Necronomi-whatsit: sounds like a Dead Can Dance album...

I was able to slip out of my room last night for about twenty minutes. They were short-staffed because of Labor Day, probably. I snuck into Dr. Herbert's office. I saw the Book he had left on his desk. I know that Book. That damnable, unspeakable Book.

I was only able to read a few pages before one of the orderlies finally found me. But I remember what I read, what I saw, what I...felt...when I held that blasphemous, terrible Book in my hands. Oh how it writhed as I clutched it with my fingers. The letters seemed to shift and shimmer like quicksilver in moonlight. And the papercut I received from the surprisingly crisp edge of page 623 when the orderly tore the Book from my grasp still hasn't healed. I've saturated six band-aids so far. Maybe I need stitches. This wasn't just some self-help book from Dr. Phil that I saw. That I touched. That I read. It was that Book. The one my friend Wilbur claimed to have bought from a private collector on eBay last week...and the most hellish thing of all is that I know that I've seen that Book before...