands drifted to the book. Mere millimeters above the jacket, I felt assured this whole place would burst into a vibrant fireball, and yet as my fingers grasped the book, nothing marred my skin nor burnt my flesh. I opened the first page. It read:

Here lies the Burnt Prophecy.

A record of a world that was turned to ash long ago.

And a vision of when the veil will be lifted. 

I was enraptured by its words. Hours passed as I flipped through its many pages, this otherworldly knowledge filling my brain. Hours, maybe days later, I glimpsed up to see the figure had disappeared. I was alone, my mind brimming like a roiling pot about to overflow. I felt wild, animalistic, a beast fighting for survival. I felt again the urge to stay in that otherwordly church for years, instead, I fled. I ran out of that bookstore, out of that airport, out of that town, and out of that country. I ran for weeks until I couldn’t anymore. I found myself on the other side of the world, and yet every night since, in my dreams, all I can see is that damned book, and a world made of ash. 

What this all means, I cannot tell you. But it unnerved me to no end, and even now, weeks later, I am shaken by what I saw. I went back to the Midmorrow airport several times and that bookstore was nowhere to be found. I asked around and no one’s heard of it. As time wears on, I’m afraid my conscious mind will consign that day to a dream, so this ultimately, is why I pass this knowledge on to you, so that you may know the truth.

Hey everyone,

I hope you enjoyed this story. It is one of my stranger stories, but I actually had a lot of inspiration for this one, the most prominent one being The King In Yellow by Robert W. Chambers.

Anyway, thanks to everyone who has subscribed so far. If you haven’t you can do so easily below, and I’ll see you next week.

Cheers,

Robert