Sigil of Fortunes

I am not crazy. I have come to my conclusion through an unnatural, yet calculated and deliberate set of events. But it is in me now and I am barely coherent enough to think these thoughts. I’ve managed to decipher bits and pieces, as well as a full single page of the tattered and grotesque thing. Asymmetrical groups of symbols now scroll across my mind’s eye with increasing speed and irregularity. Each group overlaying the previous as if words written in a foreign alphabet were somehow poured out onto a page, falling at random, juxtaposed angles in a heaping, formless, hieroglyphic mess.

As I experience them, each individual glyph within the groups pulls my attention to it. The effect is anything but subtle. There's a pressing, almost instinctual need to give way. Let them burn bright in my consciousness and then fade, one after another, keeping pace. Like running to catch an elevator before the doors close, even though another will arrive shortly to deliver me to an identical destination. Time is warped in this place. There’s this urgency to hasten my steps. Faster as the doors down the hallway close. Slowing my breath, I turn my attention outward, as a hundred hallways with ominously closing silver doors threaten to leave me behind. I know what it is thinking. It has to be done.

The book has to be destroyed.

————‹★›————

"I don't know what to do anymore."

"It's completely normal to feel helpless or lonely right now Sarah. This is a pandemic. Losing your sense of motivation or direction doesn't mean you aren't doing your best."

I felt like she could tell how bored I was. Maybe not bored. Tired?

"Alright, our time is up. Don't forget to use your journal this week. It really can help you to feel more grounded. Talk to you next... Wednesday, same time?"

"Yeah, Wednesday is good. Thanks." I said the words, but really I meant, no, Wednesday is not good. No day is good. What was the point? We're all stuck, waiting on some kind of miracle with no end in sight. As if talking about it with a doctor over video chat was going to help. I supposed she was probably lonely too.

I needed to go out again. A few cans of soup and a single bag of chicken ramen left was getting sad.

"Will that be all for you today?"

"Yes, thank you." It was raining as I left the store. Not surprising for Washington weather, but being stuck at home for the past year made it feel like an ill omen. And when going out was essential, it felt like being mocked. Walking home during quarantine when you already don't get out much? Let's literally rain on your parade!

"Be safe out there!"

"Thanks, you too." I cringed at my own obvious lack of awareness. You too? Oh my god, I'm an idiot. Awkward.

I hurried down my usual route home, arms folded inward to keep warm. The sound of plastic grocery bags rustled in rhythm with my breath as I kept up a brisk pace. I hated this part of the walk. Most of the homes on this street were empty or apparently didn’t use their porch lights. One old, flickering street lamp lit up the area across from the forested path that I often used as a shortcut through the neighborhood to get home faster. I reached up to tuck away wet hair that clung to my cheek—

“Are we going home now?”

I swear I had the briefest out of body experience as I shrieked and jumped away from the voice. It had come from just over my left shoulder, close enough that I could feel warm breath against my neck.

“Oh my god! Who the hell- wh-what do you want?”

He recoiled, as if hurt by my reaction. “Stay still, Sarah. Can’t you see? We want to give you a gift.”

“How do you know my name? Who are you?!” I tried my best to appear intimidating, keeping my distance while maintaining eye contact.

“You’re alone Sarah. I am lonely too, but we can… can help you. Like they helped us. Give you things. Gifts. No more… Wednesdays.” In the din it was difficult to see, but his silhouette revealed a malnourished, misshapen form. His outline consisted of abnormal and sharp protrusions, as if a deformed skeleton was wrapped in a thin layer of skin. He reeked of decay. His eyes floated within his shadowed portrait as they studied me frantically. He clutched a small rectangle, maybe a book, in his right hand and in his left—

I screamed. I couldn’t hear myself, but I was screaming. Over and over as I inched backwards and he closed in on me. A blunted kitchen knife reflecting what little light it could capture, moved towards me from an outstretched, atrophied arm. I subconsciously backed up, trapping myself in a corner of thick brush. He towered over me as I crouched, shivering, paralyzed with dread.

“Taaake it,” he said hoarsely, pressing the handle end of the knife against my huddled arms. I hesitated, glancing between the glowing eyes and the wooden knife handle several times before suddenly seizing it for myself, now holding it threateningly in his direction. I struggled to steady my breathing, wiping my eyes and nose dry with my coat sleeve as I slowly stood up.

“Okay, now it’s your turn Sarah. Give meee a gift.” He eyed the worn blade, smiling softly through the darkness. The street light flickered out. I can't explain what happened after that. It's all black. Blank. Nothingness.

——

The sound of metal clanging against pavement echoed through the empty neighborhood as I brought my hands up to my mouth. “Oh my god, oh my g—” My tongue froze, breath caught abruptly in my throat. It was him. On the pavement surrounding me. All over the pavement. The grisly scene was too much. I felt sick from the miasma when I realized it… I was the one holding the knife. I dropped to my knees and slid my hands up over my eyes. A terrible and hollow anxiety began to well up inside of me.

I spoke to myself, gasping through sobs. “I didn’t do it. I, I can’t… I didn’t.” I opened my eyes, not bothering to wipe away the tears blurring my vision. I was numb. Vacant. Unaware. I don’t know how long I sat there in silence before I looked up.

The body was gone. There was nothing there.

I could hear my own heartbeat in my ears. Thoughts raced with every possible scenario. I didn’t know what to do. It didn’t matter. I just needed to get back home. I turned to leave and there was the book he had been holding, sitting under the jaundice yellow glow of the street lamp. It was small, almost unremarkable, save for a grey, frayed ribbon sticking out from the bottom edge, and a black band across the cover that appeared to be holding it closed. The flat, sheared page edges looked deckled in some places, as if intentional, were it not for the stark contrast in texture. Maybe water damage. Why was I thinking about this? I was in shock. I snatched it up and ran, my panicked senses focusing on the trail that led back to the baleful street with the lamp more than looking where I was going.

——

I don’t remember getting home. I don’t remember sleeping. Or why I hadn’t called anyone or reported what had happened. Or if I had. The book laid open on the splintering wood panel floor. My eyes darted, flipping through pages, rapidly consuming information from the fervent scrawlings and obscene diagrams. This really was a gift. A kind of map or, more of a maze of sorts. It depicted ancient energy pathways that could be used to access forbidden knowledge and ungodly powers. This was the answer. I would uncover these esoteric tools and harness them to fix everything. To find work. To get out of this filthy, tiny place I couldn’t afford. To get a car, and escape from here. To see my family again. To not feel so alone anymore.

The book spoke to me. It knew me. It told me things. I pored over the pages for days. Was it days? I couldn’t tell. I devoured abstract concepts and understood infinitesimal formulas unspoken for eons, only to forget that I ever had any knowledge of them afterwards. And as I grew hungry for more, the book grew hungry. I somehow understood that it needed to be fed, but couldn’t bring myself to do it. Not after what happened with the shadowy man I met on the street that night. If it happened. I tried to block that night from my thoughts. Nothing mattered besides the work here. But the book was a growing presence in my own mind. I hadn’t closed it at all. I couldn’t miss what they might tell me. The very key to my existence could happen instantaneously. Secrets to my innermost desires unfurling within multi-dimensional layers, released in a flash of information downloaded into my subconscious. I had to listen to them.

——

The vintage beige paint on my walls was peeling. Cracks stretched out in every direction from the book like tree roots, reaching deep into the earth to harvest nutrients from the soil. A viscous, black substance filled the cracks, branching up through the walls where the ichor turned a pestilent, glowing green. The floorboards splintered and broke further as the malaise spread outward and upward until a massive circlular perimeter around the outside of my building was lifeless and rotten. I could feel it too. Small patches of hair began to fall out and my skin was dry. It started to feel like it was being pulled tighter over my frame, just like the man I met. I hadn’t eaten in days and I felt nauseated. I had to hurry. I knew the book would consume me soon, just like it had him. This was when I decided to close it.

The book’s cover was bound to the floorboards with a noxious, thickened, mucus-like paste. I searched for something to free it, no longer familiar with the place I called home. I hesitated as I recognized a familiar brown handle in the kitchenette. It was the blunted, dirty knife from that night. And there were splattered, red-black stains all across the dull, cloudy side of the blade. How, even? ... It didn’t matter. I cut away at the solidified phlegm as it tried to reconnect itself until I was able to slam the cover shut. I could feel it pressing upwards, trying to force itself open again. I pulled the black band over the front and felt a sudden wave of relief come over me. This is when I started seeing the symbols. As if the book were still attempting to be read through my mind. It's when I knew I had to destroy it.

————‹★›————

EPILOGUE

I am free. Free with the exception of one remaining glyph I could not abandon. It looks like an overflowing chalice. Its name sounds like, kore'nak da thulamane, or as closely as I understand it, the sigil of fortunes. I was able to use it to rid myself of the book, but in doing so, the sigil etched itself into my skin like a brand, just over my heart. The sigil will often sear itself into my flesh anew. And every time it does, good fortune follows. As I sit alone, in my broken home, my chest begins to burn. The charcoal-like smell of it overwhelming me as I reel from the pain.

Beedoobeep! I pick up my phone to check the notification. If my jaw could actually drop to the floor, I'd be picking it up right now. I just won TWENTY. THOUSAND. DOLLARS.