It is the last night of the year.
I am alone, as is so often the case, in my secret library. That place where I have squirreled away books and items far too dangerous to be left out amongst the public. The objects in this room would cause the learned professors of the Cross Branch of Miskatonic University to salivate if they but knew of the room itself.
I have no intention of ever letting them know.
They wreak enough havoc, cause enough pain, murder enough innocents without these gathered items.
What would they do with books that scream? Or a drum that calls for war?
How would they react to a scalpel that convinces them to amputate one of their own limbs?
I know they would try them all on the helpless and the unsuspecting.
As I sit here and drink my whiskey, gaze out over the books that populate these shelves, I recall how I obtained each and every one.
Some of them were printed only last year. Others before I was born.
But they are all the same, in the end.
Each and every one of them is dangerous.
Some killed before I took them to my home.
Some have cursed families and trapped the dead between their covers.
I think as this night progresses, I shall reflect upon them.
Thinking of my books is better than remembering my dead and all whom I have slain.