Book Of Cthulhu Novels & Stories

I swallow the lump in my throat and descend. The air down here is cooler, thicker with the smell of leather and dust and secrets. Torches have guttered out, but faint violet light clings to the edges of things—my new sight, maybe, or the contract’s gift. The shadows dance ahead of me, playful almost, skipping along the shelves until they reach a particular bookcase. One tendril stretches, points. A heavy black tome launches itself from the highest shelf and thumps into my waiting hands. I stagger under the weight. The book is bound in leather so dark it drinks the light; no gold leaf, no embossed sigils, just smooth, inky blackness. The title is etched in silver that seems to shift when I ti

If he had to gamble with witchcraft to save Scarlet, so be it. Then his eyes caught something in the far corner of the room. A dusty old book bound in cracked black leather that looked disturbingly like skin. He moved toward it slowly. The air felt heavier near it, charged with something that made the hairs on his arms stand on end. He crouched and picked it up. The cover bore strange markings.. moon symbols intertwined with claws and something that looked like a screaming face. When he opened it, dust puffed into the air. Inside were diagrams, instructions and rituals.

Their explanation of tantra was truthful, if a little oversimplified. I squeeze my eyes shut and rub my temples. I need coffee, and by now the kids might have something for me, so I head back down to Chinatown, taking a detour into The Magickal Childe bookshop on West 33rd on the way. Of the stack of books I’ve spent my morning with at the library, the one title I’m fascinated by is the infamous Tibetan Book of the Dead, and now I wanta copy I can mark up. The shop is a cramped little hole in the wall that reeks of voodoo oils and herbs. Ceremonial swords and shelves of dusty glass jars cover the walls. A leather-bound copy of the Necronomicon takes pride of place in the display window and a

They moved deeper into the library until Pat stopped at a lone pedestal in the center of the room. Upon it sat a thick, dusty tome bound in what looked like pale, cracked leather. The cover bore no title, only a symbol: a blazing fire crowned by three horns, with jagged lines splitting its base. Pat opened the book carefully. “Mad Kings of the Underworld,” Jo read. She leaned in, studying the strange, curling script etched in faded ink. She flipped through the brittle pages until something finally caught her eye. A name. Malrik. Jo’s heart skipped.

I cough when it raises a puff of dust into the air on its way. “I gave you all the ones with more pictures,” Roger murmurs, closing his book and reaching for his next as well. “Wanted to make it easy on you.” My mouth drops open in a little outrage at his implication there but then I see the upturned corner of his lip. “Liar,” I say, smiling down at my book as I open the cover. The title page reads A Complete History of the Cults of the Dark God, 1862. “You just didn’t want to get your hands and clothes dusty touching all these old ones.” Passively, I gesture to my clothes – which are indeed covered in a light layer of grey library dust.

I commanded, my voice echoing with a resonance that was not entirely my own. ​The iron bolts groaned, a sound like a giant waking from a long slumber. The door swung open slowly, revealing a chamber filled with a soft, ethereal glow. Thousands of scrolls were tucked into honeycomb shelves that reached into the darkness above, and in the center stood a pedestal made of pure obsidian. On it sat the book, bound in skin that shimmered like a raven’s wing. ​"The Book of Shadows," Lila whispered, her torch flickering as if the room itself were trying to snuff it out. "It actually exists."

Claude found a few books on witchcraft that she had never seen before, and Nuella showed her a few books on magic that she had acquired over the years. As they were about to leave the room, Claude noticed a small book sitting on a shelf all by itself. It was old and worn, with a black cover that had been embossed with a strange symbol. "What's this?" Claude asked, picking up the book. Nuella's eyes widened as she saw the symbol. "That's the Necronomicon," she said, her voice low. "You shouldn't touch that." Claude looked at the book and felt a shiver run down her spine. She had heard of the Necronomicon before, and she knew that it was said to contain dark and dangerous magic.

The peaceful garden had become a scene from hell itself. “You cannot escape the fate that has already been written for you,” the entity hissed, using Aunt Gellie’s mouth. “It is imprinted in your blood, in your personality, and in your cursed ability to see creatures that do not belong to the world of the living. When this ends… you will be mine.”

Frustration mounted in him as he tried to find a clue. *** Neil Titus, a demon, and the director of the Shadow Crawlers, sat with a grim look as his dark eyes scanned the reports. His thick brown hair was combed back, and his posture radiated concern. With a loud sigh, he got up and smoothed the tailored suit.

They'd read 9 Lives, 10 Circles, and been tested on it. He wished he had a copy right now. It was a fiction book about one tom's attempt to gain an audience with the Black Devil. It read like a tour guide of the Underworld, down to the minutest detail, when it didn't go into the scratchings of the main character's slowly twisting mind.