The Abyss

Trigger warning: the following content contains references to physical violence and suicide.

My moments of lucidity are increasingly scarce, so this might be the last coherent message I will ever write. And although this text contains elements of narrative writing, I assure you that it is as close to reality as I remember it to be. It may very well be regarded as the incoherent ramblings of a madman, but I believe that bringing clarity to the events that led to my institutionalization is of utmost importance. 

As a professional courtesy, the doctors momentarily provided me with paper and crayons to organize my thoughts while I am still able to do so. It is surreal to think that only a few weeks ago, I was the one wearing the lab coat and holding the notepad. But these memories all feel like a distant dream now. It would be easy to blame my mentor, Allen Darven, for my vicissitudes, but I now realize that the real culprits are my own ambition and hubris; or perhaps my boundless curiosity. 

It all started three months ago when Dr. Darven, a distinguished professor of psychology, agreed to help me with my PhD thesis if I could assist him in retrieving a certain book for his research on the potential exacerbating effects of literature on mental illness.

The manuscript in question was a collection of poems written by Arnold Vaudrin, the notorious writer who committed multiple murders during the late 1800s in New England. It was never fully understood why a reputable poet was suddenly struck by a homicidal bout of mania, so the whole case was quickly branded as another regrettable instance of  ‘tortured genius losing his sanity to his art’. 

What piqued my professor's interest the most, however, were the peculiar events that followed this egregious affair. 150 years after Vaudrin’s killing rampage, the number of copycats and fanatics indiscriminately killing dozens of people had reached the hundreds globally. Most of the perpetrators who had not already taken their own lives pleaded insanity in the face of these murder charges. 

Due to the common interest that these killers had in Vaudrin and the pernicious nature of his poems, the collection was soon discontinued and most copies in circulation were destroyed. It was rumored that the author’s insanity had seeped into his poems and whoever read them would be struck by the same affliction.

I had never been too inclined to believe in mysticism or occult powers, and I was not sure whether the professor believed in it or not, but one thing was clear: The bizarre nature of this case study had awakened a ravenous engrossment in Darven that he had transmitted to me, almost at the expense of my relationship. My girlfriend Claudia complained that this book was all I talked about and that I had barely worked on my own thesis in almost a month. She hinted that the professor only seemed concerned about his work and did not care about mine. Whether that was true or not did not really matter to me. I was part of something bigger than myself. Maybe if she had met him in person before the incident, her perception of him would have been different.

Even during my first meeting with Darven, I was able to recognize the depth and the raw magnetism of his genius. An unstoppable thirst for understanding that drew like-minded spirits into total concensus.

From this point onward, his obsession had become mine, and I devoted much of my time and resources to finding a copy. The difficulty of the task at hand had also contributed to my incitement. Many of those I inquired about Vaudrin’s book tried to dissuade me from looking for it, claiming it was haunted. Amused by their reactions, I endeavored ever so actively to find the book and prove them wrong. People in academia like to pretend that they are open-minded, but most of us have a very narrow-minded view of how the world works. And although new scientific ideas disprove old ones every year, we cling desperately to the current ones as immutable truths.  

I looked for the accursed book for months thus putting my own work on a longer hiatus. After visiting more libraries, bookstores, and curiosity shops than I can remember, I finally found it. My intel had led me to a house on the outskirts of this very town. The Victorian-style home was owned by a private collector named Garry Donovan, and was exactly the kind of abode you would expect from an esoteric literature enthusiast. Despite the unkempt lawn and the faded black paint peeling off the facade, the structure of the house itself was still in relatively good shape. From his eyrie at the top of the highest turret, the man was observing my arrival through a slight opening in the curtains. Pretending I had not noticed, I still rang the doorbell wontedly.

After a few minutes, the door finally opened. The old man from the window silently stood at the entrance, sizing me up. He was wearing an old tattered suit that seemed to have been bought around the same time his house was built. Most of his face was hidden by a rugged gray beard that appeared to merge seamlessly into his uncombed hirsute head. With a low and raspy voice, he broke the silence to invite me in. 

“The library is through the door straight ahead,” he said, walking slowly behind me and piercing my back with his beady blue eyes.

The high ceiling luminaire and the slight glow emanating from the few remaining embers in the fireplace provided the only source of light in the room. Once my eyes adjusted, I was able to fully appreciate the sheer number of books covering all four walls of the ample library. While not limited to books on occultism, most bookbindings I could read seemed to cover a range of topics from mystical traditions and rituals to metaphysics and symbolism. 

My host who had been most quiet until now spoke up.

“You have to understand, young man, that it is not without a great deal of sorrow that I am parting with this book. It is, without doubt, one of my most prized possessions,” admitted Donovan while referring to a thick leather-bound manuscript sitting on a glass coffee table next to an antique upholstered armchair. The darkened burgundy leather that appeared to cover the entirety of the book was only interrupted by the obsidian engravings of the title, “L’Abysse” in the middle of the front cover and Vaudrin’s name right under. The wear on the corners and edges were undeniable signs of the many owners and decades the book had seen.

“Have you read it one last time for old time's sake before I arrived?” I asked, pointing out its disparate position in the room.

“I have never read its content, but the temptation is growing ever more intensely,” replied the old collector to my surprise. “That’s why I agreed to relinquish the book to you.” 

When I inquired why he had never read the manuscript, Donovan reluctantly handed it to me and retorted, “Some texts never should have been written, and are not meant to be read. You are aware of the dangers you risk by reading Vaudrin’s poems, right?”

“I heard the rumors,” I said, opening the book to validate its authenticity.

At this moment, with a quickness I would not have believed him to have, Donovan pressed his palms on the back of my hands and held Vaudrin’s book shut

“Not in here,” he whispered solemnly. 

After this awkward altercation, I apologized and thanked him for the book, but did not loiter any longer in the old Victorian house. I had finally acquired what I had been looking for all this time. As I drove off with the book closed on the passenger’s seat, I could not help but ponder the old man’s warning. During the whole ride, I felt the temptation Donovan mentioned growing inside me. It was as if the book itself was compelling me to read it. Once in my driveway, curiosity got the better of me. I opened up the book and read the very first poem of the collection. It had the structure and rhyme scheme of a typical Petrarchan sonnet, but its content sent shivers down my spine.

Among the endless ruins, beckon me

The cracks in my being will not abate.

Accept this rotten shell inside thy gate; 

And I will wait for you to set me free. 

We break the chains of our morality

For thee, I shall destroy and then create. 

This toilsome path I take thy scrolls dictate: 

A chance to face my own mortality. 

My flesh and soul are thine to use in full.

Engulf my mind in red and purple haze.

Correct this course of mine that is amiss. 

Beneath my skin, I feel a constant pull.

My bones and spirit once again ablaze; 

As I descend into a deep abyss. 

As I read the last line of the poem, a thick fog clouded my mind.  A tremor from my nape spread to every inch of my body like a swarm of centipedes crawling on my bones. My eyes became barred windows behind which I helplessly lost my sense of agency until everything went dark.

When I came back to my senses, I was in my bedroom alone in the dark with the book open to the second poem. Bewildered by the situation, I instantly snapped the book shut. The alarm clock on my nightstand indicated 9PM, which meant that 2 hours had gone by unbeknownst to me. The only thing I could hear was the heavy sound of my breathing. No sign of Claudia anywhere. It wasn’t like her to be out this late so I was immediately worried and reached for my phone. No missed calls or text messages from her. Only one text message from Darven asking “Did you find it?”

I ignored it and dialed Claudia’s number. 

“Hey, what’s up?” she answered discernibly confused.

“Where are you?”

“I told you I had some errands to run, but you were so preoccupied with your stupid poems that you probably didn’t even register what I said. You were kind of rude to me earlier so I thought you needed some space.”

“Sorry, I’ll see you when you get home.” I replied mechanically before hanging up. 

As it turned out, I did not see her that evening. The mental exhaustion and trauma caused by the blackout had taken their toll on my mind so I fell asleep shortly after that phone call. As I lay on my bed before dozing off, I tried to remember the previous couple of hours, but in place of those memories, distorted voices and blurred visions filled my head.  

When I woke up, the sun had not completely risen, and Claudia was asleep next to me. I quietly left the apartment and made my way to the university to hand the manuscript to Dr. Darven.

After knocking on his office door and realizing his absence, I left the book in his pigeonhole with a note advising him to exercise caution explaining that the reading of the first poem had affected me in ways that I did not yet fully comprehend.

I spent the next few days home trying to give my mind some rest, but even though I had gotten rid of Vaudrin’s poems, their effect still lingered, and my condition did not improve. The blackouts became more frequent. More intense. Their visions and voices were distinctly taking form like a virus taking root in my psyche.

With the escalating worries of Claudia and my parents, I voluntarily admitted myself to the General Institute of Mental Health Hospital the following week. After two weeks at the hospital, the medication and treatments started to take effect. The blackouts were shorter and less common. As part of my therapy, I was allowed visitors and writing periods to finish my thesis. I wondered whether writing about psychology still had meaning considering what had happened to me in the last couple of weeks, but I completed it nonetheless. As soon as I finished my final draft, Claudia volunteered to deliver it to my professor.

“He better give you one hell of an endorsement after everything you’ve done for him. Going as far as putting your health on the line for his research,” she argued. 

The hours passed after her departure that morning, but instead of worrying about Claudia, my mind was elsewhere. Strangely enough, it was from the professor that I most wanted to hear.  It had been weeks since the book was in his possession. Had he read it? Had his research arrived to some sort of conclusion? 

My blood froze in my veins when, on that same day, neither Darven or Claudia were my next visitors. Two police officers came to interview me about events that had transpired at the university that morning. Darven had inexplicably and without warning assaulted many colleagues and students from the faculty with a pair of hedge shears. Three of the victims were fighting for their lives at the hospital across the street, while four had already succumbed to the multiple cuts and lacerations inflicted upon them. The lead detective told me that Claudia’s body had been found in my old mentor’s office which led them to think she was one of the first to go. Her body did not show any defensive wounds, so she was probably caught by surprise and allegedly died much faster than the ones who struggled. After being cornered by security, Darven had jumped out a window from the sixth floor. He did not survive the fall.  

At the time, I could not react to the unfathomable horrors that I had just been told. My mind was immersed in a hollow void as I passively listened to their account of the events and looked at the graphic pictures of evidence they had brought along. It was as if it was all happening to someone else. They asked many questions I did not comment on even though I knew most of the answers. 

“Why was Claudia there? What was the professor researching? Do you have any idea why he might have done this?”

The only thing that brought me from this catatonic state was the last picture they placed in front of me. It was a photograph of Vaudrin’s book open to the last page. Blood had stained most of the poem, but the last three lines were still legible. Driven by the words in front of me, I read them aloud.

Desert this world and hold the severed rope

Control is given over finally

Beyond this life abandon all thy hope

Everything went dark again. I cannot recall what happened thereafter, but the doctors said I assaulted one of the policemen. My visiting rights have been revoked as they now pose a security threat. I don’t know how long I will be able to write before that privilege is taken away as well or before my remaining faculties completely abandon me. 

The doctors keep increasing the dosage, but the medication is inexplicably losing its potency at a rapid pace. The blackouts feel more aggressive than before. The now vivid visions are showing me unspeakable acts of violence, coaxing me to mimic them. The voice I attributed to Vaudrin haunts my every dream and waking hour as I slowly feel myself descending into the deep abyss.