The Worm

Of all of my books, it is De Vermis Mysteriis that is the most mysterious. An old book copied from much older sources, translated into different languages and kept hidden, it details long lost civilisations and their monstrous gods. For our history is a crafted lie, created to hide the fact that we are not the first intelligent races to exist on this planet. Our civilisation is a blink, a second in eternity. Imagine the rise and fall of many such societies as ours millions of years prior to our current reality. All those secrets of the ancient ones lost to the ashes of time. But some survive in writings such as this book. 

The book came to me in a most peculiar manner, and it is here I shall detail the finding of it. My interest in  the occult had lead me to many places around the world, to countries far from this tiny town. It was while I was in Egypt in 1948, shortly after the end of war, that I happened to be sat at a cafe in Cairo, resting from a day trekking through the narrow market streets, searching for a bookshop that specialised in rare copies of the occult, without success, for the streets are like a maze. The sun was setting on a particularly hot day and my body was aching, blisters on my feet, skin burnt from the sun. My lips were cracked, my throat dry, and my hands shook as I tried to drink my cold tea.

An Egyptian man dressed in a black suit, a fez perched upon his greying black hair approached me through the crowded cafe. Sitting next to me without an invitation, he introduced himself, though I forget his name after all these years; it is not important. He told me he had heard I was seeking out rare volumes of the ancient magics, and there was one such book which would be of great interest to me, he promised. When I enquired what the book was, he told me it was a copy of De Vermis Mysteriis, a book I had read about in footnotes of other books, heard whispered in the social circles I mixed in, for no one wanted to speak too loudly about such a mythic book. Some seemed to fear it, warned to possess a copy and to read it would surely turn you to insanity. It was enough to gain my interest, and I’d made it a mission to find this book. And here was a man, offering the very book I sought. The price he asked for this book was a small fortune, but I could afford it; how could I not have it? I would have to have the money wired to me internationally, which would take a day or two, but he was happy to wait. He explained he was the middle man, the person arranging the deal for another party who did not want to be named. While I distrust any foreigner, it is unfortunate I had to place my trust in this one, for I was desperate for a copy. We arranged a meeting at the same cafe in two days time, same time. We parted ways, and he disappeared in to the crowd. Despite my misgivings, and a certainty that I was being played, I arranged for the money to be sent, and went back to the cafe, sitting exactly where I’d sat before. As I waited, I was aware of the hungry eyes of Egyptians staring at me, especially at the bag clutched close to my side. There was a sizeable amount of money in there, and I was aware the streets of Cairo was a dangerous place, thieves everywhere waiting to unburden you of everything you had. Just as I was about to give up and go, the Egyptian appeared, sat next to me and placed a parcel on the table. I went to open the brown paper concealing the book, but he stopped me, telling me such a thing should be looked at in private. 

‘How do I know it’s what you say it is?’ I asked him. 

‘You do not know, but if you are desperate enough for it, you will have to trust me.’ 

Now, I am not one to be fooled easily, and I noted how the Egyptian was sweating heavily despite a cooler night, how he appeared agitated, desperate to be out of there. Suddenly, I felt I was in danger, needed to get out of there. The place was full of strange faces, the air heavy with a tension, a thousand eyes upon me. This was a trick, and I was about to be robbed. 

‘Keep the book,’ I told him, rising to my feet. But I felt a cold blade against my thigh under the table and the Egyptian was leaning towards me. I noted his eyes were wide with a mix of fear and madness. 

‘You will take this book,’ he whispered. ‘Slide the money under the table to me, and we will complete the deal. My master is expecting things to go well, and he will not be happy if they do not.’ 

‘Who is your master?’ 

He glanced briefly across the cafe to another table where a man sat in dark robes, only his eyes visible as he regarded me. It was as though he was looking directly into my very soul. I knew if I didn’t give the money over, something bad was going to happen, and there was the matter of a knife ready to cut a major artery in my leg. So I slid the bag under the table and the Egyptian picked it up, keeping the knife on me. Without checking the cash was there, he got to his feet, and hurried into the night, leaving the parcel on the table. The robed man stood up, stared at me a moment longer, then disappeared into the crowd. I couldn’t help feeling a deep chill inside, and I’ll never forget those black eyes. Who was this mysterious figure? I’ll never know, but that isn’t important. What is important is the book I was now in possession of. As soon as I got back to my hotel room, I opened the parcel and stared at the black leather book with the title in gold embossed on the front: three words. 

De Vermis Mysteriis. 

Translated, the Mystery of the Worm. From that moment, I knew I was cursed.