Dead Men Tell No Tales

[WP] “Any book worth banning, is a book worth reading.” “I understand that, Mr. Asimov, but we can’t introduce the Necronomicon to our curriculum”

*****

"They banned Maus, To Kill a Mockingbird, and so many other novels that portray a crucial part of the world's history," Mr. Asimov pressed. "What is so different about this one? I must teach it. I must.

Principal Margot sighed. She took off her glasses, slowly exhaled onto the glass surface, and wiped them with a pocket handkerchief. She looked tired

"We've given you more leeway than most in your curriculum, Asimov. But the board cannot condone that we teach banned books of fiction. The Necronomicon isn't real.

"Of course, it's real. It's banned. It has to be real.

"It's fictitious. Made from the mind of what some would call a madman. It doesn't exist.

"All books are created from the minds of men and women. It is not for us to decide who was mad and who was not. My class aims to teach and enlighten. I cannot do that with such restrictions--

"We are restricting one book. The Necronomicon will not be touched in your class. And that's the end of it, Mr. Asimov.

Principal Margot turned away from Asimov then, and he knew the conversation was over. Her long oak desk seemed to elongate as she turned her back to him. There was no reaching her

Mr. Asimov stood, bowed even though she couldn't see, and left

That night, as Asimov sat in the study of his own home, he opened his small 6-year-old laptop. Asimov wasn't a man of technology, he found the world advanced without him but the only thing he remained up-to-date with was literature. Newly released titles of works of fiction, nonfiction, history, memoirs, Asimov devoured them all

His study was larger than his bedroom, for in his modest two-bedroom house he had elected the master to be his place of study. The walls were lined top to bottom in shelves and those shelves sunk under the overbearing weight of books upon books. There were some titles that Asimov had read only once, there were some that had been ripped open time and time again. Piles of books covered the floors as the shelves could no longer hold them

But at that moment, Asimov had only one book on his mind. The Necronomicon

He was familiar with Lovecraft. He'd read and even once taught the works of the father of horror fiction. He'd taken his classes on the journey of the Cthulhu Mythos. He was aware of various mentionings of the Necronomicon. But he'd never been inclined to read it

That is, until Germany, Sweden, and most of Eastern Europe had suddenly banned the book. Principal Margot forbade him to teach it, but that didn't mean he couldn't read it himself

Asimov wondered if eBay was still relevant. It was not uncommon for him to bring up technologies or websites that he'd heard about years prior only to find out that they were long obsolete. But to his joy, he found the site was still running with a wide variety of inventory

When he searched for the Necronomicon, one entry appeared

€75,623. It was in euros. Off the top of his head, Asimov knew it was approximately eighty-five thousand dollars. It was just above Asimov's yearly salary -- his yearly salary without deducting taxes, that is. He couldn't afford that. There was no way

Asimov retired from his study in a disappointed daze. He usually ended his night with a book pulled from a floor-pile or a shelf, but that night, nothing interested him. His mind wanted one thing

He fell asleep in a desperate desire, uncomfortable and incomplete, empty and wanting

THUMP

He woke with a start. The sound was loud, coming from somewhere outside his bedroom. The hall? The study? Was he being robbed? No... Asimov listened for any further sounds, any indication that it was a human footstep. But nothing followed

Asimov slowly lifted his blankets, and creeped toward the door. He waited. Listened. Nothing

He flipped the lights into the hallway. The flourescent bulb cast blank, white light onto the white walls. The floor underneath the carpet creaked with each step. There was something deep within Asimov that told him something wasn't right

He checked the kitchen, the living room. But there was nothing

At last, he checked the study

At first glance, it looked as if nothing had happened in their either, but just as Asimov was about to turn away, something caught his eye. He saw what had made the sound. A pile of books sitting on the floor had fallen, its contents were strewn across the carpet

But there was something else. He didn't feel right. It felt like there was something behind him. Asimov turned. Nothing. But the feeling was there. Behind him. Breathing. Standing. Waiting

He whipped around again. Nothing. Behind him. Nothing. Behind him

It felt as if there was something. All around. Behind. But there was nothing. Asimov saw nothing. But he felt it. Something entirely inexplicable, something he'd never felt before. His heart rate exploded. It felt as if his chest would burst as his heart moved at a rate he'd never experienced. That's when he saw it

It was sitting on the shelf directly above where the pile of books had been knocked over. He'd almost glanced over it, for the dark walls hid the dark cover. But it was large, bound in an old dark oak cover. The edges looked worn and erroded. Asimov knew it was a book he'd never touched before. And he'd read every book in the study

As Asimov stepped closer, the feeling grew to new heights. It felt as if every single instance of time and space that wasn't in his direct vision was filled with... something. Something unnatural. He couldn't explain it. It wasn't rational

But there were things there. Things that couldn't be seen by the human eye, things that didn't exist in the material world. But they were there

Asimov couldn't help himself. It seemed as if he were on a destined path as he stepped toward the book. He wasn't consciously reaching for it, but his hand grasped the nape of the title anyway. He pulled it from the shelf

It felt as if the only thing that could help was opening the book. Turning to the first page. That would do it. He felt the weight of darkness behind him. The weight of shadows and wights and darkness. It was as if he had an internal itch, an itch so profound and deep that could only be scratched by consuming whatever was in those pages. He didn't want to read them. He didn't want. He needed. He needed to consume

As he opened the first page, the brittle white pages flipped on their own. The black ink was scribbled in a language he didn't recognize. The book read itself, but in a way, Asimov understood it. He felt what was behind him, in him. He felt the dread seep into his bones, his skin, his eyes. There was something around him. He realized it had always been there, but no normal human could know, no normal human could understand

But now Asimov understood. He understood it all, death, darkness, the unconscious horror of what lies beyond the realm of man

He understood

He wished he didn't

*****

THE END.

..................!............"""""."*

He understood.

He wished he didn't.