Nekronomikon
By G. W. Thomas
"Have you brought it?" asked the rich man, who not unlike many wealthy men was
a dabbler in magic.
"Yes, the dread volume of Necros of Illianthus," answered the Rainbow Man. "I had to wade the very River of Death to win it from Archios, but I did it." The Rainbow Man placed the thin black tome into his employer's lap. Rough hands rasped over the hide covering, as legend reported, made of human skin.
"Have you read it?" the rich man asked unnecessarily.
"I should not be here to collect my pay if I had," the wizard hinted, receiving his reward, a minute scarab jewel reputed to have once belonged to Manthorn in the Age of the Matriarchs.
"I will read this now," declared the rich man with a sigh, unable to take his eyes from the obscene covering.
"I will go then--"
"No, please--stay. The legends speak of a curse that claims the reader of
this book. I would have you observe. Prove once and for all what shadow lies over this tome."
"I would gladly do this thing," said the Rainbow Man, taking up a seat on the cushioned floor.
* * *
"I am done," announced the rich man, closing the book.
"Your hair has not turned white," noted the Rainbow Man, thinking of the
stories told about the volume. "Do you feel a cosmic evil about to engulf you--or a palpitating shiver running through your body?"
"Nah. None of these things. It is not what you think," said the rich man,
wiping a tear from his cheek.
"What then?"
"It is a book of poetry, the sweetest poems ever written. So sweet that all
life now seems a black and colorless waste. I am doomed."
The Rainbow Man shook his head in sad agreement. This is truly a book of the
dead, he decided, throwing it into the hearth fire.
© 1999 G. W. Thomas. All Rights Reserved.
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