Mr. Linden's Library

 Books are amazing objects. In the simplest form they are a binded bundle of hundreds of pieces of paper. Printed on them is a random jumble of 26 letters, and in certain orders these letters create different worlds and feelings in our souls that fill us with rapture. All of this emotion on a piece of bark. This story is about books, but a book made in the bowels of some satanic figure. There is a lot more that needs to come from this story but what I wrote here is the first chapter or so. I hope to finish the story at some point in the future.

            The mysteries contained inside the labor of words hold values and terrors of which human beings have little understanding. Each letter comes through tiny cables of subconsciousness and in the ink flows the personality and traits of the author. At many times those pages hold love and a plush heartful of grace. Yet when an author's thoughts reverborate against his skull and slowly become bruised and void of innate goodness, an evil shoots from the pen and poses as an inno;cent leather-bound novel. These books sit, juxtaposed within the same bookshelfs as all other authors. They pace and plot in their seats and anticipate the moist hands of an innocent soul to fill with smoke and oil.
           No mind can escaope this form of torture that comes disguised in layers of knowledge and pride. When each malevolent object hides in the nooks throughout a brain, corruption supersedes understanding and on eis left looking at life and others as not fellow beings, but as gratuitous nonsense, seeking blood like a vampire, bent on the fear of himself.
           Mr. Linden's library held a novel of which few mortals had heard of. The story did not pass of its existence because each man who knew, did not wish to know. It stood tall and proud upon the highest shelf in the basement of the library. Nobody entered the basement and moisture from the pains of nonexistence molded every porous piece of paper and bleeding word in each book.The novel of which this story is about did not mold or accumulate barnacles of age. It prospered under these conditions and enjoyed its stay in the musty dark cavern.
           Nothing was known about the author who created the book. The few scholars who knew of its existence became infatuated with the implications of its power, and they fell in love with the idea. Its power mutiplied within the imagination of each man. It rose and its grandiousness took up the place of food and drink and life. Slowly, the mere possibility of the book deteriorated the men's minds. Two commited suicide. Two now reside in the mental hospital near London. And one man forever searchedd fort he book of immense power. One day, two years ago, this man, John Linden, found the book in the one place he did not expect it to be. His own grandfather's study and library of which he spent much of his childhood playing ghost and other children's games. He had little knowledge at the time that soon, in his later years he would still be playing in a game of ghosts.
          John Linden III sat in the backseat of his father's car, peering out of the rolled down window. It was nightime and the trees swelled and died with each passing breeze like a million heaving men. John turned his head forward and saw the front mirror of the car that captured his father's face. The moon hung low on this night and shaded all that stayed within its grasp. Because of this, John's father's eyes appeared sunken and lifeless within his scruffy features. From the gaping voids, icy water fell. It was murky and sparkling when refracted with the light from the moon. John looked away quickly. It was too much to deal with his father's pain at this present moment. John felt guilty, for deep inside himself he knew that his grandfather's death should come as a great blow to his feeling, but nothing sad came out of his slate-like soul. He continued to stare out of the window and the trees continued to breath.