Not a day has gone by that I haven’t visited my father’s grave. Odd as it may seem, I can still feel his essence floating about the tombstone. Yesterday, I swore I could feel his palm rest on my shoulder. I didn’t check for it, I enjoyed the fleeting feeling of his hand. How I do miss him.
For the past few days I have devoted a good amount of time to reading. My father was an avid collector of books and filled the shelves lining the walls with more books than I could ever read. Most of these texts are of trivial matters to me, but a few I have found to be particularly interesting, the most interesting being volumes known as the Necronomicon and its sibling, the Normanonicon. They catalogue and detail various types and species of undead. I would not be surprised if my father had read these volumes, considering. These two pieces go into the utmost scientific detail in the analysis of the supernatural, and I am finding these prospects strangely enthralling.
I’m trying my best to resist the temptation, but I can’t help but consider the possibility of resurrecting my father. I have heard many tales of the powers of necromancy and now I find that all the tools to conduct such magics exist in my own home. I understand that the dangers exist. For every tale of a powerful black mage, another exists detailing an instance where the resurrected beings turn on their summoner. For now, the idea will remain just that, but only time will tell what my future in the practicing of this magic holds.
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