I have in my possession a rare and highly dangerous article — a book — which, if underestimated or ignored for the merest minute, would devour a man’s sanity within the space of a few breaths.
I speak of the original Necronomicon, penned by the very hand of the mad Abdul Alhazred. I hear it in the back of my mind. It knows what I intend. It knows I will destroy it. Even now, its protests grow louder. I am drawn to read it. Musn’t—
