Cthulhu Rising!

A History of the Necronomicon

By ‘Cthulhu’

"This is the Book of the Black Earth; the book of Dead Names; that I have set down in peril of my life..."

Prelude to 'The Necronomicon'

Abdul Al-Hazred

PART ONE: 645 AD, DAMASCUS.

Several miles to the south of the great city of Damascus, to the side of the As-Suwayda road stood a rather decrepit stone-and-thatch hut. To look at it, one would think it was abandoned; derelict. But such was not the case...

The old arab sat at the rough table, his head in his hands. It was almost finished! All those days and weeks and months of working.

But he must work faster. The voices in his head were getting louder, almost by the hour, especially that old one, the one known to him, and which would soon become known to many as 'Cthulhu'; and he must get all the chants and spells down so that the powers of the 'Old Ones' could be countered.

Abdul Al-Hazred had studied mysticism, magic and metaphysics since he was a young man, questioning and asking throughout the lands of Palestine, Syria, Polemon, Cappadocia, and had travelled far and wide through the old Kindom of Babylon, even making a special seven-year trip to the ancient City of Ur in Chaldea, to consult the wise men there. But there was one man who had helped him more than any other; one of the Priests from Sumeria; a man named Pazuzo. The two had gone over the many spells and Pazuzo had looked carefully at each one, changing a word here, a pronounciation there, getting each one, he said, exactly right. The priest had concentrated on one spell in particular; the opening of the Door of knowledge and wisdom. Al-Hazred looked hard at the spell, seeing few differences in the two versions. But finally at Pazuzo's insistence, he chose the updated version, and committed it to memory along with the others; a colossal enterprise for one so old, but he had managed it. Eventually he had finished the work, but refused to use the chants, for he considered himself too old to undertake such responsibility (he was 63 years old; extreme old age for anyone in those days!) So he had taken his many memories of the great spells and chants and, with great courage, he had begun a single book containing them all, together with descriptions of them and how each could be used. He thought long and hard over a title for the book, and one evening while listening to the night sounds, he came across it. The sounds of the night were as he well knew, made by the little insects of the night, but long before his lifetime, the noises were thought by others more primitive to be caused by evil demons, and were called Al Azif. And with a slight smile, Al-Hazred realised that here was his title. He quickly turned to the front page and wrote across the top:

Al-Azif - Necronomicon.

It translated as:

‘The Demon Song - Scroll of Names of the Dead’.

It had a title, so now to finish it as quickly as possible. As soon as it was well under way, Pazuzo took his leave. Al-Hazred was sorry to see his friend go, but, he thought, all men must follow their destinies. So he bid farewell to the man and returned to the task.

And now, he was on the verge of completing Al Azif. He thought back over the wording. All the lovely poetry of the various parts. It almost took his mind off the terrors of what could happen. But now he must go on in spite of the fear and despair which was threatening to overwhelm him! He turned once again to the page, and wrote on feverishly.

Meanwhile, two travellers were walking along the desert road on their way to worship at the temple in Damascus. They approached the hut, casting fearful glances at the gathering storm clouds above. They did not want to spend the night in the desert.

"Blessings be upon this house!" called one in the time-honoured manner as they pushed aside the bead curtain and entered the first empty room, but there was no reply. Then they became aware of a scratching, like a mouse eating. Realising it was a person writing, they passed through the inner door, and came upon the old arab. He waved them to a wooden bench, and continued without a stop. Glancing at each other, the two men took their seats, aware that they would not get any more out of this strange person until he had finished his work.

Suddenly he groaned, "Ah...the shadows! They're closing in!"

Realising something was very wrong, the two men swallowed hard and looked at each other. One stood, intending to offer assistance, but was waved down again.

Al-Hazred had almost finished. Just the final sentence, and his lineage. 'Amen!', his pen swept out the wide, detailed Arabic characters, 'I have completed it! Naught more can I do! The future is in thy hands, thou who shall read this writing!'

He dipped his pen and began his name and lineage.

"This is the book of the servant of the gods...."

And that was as far as he got!

Thunder crashed across the sky!

But it was as nothing to the roar of triumph which sounded inside his head! In his terror, he leaped from his chair, scattering the pens and inkpot all over the floor! It was happening! In the last vestige of his sanity, Al-Hazred realised that he had done all in his power to counter the evil of the nameless ones.

But then sheer terror struck his heart. "Oh, my god and goddess!" he screamed, "Save me from the powers of the Old Ones, and the horrors of beyond!"

But the voice roared with laughter, "THY GOD AND GODDESS WILL NOT HELP THEE NOW!" it bellowed, "I, CTHULHU, HAVE WON! BE AWARE, MORTAL, AND DESPAIR! THE SPELLS AND CHANTS THAT THOU HAST SO CAREFULLY WRIT, FAR FROM BINDING, WILL RELEASE! PAZUZO, MY SERVANT, HAS CHANGED THE WORDING OF THE CHANTS! AND THUS HAS HE CHANGED THEIR MEANINGS! IF ANY OF THY KIND SHOULD SAY THEM, THEY WILL TURN THE KEY OF THE DOOR TO THE OUTER REACHES! ONCE OPENED, IT CAN NEVER BE CLOSED! THOU HAST DOOMED THE WHOLE OF THY PITIFUL HUMAN RACE TO DESTRUCTION! " The voice roared with laughter, and with a scream of despair, the Arab reached out to the pile of manuscript in a desperate attempt to destroy that which he had written.

But it was far too late. Al-Hazred's heart failed him, and he collapsed on the earth floor.

For long minutes, the two men sat terrified, staring at the still figure, while overhead, the storm roared in its ferocity.

There was no movement as the lightning lit up the room in a startling series of flashes.

Eventually the crashes of thunder diminished into fragmentary mutters on the horizon.

Then, very hesitantly, they came to the body. One nudged it with a toe. There was no response.

"He's …dead!"

A pause while the two gathered their courage. Then the other went to the table.

"We'll never know who he was," he said, indicating the last unfinished page, which was now marked with a long pen-line.

"Perhaps it's just as well!" replied the other with a shudder.

They gathered the pile of parchment together, and delivered it to a wise man named Hassan Ben Abdul in Damascus, who bound it with leather thongs and placed it in his retreat library some miles to the south. And the body they buried in the sand outside the city.

And that, as far as they were concerned, was the end of the story. But it was a long time before either of them could sleep a full night!

And there, in the depths of the wise man's library, waiting to be discovered, lay.. Al Azif - The Necronomicon!