Monday, 29 April 2013
These words were found, written on the floor of the library of Farsteton Manor in the Cornish Peninsula, by a worker who was sent to search the place for the person of Armin Farsteton.
Mr. Farsteton was last transported there by a farmer who promised to take him back to town two days later of leaving him in the estate, but could not find anybody when he came to search for his customer, and the house was closed and locked.
It seemed to have been written with the fingernails due to the small drop of blood around them. There was not signs of human presence nor was ever heard from the whereabouts of Mr. Armin Farsteton aside from what is recounted here.
I remember clearly the day the letter arrived in the house, even remember the red face of the postman who rang the bell to deliver it.
There was no one but me to answer the call, I am Armin Farsteton, the last one still alive belonging to the Farsteton family, owner of great fortunes dilapidated by each one of my predecessors cursed by the evil of dementia, an illness that finished my family. It seemed I am being spared that fate, until now, at least.
I lived alone in my house near Borlandy Square, and that is why I opened the door and found the postman still astride on his bicycle, and waiting to give me a letter with the seal of a very well known firm of solicitors, and the 'delivery done' paper for me to sign.
If anyone thinks I was in the least curious or interested in the contents of the letter is absolutely wrong! I was past that phase of any interest in worldly things, so I just throw the envelope on the tobacco table between my briars, and went to sit by the fire to resume my lecture of the incunabulum I have just bought.
I must say that this was my only weakness, I love old books, and I am spending my lasts resources in those wonderful pieces of history of Literature.
It was almost dawn when I finished my task of studying the book, and wrapping it carefully in its "mouton" I put it in a privileged place in my library.
In that moment I saw the letter on the tobacco table, I was just on the brink of going to sleep, forgetting it until the morning, or the afternoon, whenever I wake up, when a strange urge made me take it and opening the envelope I read the single page it contained.
Somebody from the solicitors firm informed me that they were executors of the will of one person named Nathanael Farsteton who had died and named me his heir. I have never heard of Nathanael, and they seemed not to know if he was a cousin, uncle or whatever.
The short side of the tale, which could not be shorter since it was all on the single page I received, was that now I owned the debts of a dilapidated estate in the middle of a moor on the Cornish Peninsula. I was ready to throw the letter into the trash bin when I espied a sentence where the writer mentioned that most of the debts could be attended by the sale of the magnificent library my relative had.
Of course, I decided to make the trip to the estate and look at this "magnificent" library, which if it was just as good as it seemed I would keep it and let the estate go rotting!
After a rather nasty journey in a train full of people reeking like if they had worked in a mine for a month, I had to board a small two high wheels vehicle with a horse for just two person to ride the last ten miles into the moor since there was not pavement and the swamp usually invaded the lanes.
After a long and terrible trip into the moor, we arrived in the most inhospitable place on the marsh. I arranged to be picked out two days from this moment by the same man. I figured that by that time I would already know if the library was worth the effort to be moved into my house, and forget the rest into its debts, and mud.
Upon entering the house a heavy atmosphere of despondency descended over my mind, the huge hall with the marble stairs seemed more appropriate for a mausoleum than a house. It took me five hours to make the house tour and never found anything I liked or could consider of value.
Then I went to the library, I had left it as the last place to visit, obviously. It was magnificent, no doubt, a two stories of teak ledges full of books. You access the upper shelves by mean of a spiral staircase, also made in teak with ivory insets of several seals of arms I didn't recognize.
I was delighted, started to read the titles of the books, my amazement increasing seeing the treasure of Literature there was settled in those racks.
The first big surprise was to find in there a copy of the famous grimoire "Necronomicon", written, according to H.P. Lovecraft, by the "Mad Arab" Abdul Alhazred. By the look of the book it seemed handwritten, not printed, could it have been the original?.
I was unwilling to take it from the shelf, but finally I tried to remove it, I was taken aback by the reluctance of the book to leave the shelf, finally I could make it spin on its base letting out only a part of the upper half of the volume.
In that moment the whole next module slide to one side letting open an access to an octagonal room, fifteen feet across, with the same teak shelves full of books, in the center of the octagon there was a dais with a lectern in red lining and a big book on it. This book was not titled, it was closed and locked by a brass clasp with no opening lever, over the book, there was a pink envelope.
I took the envelope and fished out of it a small card with this writing on it:
To whom may concern
If you value, and care for your life, do not dare to open this book.
That was all.
To whom may concern? what does it mean? there were more people who can be part of this heirloom, didn't my relative know I was the only one left of the family? My mind cried a lot of more questions while in a dreadful way made me feel uncertain and willing to go away in that moment! But where? How? I could not walk the distance to town, so I had to wait for my cab to come in two days from now.
I left the octagonal room, and the door slide closed. I sat on the armchair near the spiral staircase and tried to calm myself with a pipe. The day ended slowly, and darkness threatens to take possession of the place, looking around I found an old oil lamp, as you may realize there was not electricity in the house.
I lit the lamp and put it on the table near the armchair, the whole arrangement gave a dismal little light that enhanced the shadows and added a touch of unhappiness to the room.
After a while I could think clearly again, there was that horrid feeling of gloom in my mind, but I blame it to the atmosphere of the house.
I knew I had to open that book, but now I felt tired and expended. The experiences of the day had taken its toll from my energies, so I took the oil lamp and climbing the marble stairs I went to one of the bedrooms I have seen in my first roaming of the house and prepared to pass the night.
My sleep, if we can call the heavy slumber I was sunk in, sleep, was plagued by nightmares, there were two groups of indescribable creatures fighting to gain my attention, and while one of them begged me to leave immediately, the other one coaxed me into going down and open the red book. It was exhausting, and I awake few minutes before dawn as tired as I was the night before.
Wanting to end this torture, I dressed and went down to the octagonal room, I took the book from the lectern and tried to open the clasp, but it was useless, I could not figure out how to do it, so I took the pink card again and reread it, it was then that I noticed written words on the lower right corner of the card.
I could have swear it was not there the night before when I read the card the first time, but I was too tired then so I could not be sure. Coming near the light, I read the very small characters: Abaddon, the Exterminator.
I was puzzled, Abaddon?, I remembered some old myth about an Exterminator Angel, but could not bring to mind the exact story. Almost without realizing it I repeated aloud the name. A sharp noise from the lectern brought my attention to it and I was amazed to see the clasp of the book unfastened and the hardcover opened displaying a blank first page.
I went over the lectern and with a sense of awe turned the first page, to find in astonishment another blank page. I could not believe my eyes while I passed half the pages of the book, all of them were totally blank.
I was going to close the book in frustration when I notice a red page marker with a strange seal of arm protruding from some pages ahead. I opened the book on that page and found a kind of verse or poem, it went:
Veni, O Abaddon
Quid rectum Venite et
Sit Mihi Dominus, et Magister
Et audierunt mandata Tua
My knowledge of Latin was inexistent so I could not grasp the meaning of these words. I just read them aloud to see if I could decipher the significance by their sound.
When I finish to pronounce with difficulty the last word, the octagonal walls started to spin around the lectern, and I was thrown into a black dungeon where I was chained to a wall. After some minutes I could see in the shadows and was terrified.
There were many of us, all chained and kneeling before a giant black winged figure. I understood as if by magic, we were the warriors of Abaddon and our job was to destroy all Creation.
I'll try to leave an account of what happened to me, writing with my nails on the floor of this dungeon, maybe it can somehow reach humankind and warn others of my fateful destiny.
My last thought as a human soul was the translation of the Latin lines, now seemingly easy to understand:
Come, O Abaddon,
Come and take what is your right,
Be my Lord, and Master,
I will obey your commands,
For the Eternity.
Many people looked for the Necronomicon mentioned here but it was not found in the library, in the place described above was an old but ordinary volume of The Republic by Plato, and it could be removed from the shelf without problem, no part of the shelves slide to open on any hidden place.
When the house was teared down, there was no octagonal room to be found anywhere in the whole estate.
The coroner investigation found nothing of interest and the panel gave a verdict of "Missing Person", adding that Mr. Armin Farsteton belonged to a family with a medical history of dementia, this fact made possible that under the influence of this malady, Mr. Farsteton had written the precedent story, and then walked into the marsh and was killed by some animal, or drown.
The music is a compound, first goes "Devant la tempête" (Before the tempest), following "My Melancholy", then "Voices of Eternity", then "Alone in the Dark", all by Vadim Kiselev, finally closing with "My Silent Cry" by BlackDawn .
© 2013 Od Liam.