But it wasn’t the book what possessed the young ones; it was the whirrds contained within. The whirrds that man weren’t wont or wanting to know. In through the eyes, and out through the mouths of those kids (those too-smart kids) but not gone. Copied. Copied, like a low-fidelity recording of a live performance. The scrawled runes on the pages meant nothing spoken, just the gibberish of a depraved soul dead some 1,600 years.

The soul, the man, though depraved, was nonetheless cunning and capable. For the whirrds that long-gone man wrote were good natured. Or, rather, well intended. He put the evil on the page, where he felt it belonged. And so it did, if it was to be kept from the world. For as long as it was, anyway. That ancient notary did not save the world, as he’d hoped; he staved the end.

Annie shouldn’t have read the book, no. But Mark, though he could not know it, should not have killed her. She was the only one that understood what the whirrds meant. The only one who could stop what would come!