The wind howled louder than a dozen wolves. There wasn’t a soul in sight on Crenbrow lane as the cold air seized the darkened driveways. A light pit patter of rain spurs from the gray clouds followed by loud rumbles of thunder, making it almost impossible to hear the occupants living across and down the street in identical brimstones.

In 1304, Mr. and Mrs. Meade were settling their three noisy children.

In 1306, the Pustrudie’s were wide awake. Whistling from a boiling kettle of water screamed throughout the small home, beckoning with an excited sports announcers voice on Mr. Pustrudie’s tiny cable television.

House 1308 is silent.

Mr. and Mrs. Bertoni were already asleep, but their daughter Alessandra was hours away from closing her eyes.

Alessandra’s heart filled with violet cranes of excitement. Sparkles and flames of a wish come true soared around her room and through her fingers as she held a paperback novel between them.

It has finally arrived, she thought.

After weeks and weeks of waiting, it was finally here.

Alessandra was an avid reader of horrid, dark stories. Crimson tales that other girls her age had avoided. Things that made skin crawl, made hers glow. The adrenaline of fear and mystery and words, compelled her. So it came as no surprise to her parents when this particular book had arrived on their doorstep.

Mr. Randolph, the bookstore keeper, had told Alessandra that she would never find it. She was told that this book was rare. A limited edition that had stopped circulating years ago. He told her that this book was the most terrifying books ever written and the hardest to find. A story about an ancient demon who trapped the souls of people into a horcrux after becoming to invested in his affairs.

The Karmestein, she traced the letters like braille.

Alessandra tucked herself into a lather of tufted sheets and soft squared pillows. With eyes flickering of anticipation she opened the book for the first time. First, she smelled the old uncoated paper, then slowly traced her hands across the rustic sheets, its words bouncing from the pages. Alessandra begins to read.

This book has finally arrived within your grasp. The pages fold into your hands feeling weightless. It’s cover bares no image, no color at all. It is completely black, matted and mysterious. You have only heard this story told from one person to the other. A story of smoldering fires and ash lingering in dark spaces filled with an incessant heat, so scolding its steam is in your bones, dripping away the life from fresh flesh.

“Does such a book really exist?” people have asked. No one has truly lived to tell the tale, yet a substantial amount of stories have circulated over the years. And now you are also intrigued. Your incestuous appetite of curiosity has finally gotten the best of you and now you too want to experience the story for yourself.

It takes awhile but slowly you begin to smell the peppered stench of burning rubber and smoke from a distant fire that warms your skin. It’s quiet, just you and the words now. You find that you want to keep going. If there is darkness here you do not want to find it, yet the feeling engulfs you anyway. Pulling and tugging you deeper into swirls of dancing dust and ash. The debris whirls around and around your face.

Can you see it?

You read the words Enter and so you do.

The world as you know it becomes a bit gloomy and darker. A small candle-light flickers. You are in.

“Stop here.” A voice warns, but you don’t look around. You have no concern for the voices direction, you are already in too deep.

You decide to turn the page.

Alessandra’s heart is in her throat. This book is better than she had anticipated. Each word flows through her mind vivid and rich like aged wine. The story feels so relevant to her as if weren’t written years ago but yesterday, and just for her. She gets the strange feeling that someone or something is watching her as she turns the page.

A character is described, they are frightened. The presence of something eerie looms in the shadows as they run terrified in the blackened night. Incoherent whispers fill the streets as a thick smog covers the vacant neighborhood. The lights are out, yet somehow the character continues to walk through the darkness using objects to guide their way. They bump into a bicycle and it tumbles over delivering one last ring. Then there is a mailbox, it’s coated-steel sears like a cast iron skillet. It crackles before suddenly bursting into a million tiny flames emitting the first fragments of light.

You can see the long, vacant street now. There isn’t a soul insight. Flecks of burning metal slash around your eyes and head, suddenly you can see everything. The grass, pavement sidewalks, trees and groves speckled here and there across the many separate lawns. You see the homes, they are all identical with different vehicles in the driveway, Brimstone. You hurry over to the one most familiar to you. There is an oak tree in the front lawn. Suddenly you can remember playing there as a child.  

Alessandra looks up. Chills run through her spine as the words resonate in her mind. The street described sounds like her street. Her house, her oak tree.

Every detail had suddenly begun to reflect some piece of her life. Memories crept into her mind detailing every corner of the home. The bicycle, the sound of its bell ringing as it fell. The exploding mailbox. Fear and suspicion crammed it’s way into the tiny room where Alessandra sat.

The book feels heavier than it had before. She suddenly doesn’t want to read anymore, but she does.
Alessandra turns the page.

You gasp for air but the smog makes it impossible to do anything except cough. The specs of whirring flames are burning out now. You use what little light is left to guide your way to one of the brimstones.  The porch light is shattered across the wooden steps, its porcelain creaking underneath your shoes as you go up. The address number outside the house glimmers into view as you read 1308  before turning the knob.

Inside, you are engulfed into more darkness. There are no specs or glint of flames to help you.  You move slowly from one spot to the next, each step weighing heavier and heavier than before. Beads of sweat lick your neck. As you walk further into the room it begins to spin. Faster and faster, pieces of furniture clad against the walls. You cannot see but you hear everything. Something strikes the side of your face and you fall to your knees in pain. You think of screaming for help, but who would hear you?

Faster and faster you spin until it becomes unbearable. You close your eyes and wish for death.

*******

Your eyes flutter open, and it takes a moment for them to adjust. It is still dark but you can vaguely see spots of light hanging above you like stars in the night sky.

A voice cracks to life.

“There’s someone here.” It whispers discreetly.

“Who? Whose there?” says another.

Your lips part. “My name…”

Alessandra turns the page.

Suddenly the book falls onto the warm sheets.

          “My name is Alessandra Bertoni.”

The next morning Mrs. Bertoni is up early. It is Sunday, typically she spends it cleaning, cooking and organizing the house for the week. She creaks the door open to Alessandra’s room, finding it empty. Her sheets are pulled over with a book resting on them. Mrs. Bertoni walks over to the bed and picks up the book. She reads the cover.

The Karmestein

What a silly name for a book, she thinks.

Mrs. Bertoni finds nothing unusual about the empty room. Her daughter is a frequent visitor to the library, especially on weekends. Walking swiftly, she places the book onto Alessandra’s overfilled bookshelf and shuts the door behind her.