He had warned her about the book. Now it was too late. He had said not to chant the poetry aloud. He had exlaimed not to carry it with her. He had said it all.
So now she lay hardly breathing in her bed. The book laid open on her side.
It all started during his own childhood when he himself checked out this very same book. He had chanted aloud its dark mysteries and sang its mysterious poetry to himself. Little did he know that his chants were magic. Little did he know of this book's power. For all the words that he had uttered came to life and haunted his years. He had dreams and visions and hallucinations as he slowly went mad. Eventually, the last poem he had sung caught up to him. The poem had been about death. Death by poison. His breath caught as he collapsed to the ground gasping. He was lucky to be healed and nurtured back to life. But he knew that others before him had not been so lucky. He believed that the book should be destroyed forever. He made up his mind to put his life to good use. However, his efforts were useless, for the book was indestructible.
Now, all these years later, his very own niece was in possession of this book. He remembered as if it were yesterday. She came home from Mr. Linden's library with it tucked under her arm. He recognized it immediately. But he had warned her. He had warned her about the demon book. She didn't listen. She read aloud the death poem. Sang it just how he had sung it, in a sweet childlike, angelic voice.
And now she lay hardly alive with it still tucked at her side. He had warned her about the book. Now it was too late.