Raziel sat in the hotel room. It was bland, it’s peeling wallpaper and neutral colours gave off the odour of life that was not dead, but had lost all of its zest and passion. There was a small bed, one table and a window. There was no television, but he had not wanted any distractions anyway. He paid in cash, was very discreet, and entered by the back door.

    He was not sat, but knelt, on the thin carpet, bare chested, wearing only his jeans while the journal sat in front of him. It scared him. It was not merely a book, he knew that, but other than that, he did not know. He examined it carefully. It seemed normal, the pages faded and cracked, the leather cover worn and torn, with a mysterious symbol in the centre, which was painted in a red that had not faded over time. Raziel doubted it ever would. The damn thing was unnatural.

   He gripped himself. He must open it. He reached out, his fingers pausing, inches from the cover. He couldn’t do it. ‘Come on!!!!!’ He told himself. ‘It’s a book!’ he told himself. A little voice in his head asked him why he was so urgent to say that, why he felt it necessary. He told the voice to shut up. But it didn’t. He wrestled with himself, finally reaching for the book and gripping the cover firmly.

Death. Families raped, slaughtered. Innocents killed, beheaded, pulling their intestines out…

Hanging them with their own guts, laughing as a young girl was raped, her legs cut off, her father dragged in front of her, his throat then cut, baptizing his daughter in his own blood, as her body was violated.

His grandfather, cut to shreds, his flesh being peeled, like a pig, hung, a hook through both his feet. His body being…

“ENOUGH!” He screamed, tearing the book open. Suddenly the thoughts stopped as quickly as they appeared. He knelt panting, exhausted by the ordeal. He could still feel the after images echoing through his mind. Realizing what he had done, he stared down at the first page.

It was empty.

He stared at it in disbelief. Then his eye was caught by a mark on the top left corner of the page. In a blood like ink, it begins to write the introduction, all by itself, in a spidery hand. The page was soon complete, the spidery writing filling the page. Breathing deeply, he began to read.

"They must never come together. Never." -Holder of the End

‘What we know about the Holders and the objects in their care is scant. Some of these objects seem to be good, and some of these objects seem to be bad. In any event, the trials to obtain them are fraught with evil, peril, and madness. In these stories, we have seen that the objects have gone through many attempts to destroy or disable them before appearing in their current form. We garner this information from the questions asked of the Holders, and the information given by those writing instructions.’

The Objects were created by Him. The event destroyed the world. This was a conscious effort by Him.

The Objects were placed in a state of hibernation, and have yet to awaken.

The Objects have emotional processes, including fear, hate, pain, and greed.

The Objects do not kill everyone when they are gathered, although the innocent are the first to suffer.

The Objects have been gathered on more than one occasion. They are destined to be brought together by a person again.

The Objects have been scattered on more than one occasion. They were once scattered by a person named Koth at a tower, which now serves as a prevention method from them reuniting.

The Objects have a task for which they are intended, both individually and as a group. These tasks have yet to be completed, and they have been abandoned.

A Chosen Seeker will deliver our last hope by gathering select Objects.

People other than the Chosen Seeker will seek the objects, potentially to gather them.

Some objects can only be gathered after finding at least one of the other objects.

He read these few hints, refreshing him, letting him know that his dream was possible, although nigh on impossible. He steeled himself and prepared to turn the page, waiting for the first direction. The page was very old so he was careful not to tear it as he turned it. As his fingers grazed the second page, a voice rang clear in his mind, tinged with the wisdom and horror of many, many years. They spoke to him of horror, of fear and of death. But also of the object, and the Holder;

In any city, in any country, go to any mental institution or halfway house inn you can get yourself to. When you reach the front desk, ask to visit someone who calls himself "The Holder of the End". Should a look of child-like fear come over the workers face, you will then be taken to a cell in the building. It will be in a deep hidden section of the building.

All you will hear is the sound of someone talking to themselves echo the halls. It is in a language that you will not understand, but your very soul will feel unspeakable fear. Should the talking stop at any time, STOP and QUICKLY say aloud "I'm just passing through, I wish to talk."
If you still hear silence, flee. Leave, do not stop for anything, do not go home, don't stay at an inn, just keep moving, and sleep where your body drops. You will know in the morning if you've escaped.

If the voice in the hall comes back after you utter those words continue on. Upon reaching the cell all you will see is a windowless room with a person in the corner, speaking an unknown language, and cradling something. The person will only respond to one question.
"What happens when they all come together?" The person will then stare into your eyes and answer your question in horrifying detail. Many go mad in that very cell, some disappear soon after the meeting, and a few end their lives. But most do the worst thing, and look upon the object in the person's hands.

You will want to as well. Be warned that if you do, your death will be one of cruelty and unrelenting horror. Your death will be in that room, by that person's hands.

That object is 1 of 538. They must never come together. Never.

Raziel shuddered as the words echoed in his soul…then faded to nothing. He read the passage, and then reread it. There seemed to be a lot of ifs and maybes in it. He was not sure about going to any mental home and asking for such a weird name but this was the quest. He had to try. He grabbed what he thought he would need. He ended up taking everything, in case he had to run. He kept the journal in his pocket and the gun in the other. Though, with fear, in his heart he knew he would have time to draw neither before he died. IF he died, he corrected himself, slapping himself hard in the face. The burning redness of his cheek brought back his usual self, locking the brooding, depressed and most of all scared Raziel away.                                                                       
“Right.” he said to himself, confident again. “Let’s do this.”

     With little searching and a few weird or sympathetic looks, he was directed to the Sanitarium by the people of the city. It was a grey, dull building, with barbed wire fences and no windows. It could have been military at one point, if it weren’t for the security guard telling him the exciting, vibrant history. A few coins made the search a minor point, and he was soon allowed past those sharp razor-wired gates, armed and ready. The inside of the building was no better, a dark, metal grey and fluorescent lighting, making him think of nothing but the cold slipping away of human existence. ‘Maudlin thoughts, but relevant in such a place.’ He thought to himself, as he strolled up to the desk. The man who sat there was short and pudgy, thinning haired and stressed. He glanced up briefly, his attention neither here nor there. His eyes seemed almost lifeless.

“Whaddaya want, bud?” He croaked shortly, looking back down to scribble something on a sticky note. Raziel rested both his hands on the desk, letting his jacket open to show off a little glance of the pistol, making sure the man knew two things. He could use it, and use it faster than security could get there. The man made a show of not caring, by scribbling more things down idly.

“I wish to visit someone who calls himself… ‘The Holder of the End’, Raziel stated, watching the man’s face, as he had been told. Time seemed to stop for a brief moment, as the man’s coffee cup was knocked on to the floor, shattering into thousands of pieces. The man stumbled backwards, meeting the wall, his arms held up in child like fear at the very name. He composed himself as best he could, shrugging off the fear, though it was still evident in his face and eyes.

“Y-you’d…better f-f-f-follow me, sir.” He stuttered, grinding his teeth together, clenching and unclenching his hands, before grabbing a set of keys and leading Raziel down the left hand corridor. They traced through a maze of cells, people moaning, screaming and babbling. ‘Left turn, right turn, right turn again, left turn, straight on, no wait…left turn, left turn…Damn.’ Raziel thought, his sense of direction leaving him as they walked through corridor after corridor. Raziel thought to himself, ‘This maze of corridors could never fit inside the building that I walked into…’ , he was about to think this through again, when they arrived at a steel door, slightly thicker than the doors guarding other corridors.

   “This is it.” The man said, backing away. “It’s unlocked. I wish you luck.” He whispered, backing round the corridor. “I will wait here, though I doubt you will return.” Raziel nodded. The man was right. He pulled the door open, and cast his mind into walls of steel, remembering only the instructions, no distractions, no miss-directions, only pure thought. He stepped inside. The corridor was around sixty feet long, with four doors on either side. On the right hand side of the corridor, all four doors were open, and the ones he could see into were caked in gore and blood. He shivered, and loosened his pistol in his holster, although he knew it would not protect against the Holder. On the left hand side, the doors were also all open, but the end one seemed different. Suddenly he realized he could hear the voice. It was low, merely an echo, in a language he did not understand, nor wish to. He began to walk, praying to himself that he could reach that door, before the voice stopped; rolling over his tongue the words that would save his life if it did.

    ‘Good’ he thought to himself, ‘I’m halfway there’. He steeled himself, knowing that it had taken him about five minutes to reach the third door; the corridor did not pay the slightest attention to ‘normal’ rules of structure. The voice kept talking in a low babble, so he had forced it to the back of his mind, so he could barely hear it. No…wait…he couldn’t hear it!!!
He stopped immediately. His life depended on the next few seconds and the whim of fate.

"I'm just passing through, I wish to talk." He declared loudly, his voice echoing of all the walls at once, distorting his voice horribly, and making him wince. There was a pause. Raziel turned and tried to run, but it was like running through treacle. He couldn’t even lift his feet…

Suddenly, he heard the babble recommence. His foot hit the ground and he stood there, panting, sweating buckets. He had just come within an inch of death, and more than that, death from a Holder. A death what would have lasted eons. He recovered himself, though he didn’t know how he found the courage. He began to walk the corridor again, closer and closer to the final door. He drew level with it, although it was already open for him. Inside, was a windowless room, with a person curled up in the corner. His form was constantly changing, from man, to woman, to child. He held something in his hands. Raziel forced himself to look at that changing face, rather than the thing which he…

With force, Raziel pushed his gaze up to the face again. That was very close; he had allowed his curiosity to nearly get the better of him. He composed himself and asked the question, as prepared as he ever would be for the horrifying ordeal in front of him.
“What happens when they all come together?” he asked, trembling with exhaustion, anticipation, and delicious fear. The twisting horror looked up at him, its face growing three bizarre goat horns at odd angles, stunted and yellow.

It answered. Its mouth distorted to form words with no sound, yet meaning far beyond mortal ears. It told him every detail, every fire, every blast and every ounce of divine power. It talked for eons or so it seemed. Raziel moaned, throwing his head back and forth in pain, pain at understanding, pain at the knowledge. He collapsed. He knew that he mustn’t die here, so drawing upon reserves he kept locked away, he lifted himself slowly off the cold stone floor, dirt stuck to his cheek, as well as blood. He pulled himself into a crouch and stared at the things face, its visage turning and changing, daring him to look away from it. Finally, its distended jaw shutting, it finished. The thing stood, and handed him the item, before fading into the shadows.

   Raziel was unsure whether it has still in the cell or not, or even whether it still lived. He didn’t look at the item, merely opening the small box he had bought at the market, and locking the item away. It was a solemn ceremony, and a short one for an item many would die for. And many more would kill for. He then realized the state of himself. He was covered in dirt, sweating like mad, breathing like he’d just run a marathon.

Leaning on the wall, he stumbled back to the door, up to the sweating, cowering clerk. He looked amazed.
“Y-You’re….a-alive!!!” His face broke into a grin, “You did it!”
Raziel smiled grimly, before letting the clerk lead him back to the door, helping him all the way to the hotel he was staying in.

There, he slipped the bag under the bed, put the gun and after second thoughts, the book, under his pillow. Limping up to the bed, he collapsed on it, still in his clothes. He drifted into a sleep free of dreams, waiting to see what the next part of his journey would bring.