From, Blood’s History: The Library
My private library lies deep beneath the cellar of Blood farmhouse. For someone as long-lived as myself, books have been a constant friend. I have collected an eclectic selection of works both well-known and obscure, and some which have been both at various times in their existence.
It pleases me to say that I have known genius’ such as John Steinbeck, and veritable devils such as Mather and his kin. While none of Mather’s works soil my shelves, I have everything Steinbeck published, as well as some he sent only to me, tucked away.
Among treasures such as these, however, are books far more dangerous. Works and ideas known to kill with the slightest caress of their pages.
And if you think books are not dangerous, then you are a fool.
Ideas are wicked entities. They can enter your thoughts, wrap themselves around some vital part of your workings and squeeze until you have no concept of what you are doing. Some books, like any object, can become haunted, the dead clinging to the manuscripts, traveling with them and ruining lives.
I keep my most prized possessions, and the most dangerous as well, in my private library, far from the eyes of foolish people. They are kept away from prying eyes. Not only because the books are mine, but because I am tired of hiding bodies.
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