Charlie's Ritual by Arthur Pendryll

Charlie just didn't listen. Charlie insisted on performing the ritual from the strange ancient book with the imperfections on the leather. Charlie wouldn't listen to reason. And now he was dead. He was dead in a pool of blood in the center of the pentagram that was supposed to protect him, and I had to escape from all his ritual had wrought.

Warning: This eBook contains very graphic and disturbing imagery. Adults should read this story in order to determine if it is appropriate for a minor in their care.

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It was my fault, really. When I saw the binding with the interesting spine work and the matrix of irregular imperfections in the leather, the book was as good as bought. He’d found me in the aisle and immediately put down the four volumes of an 1886 edition of Dickens’ works and voted in favor of the book instead. Even then, we might have been safe had someone not translated some of the strange calligraphy into English on five nearly transparent sheets of paper, the ink faded but still legible and telling tales of demons, wealth, revenge, and love. I wanted the book. I wanted the leather, the art, the ink, and the pulp. Charlie wanted the content, the rituals, and the promises.
He shouldn't have performed that ritual. It was just that simple. He thought it was a silly joke but I knew the truth. It wasn't just a gag, a joke, a parlor game—the lettering was so strange, and somehow just looking at it made me sick. The five pages were filled with the normal crap, and he glanced through them. There were typical love potions and slavery curses and such but of course Charlie went straight to the summoning ritual on the last page. I told him to leave it alone. He didn't listen. He never listened.

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