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...

Getting Started

Ahem. Hello. I only get so much time to use the computers here before they come and take me back to my room. Or to see the doctor. They say I'm doing better. Maybe I'll be able to leave someday. But I know better. I'll never leave here alive.