Deep in the heart of Ravenswood Library, buried beneath centuries of dust, lay a peculiar book. Its cover, a patchwork of cracked leather, seemed to ripple as though alive. No title adorned it, only a rusted clasp bound tight as if to seal something dreadful within. Legends whispered that the book had been cursed for five centuries, its contents a siren call to the curious and the doomed. Five generations had succumbed to its sinister lure, each suffering a fate more horrifying than the last.
If you dared to open it, you would pay the price.
1st Generation: The Scholar
It was the year 1523 when Gregor Morris, a restless scholar, discovered the book in an abandoned abbey. His hands trembled as he pried open the clasp with a dagger. The lock broke with a snap, and the book exhaled a sound—a deep, rasping sigh like the breath of a dying man.
Within the pages were words inked in a writhing script. The letters twisted as if alive, their meaning ungraspable but oppressive. Gregor could not look away. The room grew colder with every word he read, the air thick with the scent of rot. By midnight, Gregor was shrieking, his cries echoing through the stone corridors.
His descent into madness was swift. He clawed at his face, leaving ribbons of flesh beneath his nails. He raved about worms burrowing under his skin, their relentless chewing driving him to the brink. Days later, his lifeless body was found hanging in his study, swaying gently in the cold wind. His intestines dangled from his abdomen like grotesque vines, his blood painting the walls in spiraling patterns. Carved into his chest, with surgical precision, were the words:
"The first shall witness."
2nd Generation: The Heir
In 1678, Elias Blackthorn, the reckless son of a wealthy merchant, found the book during a treasure hunt in his family’s attic. The clasp was rusted but unlatched, as though waiting for him. Elias felt a thrill as he opened it, ignoring the faint coppery scent that wafted from its pages.
The book revealed grotesque illustrations—figures twisted and dismembered, screaming in agony, their eyes wide with unending torment. As Elias stared, he felt a cold hand graze the back of his neck, though no one was there. That night, his nightmares began. Shadows circled his bed, whispering secrets of his doom. He woke drenched in sweat, the voices echoing in his ears.
On the seventh night, his servants found him in the wine cellar. Elias’s mouth was stuffed with shards of glass, his teeth shattered from gnawing on the sharp edges. His hands, bloodied and trembling, clutched his own severed tongue, which was covered in deep bite marks. His veins, swollen and black, snaked across his pale skin, as though thickened with tar.
Scrawled on the stone wall in his blood were the words:
"The second shall drink."
3rd Generation: The Librarian
In 1821, Eliza Moore, a meticulous librarian, came across the book while cataloging an old collection. She noticed the clasp had been broken and the pages dog-eared, yet something compelled her to open it. As she did, the flickering lamplight dimmed to near darkness.
The pages seemed to breathe, the ink pulsing faintly like a beating heart. Eliza tried to decipher the script, but the letters crawled across the parchment, rearranging themselves into weird shapes. That night, she began to hear whispers in the library—low, guttural voices calling her name.
Her torment grew with each passing day. Her skin began to peel away in translucent sheets, as though flaking parchment. She tried to hide her wounds, but the scent of decay clung to her, repelling everyone around her. Finally, her screams pierced the stillness of the library one night.
Her body was discovered draped over the librarian’s desk, her flesh stripped completely from her frame. Her muscles glistened under the dim light, her exposed ribs smeared with blood. Yet her face remained untouched, frozen in a rictus of terror. Written on the desk in jagged scratches were the words:
"The third shall bleed."
4th Generation: The Student
In 1925, Thomas Reed, a young university student, found the book while pulling an all-nighter in the library. He was drawn to it immediately. The clasp opened at his touch, though he swore he hadn’t forced it. The pages greeted him with a series of horrifying illustrations: people twisted beyond recognition, their bodies a tapestry of agony.
Thomas couldn’t look away. He began carrying the book everywhere, its whispers filling his mind with visions of death. By the seventh day, he locked himself in his dorm room, muttering incoherently about “keeping them out.”
His screams brought campus security, who forced the door open. Inside, they found Thomas bent backward, his spine snapped in two and protruding through his chest like a spear. His fingers were fused into claws, his face frozen in an expression of pure terror. His eyes had been replaced by glowing embers, which continued to burn long after his death. His blood-soaked journal was open beside him, the final entry scrawled shakily:
"The fourth shall burn."
5th Generation: The Drifter
In 2023, Mia Parker, a homeless drifter, sought refuge from a storm in Ravenswood Library. She stumbled upon the book lying open on a table, its clasp strangely intact. The storm’s howls seemed to fade as she approached, replaced by the faint hum of whispers.
The book’s pages showed no words, only images—images of her. Mia saw herself dismembered, her face twisted into an unrecognizable mask of horror. The storm raged outside, but the terror brewing in her mind was far worse.
By morning, the library was silent. Mia’s body was found sprawled across the floor. Her torso had been split open, her ribs bent outward like the petals of an unsightly flower. Her entrails were strung around the room, knotted into intricate patterns that defied logic. Her face had been peeled off entirely and pressed against the grand window, staring into the storm.
The book sat beside her, its clasp mysteriously sealed once more. Above her, written in dripping, crimson letters, were the words:
"The fifth shall break."
The book still waits in Ravenswood Library, biding its time. Each generation has suffered, their blood and screams feeding the curse. If you ever find yourself there and see a peculiar volume with a rusted clasp, heed this warning:
Don’t open it. You won’t survive what’s inside.