My name is Montgomery Vale, and I do not believe in magic.
I repeat myself: I do not believe in magic.
I do not believe in magic, and therefore nothing I am about to write can be true. I am an old man, asleep in my bed, and the night’s ill humours are clearly affecting my dreams. I write to calm my nerves, to simply record the events of recent hours. For if I am sane—if any of this has truly happened—I must leave warning for others.
I write because I may be insane, for surely none of this can have happened.
I write because the door must not be opened.
It seems ages ago that I found the book, but it can scarcely have been more than a day. I found it in my own library, on the floor by the fireplace. It was a massive tome, five…
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