How am I to read this book? It does not have a title, or a table of contents. It’s pages are blank, a tad tints of yellow , but blank. The only words on it at all is Grim Reaper. And if my failing memory would recall, the personification of Death watches over us all. If the book belonged to it, then Death would had come for it and I.
Despite its understatement of a dull exterior; there’s a surge of electricity within my quarters. It feels familiar in a way you would greet a friend from youth, but there is an underlining of a shadowy reflection creeping about. Ah, if only you could be within these shallow walls with me, surely you’d understand. And although I have slept within these walls for several years now; it’s never been what I would call home. Or at least since Father’s passing. This was once his study with lines of books of every kind lined uponed it. We, Father, my siblings and I, would wander into the room and converse with one another. In our youth, he would read to us.
He’d give us a riddle based on the passages we had read that night then asked for its answer by morning. If you were the first to answer the riddle correctly, you’d choose the next book. The room itself was always inviting to us and visitors. Its hearth burned stronger with every body that entered welcoming them personally. Its eternal warmth nearly smothered them, if I speak for myself. No one paid attention to its hearth until it was gone. Since its flame was extinguished, this room has never been a home to me again.
Only now that this book has appeared does it truly feel like a home. Even with my shotty memory, I do not remember this book ever being among my father’s. Nor my brothers’. Its pages remain blank as if I am to write within it; it would be a waste if I were to write on it.
Returning back to its first page, the words Grim Reaper have bolden from the thin penciled lines they were when I began commentary. With a raised eyebrow, I turn the page. There’s writing within the first few pages now; their handwriting matching the one within the first: Welcome to the Book of the Dead. We are the Grimmed, the Shinigami and balance of Life and Death. There is no spirit nor demon possessing the book; we are simply writing as we go. I am Lilith, Grimmie. At least, that is your given name by us as you narrate.
Welcome to our world. Enjoy your stay.
"Book of the Dead…? This is some sort of tomfoolery!" I screamed, dropping the book. How dare someone play such a trick with the Dead. This book should be destroyed. That’s all I can think of as I walk to the fireplace.
"I wouldn’t do that if I were you."