by K.T. Tate
I just wanted a muse. Something unusual to fuel my writing. But that dusty tome with its ancient rites gave me more than that.
It was not a muse summoned there, but a thing. Indescribable, even to a seasoned author in its unique horror. Stars burned and died within its shifting form. Its eyeless gaze burned through me, tarnishing me from the inside as I wept. The safe illusion of reality shattered.
Now it fills my mind. Taking up space, forcing me to write its heresy. My words spreading its gospel of madness. Please, I can’t stop myself, I can’t…