To the one who reads these words,
If you have opened this book, the burden is already yours. You may believe you are curious, seeking stories, seeking knowledge. You may believe you can walk away when you choose. You cannot. The Mythos does not allow such freedom.
I collected these stories because I could not stop myself. The voices whispered, pressed against the walls of my mind, begging to be remembered. Each tale claimed a part of me as I wrote it down, and now I cannot be certain where the stories end and I begin. Some nights I am only half myself, my thoughts echoing with words I never wrote, feelings that are not mine.
Do not read aloud. Do not share carelessly. Some of these stories watch, some listen, some wait. I do not know if I am alive in the way you understand life, or if I am merely a vessel, a shadow moving among the pages. The Mythos remembers everything. It does not forgive. It does not tire. It waits.
By holding these pages, you have invited it in. Every word will trace your steps. Every tale will learn your fears. And one day, if you are not careful, you will understand what I mean when I say that the stories do not merely exist on paper. They exist in us. You are not reading safely. You are reading for them.
Take care. Keep your hands steady. And remember, once these pages know you, you cannot forget them.