Cumbria, United Kingdom 

September 2022

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The century-old mustiness scratched at his throat. He looked down at the floor with disgust, clearly seeing his footprints pressed into the dust. He never minded dirt and had been through far worse places, but this book dust did not agree with him. Who knew what kind of mites lived in those old books? He passed a mirror and caught a glance of himself. He was nearing fifty but kept in shape thanks only to his army habits. He was not tall, his hair was thinning, and grey strands were starting to show here and there. His eyes were small, but his nose was a little larger, and his jaw looked roughly cut as if on a circular saw. Well, he was certainly no Tom Cruise, but he liked himself, and that mattered to him. And also that he could blend into a crowd without drawing much attention. He looked sceptically at one pile and realised that the book on top seemed quite clean and newer. A rare find in this museum of oblivion. He picked it up and started reading. The first page was a dull description of the main character pushing through the darkness, so he flipped a few pages ahead, but it was more of the same.

​

He heard only his heavy breathing. He stumbled and fell to the ground. He felt the gravel scrape the skin on his palms. He was terrified. He knew the darkness would come for him. Not the darkness all around him but the absolute darkness that knew no mercy. He sat up and realised he must be in a tunnel. He curled up against the wall and listened. Sweat and tears ran down his face. He trembled but was not cold. In the distance, he heard a steady rumbling but could not place the sound or identify its source. He could see nothing around him except pitch-black darkness. A thought ran through his mind about how he had actually got here. How was it possible that he was here and now? He had everything so carefully calculated, and then what had actually happened?

It started three months ago.

​

"Man, what a load of trash. I hate books that tease you and then suddenly jump three months back. Why can't these books just start at the beginning? What is the author playing at? Listen, Zara..." Before he could catch his breath to read her a bit, his companion gave him a stern look with her light brown eyes.

"I don't think that we are here because of New York Times bestsellers. Can you please get back to searching?" the small woman with fiery red hair was clearly very nervous. He sighed bitterly and put the book back on the pile. After a moment, he changed his mind and quickly shoved it into his bag. He did not want to admit it, but he was curious about what would happen to that scoundrel in the dark, and besides, little light toilet reading always comes in handy. He acted as if nothing was wrong and shone his torch at one of the shelves.

"What are the chances we'll actually find that book here?" he asked, clearly not liking the idea of sifting through hundreds of books.

"Quite decent. The name of its owner was the last thing Brushart said before everything slipped out of his hands. Lord Dumbbell collected all sorts of things, but the true collector was his father. The old man was basically expanding the family collection. At first, it was mostly classic historical editions, but then one day, his father met Harry Houdini…"

"You mean the magician?" Jackson raised his eyebrows.

"Yes, don't interrupt! At that time, he completely changed his focus and started holding séances, which his son also attended."

"Wait, I'm already a bit lost with all these blokes," he said, looking confused.

"Alright, let me explain again. The family had the collection for a long time. Lord Dumbbell the First collected all the rare books, but the shift from a typical collection to something more suited to us was when his son, Lord Dumbbell the Second, met Houdini. Then, after his father's death, he greatly expanded the collection. And Lord Dumbbell the Third just kept adding more until he died a few years ago. Both the son and the grandson surrounded themselves with dubious characters who only drained the family's money. I found a mention in the family accounts that Lord Dumbbell the Second paid a large sum to a certain Mr. Low, who, coincidentally, owned that edition we are looking for. Before he died, he decided to sell the collection to prevent it from falling into the wrong hands, so it apparently ended up here," Zara finished and walked to another pile of books.

"The wrong hands like ours?" Jackson smirked, still wondering why a book he had taken with him - one hardly worthy of a hardcover - was part of such a collection.

"My hands are definitely the right ones, and I'll be taking that book from your filthy paws very quickly if you find it before me," she said with a playful look, though it seemed she was pretty serious.

"But it's been a long time. How can you be sure no one's already taken it?"

"I can't be sure, but I have no other leads for its location, so we'll have to search here." She ran her fingers along the spines of the books on the shelf, quietly reading the titles to herself.

"That is not very precise information to search by, sweetheart," Jackson raised an eyebrow irritably and began rummaging through another pile.

She sighed and looked around, though she paid little attention to the artwork hanging wherever there was space. Suddenly, she saw it clearly in front of her. In the middle of the room stood an old museum chest with drawers where rare prints were kept. She couldn't see it from the doorway, as stacks of books obstructed her view, and a large armchair sat directly in front of it. But now, from this angle, it was unmistakable.

"Jackson, come and help me," she called, and he gave the same weary sigh he always did when she asked him to do something that involved moving. Gradually, a figurative pocket knife began to unfold in her pocket, yet she held herself in check. It required some effort, but she managed to rein in her emotions. Having recently celebrated her thirtieth birthday, she had learned to let certain things slide and avoid the fiery outbursts of her younger years.

"The books here on the side. They are blocking the drawers. Help me move them,"

"You think it will be here?" he asked sceptically but set to work.

"I do not know. It doesn’t seem likely that it could be hidden anywhere else, and I seriously doubt the old man would have tucked the book away in a secret room. I think he probably did not even know what he bought. Maybe one of his precious shamans advised him,"

"What do you mean shamans?" Jackson frowned as they maneuvered several books at once, breathing a little heavier from the effort. At last, they cleared the drawers, revealing their contents.

"You are not afraid of such nonsense, are you?" she laughed. "After all, you work for…"

"And does everyone who sells Christmas trees have to believe in Santa?" he interrupted her quickly. "You know, voodoo...it´s just something else. It really gives me the chills," she raised an eyebrow and looked at him for a moment. He towered over her, a broad-shouldered American that would not shy away from a fight. She hadn’t expected him to be superstitious. Shaking her head, she turned her attention back to the centerpiece of the evening: the museum chest with its three ornate drawers. She tugged at the first one, feeling it resist slightly, but with a bit of force, it finally yielded. Peering inside, she spotted two prints. One was a medieval Bible, a rare edition with a printing error where several pages mistakenly read "Santa" instead of "Satan." The other print was in Russian, though she suspected it was another religious text. Her Cyrillic had grown a bit rusty. Beside her, Jackson barely breathed, the tension palpable in the air.

"This isn´t it. Let's try the second drawer. Can you?" she gave him a nod, and he slammed the first drawer shut with far too much force, creating an unpleasant crack that echoed in the quiet room. She closed her eyes and counted to five.

Murphy's Law suggested that the book wouldn’t be in the second drawer either, it would most likely turn up in the last one or in a completely unexpected place. After struggling with the previous stubborn drawer, Jackson widened his stance, grasped both handles, and pulled with all his strength. He didn’t anticipate the drawer coming out entirely, and tumbled to the floor. Zara swallowed hard. Inside was a single book; any additional ones wouldn't have fit.

"This one is a specific size and looks quite strange. I mean specific," Jackson said expertly as he scrambled to his feet and took the book.

"I would not touch that…" Zara bit her lip and blindly searched her bag for gloves.

"Why?" he looked at her confused.

"You will damage it. Well… it is human skin," she said.The horror widened Jackson's eyes to an unexpected size, and he dropped the book in shock. Fortunately, it fell only a few centimetres back into the opened drawer. Zara put on a pair of cotton gloves and handed him the other pair.

"Wouldn't surgical gloves or those thick yellow ones be a better choice?"

"Sorry, I left the HAZMAT gear at the office," she replied nonchalantly.

"Why didn’t you mention that earlier?" he reproached her, eyebrows raised.

"I didn’t expect you to start grabbing it right away. It’s a precious book dating back a few centuries. Do you realize what you're touching with those greasy hands everyday?" Jackson scowled inwardly, thinking something unflattering about a pig’s backside, but he obediently slipped on the gloves.

Zara leaned over the drawer, a lock of her red hair slipping free from her carefully braided plait and falling into her eyes. Taking a deep breath, she slowly lifted the book and opened it, noticing the disgusted expression on Jackson’s face.

"You know, the skin has to go through a long cleansing process before anyone can use it as a book cover: both animal and human. There really is nothing to fear. You will cause more damage than it will to you," she said, pretending not to see Jackson peering under the gloves and suspiciously inspecting his own hands.

"Does it not seem strange to you that it is human skin?"

"Did you lie at your job interview or what? I never expected a mercenary working for occultists to be squeamish about dried human skin. It is practically no different from leather used normally," she shook her head. "Besides, there are surprisingly many such books. A few have already passed through my hands," professional curiosity urged her to examine the book properly. Although the colour was different, a layperson would not notice that the book was bound in unusual skin at first glance; however, once one knew, they would notice small details not seen in normal books. For example, the colour was simply unusual. The seams were professional, but the bookbinder was unfamiliar with the properties of this skin, so it stretched where it should not, and the holes around the stitching were discoloured. The title was very worn, though. It looked like a faded tattoo, and Jackson suddenly realised that was precisely what it was. He shuddered again, knowing the name of the book from the files. It was the Book of Adam. Which now took on a completely different meaning. Was it Adam whose skin was Zara holding?

"Do you think you should open it and read?" he asked suddenly, quite impatiently, rubbing his spiky hair.

"It's just a book. No harm ever came from reading a book, Mr O'Connell," she said mysteriously and waited for his reaction. After a few seconds, he spread his arms and shook his head impatiently as a sign he did not understand. "The Mummy? The 1999 film? Brandon Fraser and Rachel Weisz? Imhotep? Nothing?"

"'I have never heard of any actor named Imhotep. Have you seen all the films about mysteries, archaeology, and history?"

"More or less,"

"What does it say then?" his impatience was evident.

"There is not much. It describes some stories and monsters, most of the text is encrypted and… here is something interesting…" a draft swept through the room, followed by a loud bang from nearby. Jackson instantly drew his gun, while Zara instinctively pressed the book tightly to her chest. They stood still, hearts racing, but nothing happened for a few tense seconds.

"Probably the wind…" he whispered.

"I feel like I am in a bad Lovecraft parody," she replied in a whisper, but she had to admit it gave her goosebumps.

"I know Lovecraft!" he exclaimed, his excitement palpable.

"Congratulations! At least now we know your education wasn't a complete failure of the American school system," she replied with a hint of sarcasm.  

"You English are quite cheeky," he said, attempting to come up with a clever retort, but nothing came to mind quickly enough.

"That must be the genes and the tea. By the way, did you know that American English is also called simplified English elsewhere? Just a fun fact," Zara smirked, ready to argue more.

"Ha ha ha. Very funny. Can we leave now? We’ve got what we came for, and I would really hate for some looting shaman or the late lord to catch us," he said, holstering his pistol under his jacket. He grasped Zara by the shoulders and gently turned her toward the exit.

"You mean another looting…"

"The door!"

"But we have not looked in the third drawer! There is so much here that could be useful!" she objected and started to resist a little.

"You have your book wrapped up in Adam's ass, so don´t be greedy and go," suddenly, he noticed that another book was hiding in the drawer. It was tiny, almost like a notebook. He quickly grabbed it and shoved it into Zara's hands.

“Here, a gift with your purchase. Now head to the door, or I’ll have to carry you out over my shoulder. We can send another looting team for the rest,” he joked. This time, she was the one who thought something unflattering about a hairy pig's backside, but the small book was enough of a distraction to pull her attention from the third drawer. It had a golden lock and refused to open.