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The smell of mothballs and mold fill your mouth and nostrils as you peel the book open. The book moans, groans. The pages are yellow with old coffee stains and the corners are burnt. The cover is slick, with the exception of a couple of ripples and tears. The book has no title, no author. No editors, no illustrators. No critics, no fans. No beginning, no end. No one knows it exists.
You flip through the ancient pages, crippled and rotten. Nothing but symbols illegibly printed on random spots on the page. Astericks, stars, triangles, hearts, eyes, Zalgo text, numbers. Binary, Pig Latin, Cursive. The text is smeared. Unreadable. You manage to decipher tiny letters at the bottom of each page.
It repeats. The binary translates into,
The Pig Latin translates into,
Even the cursive says,
No pencil can mark the pages of the book. No pen, no marker, no crayon, no paint. They are unworthy of its fragile content.
No human hand can touch its pages without them yelping in pain. No animal, no monster, no God. They are unworthy of its spell wrapped within each symbol.
You flip through pages on end, your hands burning, tears streaming, dripping onto the page. Tears instantly evaporate. Disappear. Vanish. Liquids churn in your stomach, your fingernails begin to fall off. Your teeth turn strange shades of yellow, then gray, then black. They fall out onto your purple tongue. Your eyelids flip, then slowly fall to the floor. Blood replaces your tears. Your hear your bones clicking and clacking, breaking and snapping.
The skin around your throat tightens. You stare down at the book, the pages mocking you. The Zalgo text coming off the page, text floating in the air. Vanishing when the tips of your bleeding, naked finger tips graze them. They zip onto your chest, where they won't budge. Your hair begins to fall out, until it's all gone. Your skin turns into a shade of yellow...the same yellow as the pages below. You tightly grasp the pages of the book, making your hands burn more.
Your hands become one with the book, turning into a page. They are fused into the binding. You lose your clothing. Whoa. There goes your lunch. All over the desk, except on the book. Whatever is happening to you, it wants to get all liquids out of you; you try to vomit until nothing else comes up. You begin to urinate until your bladder is empty. Your nose begins to run, dribbles down your top lip. Your sinuses are clear, your nostrils are clear. Next thing you know, your drooling everywhere. You drool until your mouth is dry. Dry of any more spit. You scramble away from the book, but it is glued to your hands. You fiddle with the door handle, struggling to open it. You are sweating all over, and next thing you know, you can't sweat any longer. You sit in front of the door, sobbing.
You can't escape what you have started. You try to cry, but your tears are gone as well. The only thing that remains is your blood. The blood rolls down your cheeks, dribbles down your chin. Oozes from small slits in your skin where your fingernails used to be, splashes out from every sweat gland, from the palms of your hands, your private parts. After ten minutes of this, you fall to the floor. Lifeless. Spitless. Vomitless. Sweatless. Tearless. Urineless.
Now this is where it gets easy; the book slowly processes your body into its pages until you're completely gone. You have been turned into another damned page of the beginningless book, the endless book. With your last bit of life, you manage to send a small message in Zalgo binary upon your page.
The police come days later and enter your man-cave. They report that they find nothing but a book with no title neatly sitting on a desk with no trace of anything. One policeman after another disappears mysteriously after reading the book. The book is basically being passed around to one or another, day after day, week after week, year after year.
The book never dies or lives.