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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/philosophysubboy on 2024-11-23 00:22:29+00:00.
Growing up, I was always fascinated by ancient books—works that had slipped through the cracks of history, their words untouched for centuries. To me, they were artifacts of forgotten lives, whispers from worlds long past. Unfortunately, I lived in a quiet, uneventful town where there wasn’t much to fuel my curiosity. But tucked away in a narrow side street, in the forgotten part of town, there was a tiny antique shop: Clarkson’s Curiosities.
The shop was dusty, dimly lit, and packed to the brim with relics that seemed to hold pieces of untold stories. It was my sanctuary. The owner, Mr. Clarkson, was a grizzled man in his sixties, always dressed in a worn cardigan with patches at the elbows. His face was lined with wrinkles, but his eyes gleamed with the sharpness of someone who had seen more than he let on.
"History isn’t just dates and kings," he once said, sliding me a juice box as I sat cross-legged on the shop floor. "It’s the life in the cracks. The stories no one bothered to remember."
Mr. Clarkson loved to share the histories of his items. I’d spend hours there after school, riding my bike straight from class to the shop. I had seen nearly everything the store had to offer—until one day, I overheard him talking to another customer about “the back room.”
“Don’t go in there,” he told me firmly the first time I asked. “That stuff isn’t for young eyes. Some things are better left alone.”
Of course, those words only deepened my curiosity.
One rainy afternoon, while Mr. Clarkson was distracted with a chatty customer, I saw my chance. My heart pounded as I slipped past the dusty curtain separating the main shop from the forbidden back room.
It was cramped and dark, the air thick with the smell of aged wood and mildew. Stacks of boxes leaned precariously against the walls, and cobwebs draped over strange, forgotten artifacts. At first, I didn’t see anything extraordinary—just more relics, gathering dust. But then my eyes landed on a large book, half-hidden beneath a pile of moth-eaten cloth.
It was massive, with a cracked leather cover that looked like it had survived centuries. My twelve-year-old hands trembled as I brushed away the dust. The spine was weak, the pages yellowed and curling at the edges. The writing inside was strange—letters looping and twisting in ways I couldn’t comprehend at the time.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Mr. Clarkson’s voice boomed from the doorway, startling me so badly I dropped the book.
He marched over, his face red with fury. “I told you not to come in here!”
“I—I just wanted to see—”
“You don’t have permission to touch that!” His hands shook as he picked up the book and cradled it like a wounded animal. “Get out of here. And don’t ever go poking around where you don’t belong.”
I didn’t argue. I bolted, the sound of his angry muttering trailing behind me.
That day never left me. Over the years, my fascination with ancient texts only deepened. I went on to study archaeology and specialized in medieval manuscripts. By the time I was nearing my master’s degree, I could read Middle English fluently. But one thing lingered in my mind like an itch I couldn’t scratch: the mysterious book from Clarkson’s shop.
For my thesis, I needed an original medieval text to translate and analyze. The memory of that book resurfaced, stronger than ever.
I returned to my hometown after nearly a decade away. Clarkson’s Curiosities was still there, though the paint on the sign had faded, and the windows were cloudier than I remembered. Mr. Clarkson himself looked older, his movements slower, his face more sunken.
“Back again, eh?” he said as I stepped into the shop, the bell above the door jingling softly. “Didn’t think I’d see you around these parts anymore.”
“I’m finishing my degree,” I explained. “Thought I’d drop by for old times’ sake.”
He nodded, his expression unreadable. “Not much has changed here.”
I made small talk, asking about some of the items on display while subtly steering him toward the front of the shop. “Still got that old globe?” I asked, pointing to a corner.
As he shuffled off to retrieve it, I slipped through the curtain into the back room. The layout hadn’t changed. My heart raced as I scanned the clutter, and there it was—the book, still buried in the same spot.
It felt heavier than I remembered, its leather cover cracked and cold to the touch. Without hesitation, I slid it into my bag and hurried back out.
“Thanks for the chat, Mr. Clarkson,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “I’ll stop by again soon.”
“Hmm,” he muttered, watching me with narrowed eyes.
That night, in the dim light of my dorm room, I finally opened the book. Its pages were brittle, the ink faded but legible. I realized the text wasn’t ancient gibberish—it was Middle English. Here is what the text said;
Anno Domini 1347
I write now as the leaves fall from the trees, their gold and crimson hues painting the air with the promise of a cold winter. The world feels peaceful, as it always does in autumn, when the harvest is gathered, and the granaries are full.
Our kingdom thrives under the reign of King Edward III. Though I have never set eyes upon him, his name is whispered with admiration in every corner of the land. They say his court is a place of splendor, where knights clad in gleaming armor bow before him, and poets recite their verses in halls gilded with gold. Even here, in our little village of Ainsworth, we feel the warmth of his rule. Taxes are fair, the roads are safe, and the markets are lively with traders from distant lands.
Ainsworth is no grand place, just a cluster of cottages nestled in a valley surrounded by rolling hills. But it is home. The fields are rich with barley, and the river runs clear and cold. The villagers are as close as kin, each one ready to lend a hand or share a meal when times are hard.
My family’s cottage is small but sturdy, with a thatched roof and a garden that my mother tends with care. She says the herbs she grows—thyme, lavender, and rosemary—keep sickness away. My father is a carpenter, his hands roughened by years of shaping wood into tools and wagons. He speaks little, but his presence is steady, like the oak beams that hold up our house.
And then there is my sister, Cecily, who never stops talking. At twelve years old, she is a whirlwind of mischief, forever running barefoot through the village and climbing trees with the other children.
My days are filled with work and laughter. I rise with the sun to tend the sheep and gather firewood, but by the time the sun is high, I am free to join my friends. There is Henry, the baker’s son, whose pockets are always filled with stolen pastries. Then there is Thomas, who dreams of becoming a knight, though his sword is little more than a stick he found in the woods.
We spend our afternoons exploring the hills, racing each other through the meadows or skipping stones across the river. On Sundays, we gather in the village square to listen to the minstrels who pass through, their songs filling the air with tales of valor and romance.
But the brightest part of my life is Eleanor. She is the miller’s daughter, with hair the color of ripe wheat and eyes as green as the fields in spring. We have known each other since we were children, and it has always been understood that we would marry one day.
Eleanor has a laugh that bubbles up like the river after a storm, and when she looks at me, it feels as though the rest of the world fades away. We spend hours walking together, talking of the future we will build—a cottage of our own, with a garden for her and a workshop for me.
“You’ll be the finest carpenter in the village,” she said to me just yesterday, her cheeks flushed from the chill in the air. “And I’ll bake bread that will make the king himself jealous.”
“Only if the king has teeth like a goat,” I teased, earning myself a playful slap on the arm.
The future seems as bright as the harvest moon. The village is bustling with preparations for the winter festival, a time of feasting and dancing. The air smells of roasting chestnuts and spiced cider, and the church bells ring out with a joyful clang.
The monks from the abbey have brought word of the king’s latest victory in France. The villagers cheer as they hear of our armies’ triumph, and even the priest smiles as he blesses the crowd.
I often think that these are the best days of my life. There is no fear here, no shadow over our hearts. We work hard, we laugh harder, and we dream of tomorrow.
I am sixteen now, on the cusp of manhood. My father says I will take over his workshop soon, and Eleanor’s father has already begun crafting the furniture for our future home. It feels as though everything is falling into place, as though nothing could ever change the peace and happiness we know.
November.
The air grows colder with each passing day, but life in Ainsworth continues as it always has. The harvest is in, the fires are lit, and the hearths glow with the warmth of winter preparations. The only shadow on our peaceful village is the whispers of sickness from towns far away.
Henry first mentioned it after returning from the market in the next village. “They say there’s an illness spreading,” he told me as we sat by the river. “Comes with the rats. People fall sick, grow boils, and die within days.”
Rats. Our fields and barns have always had them, scurrying in the shadows and gnawing at t...
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