The Devil's Own

The Devil’s Own

A sudden sound sent a chill up my spine;
Pages turned slowly by fingers of wind,
apparition like, as the rain kept time
with the ticking clock. I sat back, chagrined.

The tome was unfamiliar, laying on the desk.
“The Devil’s Own” – curiosity led me to look.
Filled with arcane symbols, illustrations were grotesque,
it was readily apparent this was more than a book.

Pulling on my glasses, I peered into its heart.
The ancient text was gibberish, well beyond me.
Yet, somehow, its contents began to impart
its dark secrets in my mind directly.

I saw visions of torture, blood used ritually,
twisting the normal for nefarious ends.
I felt in my soul these were used habitually
to call upon darkness, over goodness transcend.

The power it showed me was almost narcotic
sweeping me up in the possibilities.
The images, gruesome, were also hypnotic
with promises of unique capabilities.

The wind grew fitful and the window slammed
breaking the spell and my reverie.
Had I continued perhaps I’d be damned
but when I looked back there was nothing to see.

Had it all been a dream? An apparition?
The table was bare and nothing remained.
I now clearly see it as an admonition –
Don’t turn to the darkness or you will be stained.

An entry for Octoberfest, Round 2, "Invalid Item" 
Prompt: Image
Form: Quatrain  
Line Count: 28