My position within these archaic walls has forced me to abandon some of the more outdated and analog methods of journaling and research, so I find myself familiarizing myself with these cumbersome technologies. My specific title has seen many changes, most of them long before my time as Karma Keeper at the inner sanctum of our world’s spirit. At an undisclosed location, I perform maintenance on the many shelves and alcoves for journals. These journals, while similar to all manner of mortal books, are eternal representations of those good and bad.
I will spare many of the details, but the books that appear within the inner sanctum house facsimiles of important individuals both good and evil. These journals form essential traits and memories of each individual and spawn upon the death of the individual. These books do not store their souls but merely replicate the collected knowledge of that individual. Each of these journals represents a mortal so profound in their alignment that it influences the latent energies within our world. Thus, the more evil an individual the more strife there is in the world and vice versa. I have the misfortune of informing all of those that choose to read this and believe these words that one such evil entity has taken advantage of this important information.
There was a book that spawned in the furthest alcove within the sanctum, a book that exhibited more ominous traits than the evilest journals in my tender. The cover of the journals and their pages take on the traits of the individual, and this journal had the darkest yellowed pages and a leathery cover the color of a bullfrog’s skin. Upon opening the book, I found one of the most vile lives I have ever come to experience. Within the confines of these pages was a writer, one who seemed to take one too many cues from H.P Lovecraft. The collected knowledge of this journal housed noticeable racism, misogyny, and all manner of vile hatred toward those different from himself.
What stood out more, however, was the growing involvement the author had with the occult. Desperate to experience the stories concocted in his mind, he turned to dark magics to conspire with all manner of evil sprites and auras. The journal possessed a dark aura, and upon the completion of my reading, I left it within that space to tend to other areas of the sanctum. My job became more difficult after that, with various journals being left open that I swore I hadn’t touched. Usually, this was enacted by some of the more mischievous entities housed within the journals, but it happened at an alarming rate I considered too much of a coincidence.
One night, when I was just about to lock down the place for the evening, the torches that lit up the room were snuffed. Fortunately, I’m an avid smoker, so I lit my lighter and trekked through the darkened shelves and alcoves. As I ventured into the darkness, I heard the turning of pages of some of the journals. This wasn’t an uncommon occurrence, but the nature of my job required I investigate all occurrences no matter how trivial. I finally rounded the corner, and I saw the cause of the noises.
Strewn on the ground was all manner of journals, most of them belonging to the vilest serial killers, tyrants, warlords, and most important of all those that glimpsed into the occult. The entity that stood before me, who furiously skimmed pages and tosses the journals, ignored me for a brief moment of hyperfocus. The entity had a slouched posture, a bulbous head, and tattered dress pants with a shirt and vest that hung loosely on the body of it. Suddenly, it paused in its movements, standing still for a period of time that felt like hours. As I stood in the darkness, my light already having gone out, I noticed the silhouette shifted to me. How I was seeing this so clearly I know not now, but in that moment I flicked the lighter, but to no avail, it wouldn’t ignite.
As I furiously tried to light the lighter, the darkened and emaciated figure walked towards me with the sounds of dress shoes tapping against the stone. However, the silhouette didn’t seem to move its legs as it merely floated in my direction. I couldn’t move, and soon I found myself realizing that it wasn’t a failure on my part but an intentional occurrence caused by the entity. I flinched as it arrived and leaned in my ear. I felt no breath, only the chills that ran up my spine and dwelled within my goosebumps. In a wispy voice that had blood drunk tone to it, it began to speak.
“ There is nothing here that won’t sate the thirst I have. I know not what put me here, but if it’s one of your gods they have failed you.” It said as it shifted past me. In a cruel manner, it left me up to hear it shifting through the pages of so many journals. I would hear the disgusting grunts of satisfaction as it ruminated on dark epiphanies. Occasionally, it would run a cold hand up my back as it rested a cold head against my shoulder, telling me about its nightmares that it sought to bring to life tenfold. I would remain this way before waking up on the floor, the lights once again on and the books strewn about on the floor.
For a long time, I took care of the alignment of our world, but I have failed it in a most egregious manner. I know not if there was something I could do, or if it was something out of my control. All I know is that no manner of dark entity has ever managed to breach the sanctum in this manner. The journal the entity came from is now gone, and I do not know where I shall find it. It will be in the darkest of places I suppose, placed upon an altar of flesh and bone. For that, I am sorry.