The Book of Alterations

by John E. Kelly

It started small, as do all things. The smallest molecular nature changed itself and then me as well . . . It began with the luminous glow of a candle that I, myself, lit. It then spread to the far reaches of the candle’s light. Then to the crumbling pages of my darkest tome and it’s flowing, cursive script. My eyes ate at the dark words but . . . to my own discredit, I noticed too late how they devoured me as well. The cycle moves on. It takes until there is nothing left and bestows what it wills along the way. Whether this is a fortunate gift I shall leave to you for it is here, now, and to you that I must tell my story.

Perhaps I should first describe how I came into possession of this unholy book. Very near to the apartment where I once claimed to reside there is a small shop of relocated items, so to speak. The particular entrepreneur of this shop offered me a small discount, of a sort, as long as I didn’t give out my knowledge of his malpractices. Over time I found and purchased many interesting and obscure items from this man - call him Bill for reference. There were carved pieces of African elephant tusks, rare Indian knives used in blood rituals, old gold coins from a sunken (and reportedly haunted) Spanish galleon, and, among other unmentioned things, this book which I speak of now. It’s front and back covers are made of the bark from some perverted and distorted tree that must be of magnificent size and age. It seems very supple yet, try as I might, I couldn’t even put a knife through it. A pentagram was engraved on the inside of the front cover along with an inscription that I can not and dare not decipher. The pages, themselves, consist of a form (apparently) of Egyptian papyrus inked in dark blue dye (again with unknown ingredients). For the moment I shall leave it’s passages and their content to your imagination.

Bill could tell me very little of the history of this particular book but he claimed to know someone who did know. What he could tell me involved the fate of the last owner of the tome. Apparently, upon completion of the last section he went completely mad with whatever supposed knowledge still lies in the dark pages. This is, of course, according to popular belief. According to my own opinions, I believe that perhaps he found something that society simply could not comprehend or appreciate. In either case he was locked in a padded cell for the rest of his life. The asylum claimed another victim . . . After his death, Bill acquired the book from his nightstand and read part of it for himself. It was soon up for sale at a very reasonable price. It was so reasonable, in fact, that I could not bear to pass it by.

I consider that the end of my normal phase of life. Everything changed once I began (after eschewing the offer to meet the historian who knew of the book) to read my most hated volume. It was rather late at night when I first opened it’s pages and ravenously devoured it’s words. The words that still appear in my mind when I think of it strike a fearful chord to this day.

In the dominion over man we were great. Our inexplicable grace drove them to their knees and forced them to their own chosen servitude. It is in their own weakness that they long ago forgot our presence but soon, soon, we shall return. With our coming and our divine madness we shall destroy that which they built over our graceful cities, which they wrote over our divine texts, and that which they’ve forgotten to deem holy! We are their GODS! We shall rule them once again.

That was only the first section of many. As I recall the words I now believe that perhaps it is better for me to simply present it first to you so you can draw whatever conclusions you wish. Believe me, I’ve made my own already. The next section dealt with their appearance . . .

We once shone with the light of our divinity in the light of the world soon to be reclaimed. Feathered wings could be unfurled anywhere without the risk of fearful mobs or common fools seeking to lynch us. This was before the Times of Fear though. It was later that we would be attacked upon the sight of our wings. We were obvious in other ways, however. Our supernatural height and ebony skin was always noticeable unless among the giant-kin. And so it was during our decline . . . There are few of us left now.

As I think of it, there was a picture along with the previous passage. As I am not a man of rash conclusions I won’t speculate as to it’s subject but I would like to describe it’s appearance as I view it myself. It appears to be a very tall, dark skinned human lacking any obvious hair. From his (if it is, indeed, a he) back emerges white, feathery, nearly spectral wings with such an element of grace that it’s hard to imagine how talented the artist must have been. His arms cross in front of his chest in a royal manner, loose robes trailing off his elbows. Again, I draw no conclusions . . . but as a final opinion I must say that one could find the being in question remarkably beautiful. I, myself, find a sense of horror in its appearance, however . . . Now the text went instead to the thoughts of the writer with just a little more history interlaced within.

And it came to be that the wretched little fools sought to banish us from our own world! Whether this came to be by death or rebellion matters not. We grew disdainful with even those who still sought to worship us. They begged us to leave while we still could . . . that one day they could bring us back to the glory we rightfully deserved. And so we left all that we had created and all that was ours. It shall be ours again . . . so we were promised and so it shall be.

That was the end of the overview it seems. The next section moved to an odd ritual. Nearly one hundred pages detailed body alterations, pentagram construction, and ritualistic words that must be said at the proper times. I shall recite the small description it did give of the ritual . . .

It is perfected at last! The last barrier between those who speak of us in vain without even comprehending it and our freedom! With the completion of this sequence by one of our followers we can enter the world which we were so coldly repelled from long ago once again to destroy those insolent fools who will undoubtedly oppose us. The rewards shall be great for our allies indeed. Power beyond the grasp of modern kings and wealth that would make that very same king look like a pauper. Simply complete the ritual and thou will have a spark of divinity!

I was a fool . . . I admit it wholeheartedly now after having many years uncounted to think of it. Late in the night after reading the aforementioned I stole into the pawn shop to search for necessary items (stole as in the barbaric manner of kicking down a door and slaying the occupant of the room). I required several black candles, rare plumage from African birds, the talons from an eagle, chalk in various disgusting colors, and incense who’s smell was nothing but repellant. Perhaps it was my own mistake for entering in the fashion that I did but I had to. There was no other choice!

I performed the ritual as it was described in a state of what can be none other then ecstasy. At first it was sheer curiosity that compelled me but later something . . . darker . . . gave me strength to continue. It (they) whispered to me in their sweet voices. Promises of such glory! Promises of pain if I failed. It ate at me . . . and left me on my knees staring bleakly at the flame of a single candle on the floor in front of me. My hand was guided by them, not myself, to draw the pentagram. It was guided by them when I placed the candles at the vertex of each point on the star. It was them who forced me to speak aloud in reverence the monologue found within the pages of that damnable book and it was them who forced my hand in the self mutilation and precise surgery ages lost to man. And so there I was on that night of grim horror with talons protruding through the palms of my hands and feathers pierced through my skin in dozens of locations all over my gruesome body. I was a grisly sight indeed! I can still recall the words forced through my clenched teeth . . .

I can feel others judging me even as I write this . . . but you’re criticizing your own kind! You feed them! You give them sustenance with your blind worship taught to you by their very followers. Their lore was handed down generation by generation in hopes that such a book would fall into the hands of someone foolish enough to use it. Someone like myself . . .

Take a look at your world and tell me the end-times are not coming. Give me proof that there is any grace left to save you! I say you because I am no longer like you. I’ve been changed both physically and mentally. Here is another passage that rings clearly in my mind.

There will come a time when we will return for we do not die and we shall always hunger for our world. Look to your skies when everything seems most bleak. Fall to your knees and accept your gods! We shall come from our fiery abyss in the sky. We will come from that very star that you look upon every day and we will bring the fires of Hell with us. Do you not find it ironic that even in primitive societies you worshipped the sun? You worshipped us! You still do.

You think I’m insane? Perhaps I’m delusional? Perhaps you are just ignorant of the tangible truths! All our lives we are taught to seek out the angels. All our lives we are taught that to see them is to reach enlightenment. All our lives we’re led astray! I’ve seen your angels! I’ve become their vessel and pawn! I’m the tool of their return . . . What happens when all our hopes, prayers, and dreams bring our gods to us? What happens when the beings of old come back to shackle us? Perhaps we will soon see . . . or perhaps I’m insane . . .