"Statement of Dominic Swain, regarding a book briefly in his possession in the winter of 2012. Original statement given June 28th, 2013. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London. Statement begins."
Dominic Swain described himself as practical, grounded—a theatre technician accustomed to working with lights and rigging in London’s West End. He wasn’t prone to wild flights of fancy, but the events surrounding a book he purchased in 2012 left him questioning reality.
It began innocuously. Killing time before a matinee performance of The Trojan Women, Dominic wandered into an Oxfam charity shop in Notting Hill. Browsing the shelves, he stumbled upon an unmarked leather-bound book, its faded gold spine embossed with the Latin words Ex Altiora—"From Higher." The book’s soft leather binding and uneven pages hinted at age and craftsmanship. Intrigued, he bought it for four pounds, well aware it was worth far more.
The book contained no author, only a bookplate reading: From the library of Jurgen Leitner. It was written entirely in Latin, with several black-and-white woodcuts depicting cliffs, mountains, and one particularly unsettling image of an empty night sky. Dominic felt a jolt of vertigo staring at it, as though the image might pull him in.
He barely made it to the theatre on time and found the performance uninspiring. A lingering smell of ozone in the lights distracted him, stirring memories of past electrical failures. Later, over dinner with an old acquaintance, Dominic showed her the book. She was impressed but unnerved, particularly by the illustrations, which triggered her vertigo.
That night, Dominic returned home and pored over the book. He couldn’t read it, but the illustrations consumed his attention. One image—a tower looming over the countryside—felt impossibly vast. Yet it was the image of the starless sky that disturbed him most. He felt its emptiness, an endless void.
Curiosity turned to obsession. Dominic researched the book and Jurgen Leitner, but answers eluded him. Leitner had been a collector of rare and arcane books, rumored to commission bizarre manuscripts. Dominic found faint traces of Leitner’s dealings with Pinhole Books, an obscure shop in Morden.
One night, overwhelmed by the book’s pull and the recurring scent of ozone, Dominic wandered for hours until he found himself outside Pinhole Books. A brass plaque read: By Appointment Only.
Mary Keay, an elderly woman with a shaved head and tattoos covering her skin, answered the door. She led him into her cluttered study, the walls lined with books and an eerie painting of an eye. She spoke cryptically about Leitner’s collection and offered to show Dominic another book. Passing it through the shadows cast by her desk lamp, bones clattered onto the floor—small, twisted bones, warped into unnatural shapes.
Terrified but transfixed, Dominic examined Ex Altiora again. The illustrations had changed. Dark lines now stretched from the skies like cracks in glass, and the empty night pulsed with patterns he recognized—Lichtenberg figures, the scars left by lightning strikes.
Memories of childhood flooded back. Dominic recalled Michael Crew, a friend struck by lightning because of his reckless insistence on playing in a storm. Michael survived, but the branching scars remained—a physical echo of that day’s horror. The smell of ozone returned, suffocating Dominic.
When a knock came at his door, Dominic opened it to find Gerard Keay—Mary’s son. Pale and unshaven, Gerard examined the book and offered Dominic five thousand pounds for it. Dominic agreed, desperate to rid himself of it. Gerard left, promising to return.
Waiting in fear, Dominic searched Gerard’s name online. He found articles detailing Mary Keay’s brutal murder in 2008—her skin flayed and covered in Sanskrit script. Gerard had been tried but acquitted due to suppressed evidence.
Gerard returned as promised, exchanged cash for the book, and without hesitation, set it ablaze in Dominic’s wastebasket. The ozone smell vanished instantly.