Laying out in the open on the office's desk you find a decaying bound-book made of a suspicious leather.
The book slams open on its own, the echo shaking the decrepit house's foundation. There, on the blank yellowing pages, written in a bright red ink, form the words:
ARE YOU THERE?
"Who are you?" you whisper. "Were you bound to the book?"
I AM THE BOOK.
You eye the leather again and drop it on the hard wood.
ARE YOU FRIEND?
You look about for the fountain pen you used earlier and wet it on your tongue. You scribble in an affirmative and hear an audible sigh behind you.
HAVE YOU COME TO LEARN THE MYSTERIES?
ARE YOU PREPARED?
You hesitate at first, then write in 'yes'.
...FRIEND, ARE YOU SURE?
You slam your fist into the table and nod your head, writing in bigger letters this time, "YES."
Several voices whisper in prayer, each growing louder and louder until you are surrounded.
The Hand of God guides us through the darkest night.
May we not shrink from our divine purpose.
To our last breath and beyond we shall chronicle all that was and shall be.
You crumple to your knees and hold yourself up against the desk. You cradle your head in your hands and shake it off. All is silent.
The writing starts up again.
WE ARE NOT ALONE.