Why do the books rearrange themselves into forbidden patterns? What makes the ancient texts glow with eldritch light? How do the shadows form arcane symbols on the walls? Why do the pages turn to reveal new content each night? What causes the rare volumes to whisper in forgotten tongues?
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It was a song, but not the song of any voice. Night and the spheres sang it, and it was old when space and Nyarlathotep and the Other Gods were born.
― The Dream-Quest of Unknown Kadath by H.P. Lovecraft
Cornelius Thorne had always prided himself on his rational mind, which made his inheritance of Aunt Millicent’s occult bookstore all the more ironic. The cramped shop reeked of old parchment and something else---something organic that made his throat constrict. Books crammed every surface: leather-bound grimoires, water-stained journals, and volumes written in scripts that seemed to shift when he wasn’t looking directly at them.
The first customer arrived on his third day. A gaunt woman with ink-stained fingers who spoke in whispers, asking for “the red book that dreams.” Cornelius found himself nodding, his hand moving without conscious thought toward a crimson volume tucked behind the astronomical texts. The moment his skin made contact with its binding, images flooded his mind---ancient rituals, star-maps of impossible geometries, and something vast stirring in spaces between spaces.
As days passed, more customers came seeking specific books, and each time Cornelius knew exactly where to find them. His dreams filled with libraries that stretched beyond reason, tended by figures whose faces were collections of writhing text. He began to notice changes in his reflection---his eyes growing darker, more knowing, and strange symbols appearing beneath his skin like subcutaneous tattoos.
The morning he discovered he could read the previously indecipherable texts, Cornelius realized the horrible truth. The bookstore didn’t sell knowledge---it collected vessels. Each proprietor served as a living catalog until their minds could no longer contain the accumulated wisdom, at which point they would simply… fade into the pages themselves. In the mirror behind the counter, he watched his reflection begin to blur at the edges, becoming just another piece of text waiting to be read.
