Here's another **very long**, dark story, in a separate block—**Story #10: "The Hour of the Ely Cathedral Manuscript"**.--

# 🕯️ **10. "The Hour of the Ely Cathedral Manuscript" – a very long horror story**

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## *Prologue: The Cathedral That Watches*

Ely Cathedral rises above the Cambridgeshire plains like a ship cast adrift on a sea of grass.

Its tower—the "Lighthouse"—can be seen for miles, and its silhouette has something unsettling about it:

as if it were watching anyone who dared to look up.

Within the cathedral's walls lies an archive: cold, stone, smelling of parchment and dust.

Over hundreds of years, books, letters, wills, accounts of monks, and even texts that no one could decipher have found their way there.

One of them was the **Manuscript of the Dark Hour**.

It was rarely opened.

Almost never.

Because legend said that whoever read even a single page would see their own death—not in a vision, not in a prophecy, but as an inescapable **fact**.

And unfortunately, Professor Jonathan Hale was a man who didn't believe in legends.

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# 📚 *Chapter I: The Lecturer Who Laughed at Superstition*

Jonathan taught medieval history at the University of Cambridge.

Always elegant, confident, convinced of the power of logic.

His student, Caroline, came across the manuscript while researching local chronicles.

She showed it to him with a twinkle in her eye:

"Professor, it says here that the book 'chooses its reader.'"

It's absurd, but a fascinating absurdity, isn't it?

Jonathan laughed.

That was how—with laughter—he always overcame superstition.

That same day, they went to Ely Cathedral.

They didn't know that the manuscript…

was waiting.

--

# 🪨 *Chapter II: The Archives—A Place Where Time Stands Still*

The archive vaults were deep beneath the cathedral's main nave.

The curator, a very old man, opened the doors with keys that sounded like armor.

When they reached the wooden table on which the black chest rested, the curator warned:

"We only open it if you have a scientific reason.

Not fun.

Not curiosity."

Jonathan looked him in the eye.

"Knowledge is a scientific reason in itself."

The curator replied:

"Not all knowledge is for humans."

At that moment, Caroline felt the air grow heavy.

As if the stone walls held their breath.

The curator opened the chest.

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# 🕯️ *Chapter III: A Manuscript That Became Unsuitable for Its Time*

Rows of characters were scrawled on the parchment.

Not Latin, not Greek, not runes, not anything familiar from Europe.

The characters were few—four lines.

But each one **moved** somehow, as if the ink were fresh, even though the book was believed to be a thousand years old.

Caroline stood farther from the table.

Jonathan leaned forward.

And then he saw the *note* in the margin.

Written in a completely different hand than the rest of the book.

In English.

Though the text was dated to a time before English yet existed.

> *“What you will read here is not meant for the eyes.

> And yet you will read it.

> Because the book knows your name.”*

Jonathan laughed.

The curator took a step back.

Caroline practically ran from the room.

--

# ⏳ *Chapter IV: A Voice That Didn't Sound Like an Echo*

As Jonathan spoke his first words:

— "Ka..."

All the candles in the archives went out.

Complete darkness.

Thick as tar.

Caroline screamed.

The curator knocked over a rack of instruments.

Jonathan felt a chill run down his spine.

And then something spoke.

Not from the book.

Not from the darkness.

**From his head.**

> *"Jonathan Hale."*

The voice was emotionless, cold as ice.

Jonathan jumped from the table.

He hit a chair, which fell to the floor.

The voice continued:

> *“You opened the book.

> The book opened you.”*

The lights returned for just a second—literally a second—and Jonathan saw:

The page was completely different from how he remembered it.

It showed a drawing of a man lying on the floor, in the position he had just assumed.

On the side—the date.

Today.

--

# 🔔 *Chapter V: The First Prophecy*

The curator slammed the book shut.

“He mustn’t read any further!” he shouted.

Caroline was as pale as chalk.

Jonathan tried to remain rational, but his hands were shaking.

“It’s just a projection of my fear. Nothing more,” he muttered.

But when they returned to Cambridge, Jonathan noticed something disturbing:

When he closed his eyes—even for a blink—he could see fragments of the drawing:

*Him on the floor.

In the same position.

In the same room.

But with blood around his head.*

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# ⛪ *Chapter VI: The Cathedral Receives Voices*

The next day, Jonathan returned to Ely.

Alone.

He found the curator.

He begged, pleaded, demanded access to the book.

"If I don't read it, I won't understand its mechanics," he repeated.

The curator replied:

"People always believe they will understand what destroys them."

But Jonathan was stubborn.

Finally, the curator gave in and opened the chest.

Jonathan immediately noticed that the page was different again.

This time, the parchment depicted:

**a man standing atop the cathedral's Lantern.

And behind him, a dark silhouette.

Much taller than a man.

Much thinner.

Much more distorted.**

It was supposed to be

His second prophecy.

Jonathan closed the book.

And then the sound of bells echoed from the ceiling.

Even though it was midday.

Even though no one was pulling the ropes.

--

# 🌫️ *Chapter VII: The Lighthouse—A Place He Wasn't Supposed to Visit*

Jonathan didn't know how he found himself at the foot of the tower.

He walked as if in a dream.

As if someone were guiding him with an invisible thread.

As he climbed the stairs, he heard footsteps behind him.

But when he turned around—he saw no one.

At the top of the tower was the wind and a breathtaking view.

Only him.

Or so he thought.

After a moment, he noticed a shadow.

Too tall to be human.

Too thin to be natural.

He stood by the vent.

He held something in his hand.

Jonathan froze.

It was a **book**.

*The Dark Hour Manuscript.*

The voice spoke again:

> *“You've read two pages.

> There's one left.”*

Jonathan raised his hand, as if to shield himself with a gesture.

He began to repeat:

“It's a hallucination.

It's a hallucination.

It's a hallucination…”

Shadow opened the book.

--

# 🔥 *Chapter VIII: The Final Prophecy*

The last page was blank.

Jonathan breathed a sigh of relief.

He was almost convinced that his mind was the author of everything.

And then the letters began to appear on their own.

Ink flowed like blood.

Forming words.

An image.

The date.

**Today.

Time: 6:03 PM.**

And below is a drawing:

*The silhouette of a man falling from the cathedral's lantern.

From the very same lantern he was standing on.*

A voice behind him whispered:

> *"It's you."*

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# 🌔 *Chapter IX: The Finale That Isn't the End*

He was found at **6:03 PM**, in the square in front of the cathedral.

He had fallen from the tower.

Caroline was the only one who noticed a detail no one wanted to talk about:

As Jonathan's body lay on the cobblestones, his dried hand pointed upward...

...to the open window of the lantern.

Where the silhouette stood.

Tall.

Dark.

Silent.

Holding a book.

When the police ran upstairs, no one was there.

But on the floor lay a manuscript.

On the last page was a new drawing:

**Caroline.

In front of the cathedral.

Tomorrow.**

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# 🕯️ *Epilogue: The manuscript chooses others*

The manuscript is now locked in the archives.

They keep it in a steel cabinet.

Sealed.

Forbidden to open.

But people working at the cathedral say they sometimes hear:

*scuffling,

pages turning,

a light tapping

like fingers tapping on a wooden table.*

And that sometimes, when they pass by the chest…

…they hear whispers.

Quiet.

The kind you only hear if they're meant for you.

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