It never hails to amaze me that people can take the fantasies of a
contemporary author with such seriousness.
About 20 years ago a group of my friends got heavily into witchcraft.
They accumulated a substantial library of books on the matter. Some were
history of witchcraft, others purported to be spell books. I read a few
of them for kicks. One of the books, the crown jewel of their
collection, was a copy of the Necronomicon.
This was an elaborate tome, which according to the owner dated back to
the late 20's or early 30's. It was a ornately embossed soft black
leather book, about the size and thickness of a typical hard bound book.
The edges of the pages were gilt with silver and it had a silver
embossed pentagram like symbol on the front, a pentigram overlaid with
other asemitrical designs. No type or words on the exterior. I opened it
up and found that the foreword by the publisher identified it as one of
a limited number of copies from a second printing. A red stamp indicated
specifically number 2667 of 3333.
I was warned not to read the text unless I wanted to tempt the wrath of
terrible demons that would come in the night and strip the flesh from my
bones. Ahem. Ever the skeptic, and as it was in english not arabic, I
read on. Over a period of time I read it all, or most of it. I somehow
felt that my friends were a little disapointed that I was never consumed
by flames or devoured in a horrible spectical before their eyes. For
kicks I would read aloud from it and send them running for cover.
Many parts of the book read like excerpts from a Lovecraft novel and I
recognized most of the names in the book as being from his works. To me
it seemed like the work of a devoted fan. But to my friends it was a
book of vile darkness. Although I think it destroyed some of the
mystique for them when I read the book and lived.
Anyway, some time later, maybe about a year, after most of my friends
had out grown that phase and moved on to D&D, there cam a knocking at my
door. It was late, after midnight, and pouring rain. I opened the door
and found my friend standing there, soaking wet. He looked very
distraught, fearfull, under his arm was a shoebox.
I let him in and asked if something was wrong. He thrust the shoebox at
me and said, "Here take these and put them away where I can't get at
them or I don't know what might happen! Their yours. Sell them and keep
whatever money you can get."
He colapsed into a chair, slumped forward holding his face in his hands
and began to sob openly. I peeked in the shoebox and a chill sank
through me from what I saw. It was his copy of the Necronomicon, and a
nickle plated, pearl handled 45 automatic.
I quickly put the shoebox in the closet, out of sight and out of reach,
then closed the door securely. I pulled up a chair and sat in front of
my friend. "Tell me," I said as compassionately as I could, "tell me
what's happened, What is this all about?" And I must say I was relieved
that it was not as bad as I imagined when I first saw the gun.
He told me about having fallen in with a "warlock." Some guy that owned
a metaphysical book store in a neighboring city. Who had agreed to help
my friend in his search for knowledge, if my friend would serve him as
an apprentice. The warlock had been demanding more of my friends time
and in an ever increasing role of subserviance. He had recently demanded
that my friend shave off all his hair and body hair and return it to
him. And that he further cut all ties with his friends and family. When
my friend refused the warlock had told him he had no choice, because he
had planted a seed in my friends brain and if he did not comply it would
fester and he would grow sick and die. It was clear to me as I listened
that the "warlock" was more interested in a having a smooth young "boy"
as a sex slave than anything else.
Due to my experience as a mental health professional I realized that the
"Ya know this is a bunch of bullshit" approach would be useless. I had
to come up with something else. I didn't really want to have him placed
on a psychiatric hold.
I recalled a spell from one of my friends books, The White Light of
Purification. It was supposed to be a defensive spell for protection
from harm, specifically from other witches. I asked my friend if he
recalled that spell and he did. The spell is very simple, mostly
meditation. Concentrate on the flame of a candle till you see nothing
but white light and you are protected. A load of crap yeah, but my
friend believed. Meanwhile, I told him I would use my psychic powers
(lol) to extract the seed from his brain. So I massaged his scalp and
neck, as I would for anyone with a tension headache, until he relaxed
and stated that he had achieved the white light and that he felt the
seed was gone.
His demeanor was remarkably improved or I would never have let him go
home. He Assured me he would not harm himself, thanked my for the
strength of our friendship and expressed concern for my well being,
having removed the wizard seed from his brain and all.
As a footnote to this part of the story I must relate that I had an
unusual nightmare that night. Not that it had anything to do with the
nights events, other than being influence by the bizarreness of it all.
But I dreamt that my body was covered with large boil like sores. When I
touched one of the sores it burst open and maggots came spilling out.
When my hand swept the worms from my arm it caused others to burst open
excruding wriggling masses of maggots. Then all over my body they began
to burst forth. I awakened in a sweat, and thought, "Whoa, that was
weird."
The next day I looked in the yellow pages for book sellers, or rather
buyers of rare and exotic books. I called a couple and described what I
had and was told "We want no part of such a thing." Eventually a store
in Berkeley expressed an interest.
When I entered, the clerk was busy with another customer so I browsed
around. All the books were on magic, astrology, tarrot, etc.
Additionally they had a wide selection of herbs, candles, incense and
the like. Eventually the customer concluded their business and the brass
bell obove the door clanged loudly signalling their departure.
The clerk was not the person whom I had spoke with on the phone and he
was full of questions. How did I come by it. What did I know of it. Had
I... read it. I was greeted with an expression of respectfull awe when I
said that I had. He offered $300 for it.
I took the money and set it aside in the shoebox with the 45, which I
had decided not to try and sell. It wasn't registered to me and I
thought that might be a problem. Besides I figured in a few months when
my friend had his shit together he might want it back, and the $300
could be a nice little surprise for him.
So anyway, that's my experience with the Necronomicon. And all parties
are still alive and well, 20 years later.