text: I never planned on becoming a thief. Skulking around in the dark was never really my forté and, other than a few misguided instances of childhood shoplifting, I never stole a thing in my life. That being said, I never thought I’d be living in a quarantined city while the world burns away into chaos and hatred like charcoal and ash. The whole thing felt like something out of a bad dystopian horror movie. Scavenging had become the only way of finding resources, murder the only means of survival. If you hoped to see the sun the next day, you had two options; smash and grab from a commercial business or sneak into an occupied home. (I personally believe that the lesser of the two evils is making my way into a house.) Looting a store out in the open forced you to face other desperate scum, hoping to find anything of value, only to leave empty-handed more often than not. If it looked abandoned, you can bet that it’d already been picked clean by those vultures... or worse. A house, on the other hand, was still occupied which meant they were not only secure but even filled to the brim with valuables and whatever else people wanted for themselves. I know you must be thinking me some kind of creep or predator, sneaking into someone’s house while they’re still home in order to pilfer their property. I’m not a bad guy, though making that choice grew rarer the longer the quarantine went on. When I burgled a residence, I made sure to enter and leave without almost anyone becoming aware of my trespassing until I was far and away, never a soul harmed nor an item lifted that couldn’t be replaced. Things did not always go so smoothly though; it took more time, mistakes, and blood on my knife than I’d like to admit before I could call myself a “Propper Theif”. It wasn’t with years of practice, persistence, or any sort of talent that I had perfected my new skills. Some say its a blessing, though they know nothing of the curse it truly is, for no soul since 1599 AD had made a Hand of Glory. All it took was one botched job, one bad day to haunt my dreams and force me to seek out a new way about my “business”. I could not abide by another pool of red, another little girl lifeless on the floor, her blood dripping from my knife and her parents wailing like banshees into the night. Looking back, I’d have happily starved to death that night rather than endure that horrifying grief and unrelenting guilt. The archaic system of survival demanded we become beasts again, however, no other child would ever know or need fear the monster I had to become. Creating the Hand was not my first option, honestly I never even considered it until I fount The Book. A hodge-podge of parchment and calfskin vellum pages, bound in some strange scaley leather, the tome was filled with recipes and “spells” that seemed more appropriate at a renaissance fair than a safe in the back of some large manor. The information found in the book was bizarre, “Command animals to do your absolute bidding (Ha!), Build a man out of clay to protect your community (too Jewish), Create a skull that tells the future (doubtful), The pro’s v. con’s of wish-granting ape fists (baloney) ...” It all seemed like superstitious mumbo jumbo when I first flipped through the pages, after carefully liberating it from the previous owner. After my initial look through nothing seemed to be of any use, other than maybe the age of the book, it didn’t have really any value. Hell, I threw the book across the room and remember thinking a drink seemed more important at the time. Something stopped me from walking out the door to my kitchen, some deep-seated urge kept ringing in my mind, “Go pick up the book”. Unable to clear my head, I turned back, walked over, picked up the mysterious codex and saw my wretched future drawn out in that faded iron ink. “La Maine de Gloire. The Hand of Glory: A gift for thieves and those who wish to remain unseen.” Though never a religious or superstitious man, this was the first time I felt...blessed. Clutching tight to the book, a single tear streamed down my cheek, the first tear I had shed since that terrible night. After hours of translating a rediculous mixture of Latin, French, and very old English scribbled around the page, I had my recipe for creating the Hand. The recipe was not a simple one: requiring pickling, saltpeter, hot peppers, hair, fat, and of course a human hand. Even the means of procuring some of the ingredients were incredibly detailed and complex. Have you any idea how difficult it is to find the fresh human hand, fat, and hair of a recently executed murderer, during the new moon... at MIDNIGHT?! Luckily, there was no shortage of scum and villainy out on the streets, so I had my “pick of the litter” when it came to materials. Finding some poor devil strung up on a street lamp by some angry mob was where I claimed the left hand, the hair, and fat to make the candle. All the other ingredients could be found in your local grocers or chemists. The process was long and overly complex; first draining and arranging the hand, then salting and pickling, air drying and inscribing with mystic symbols, before finally repeatedly dipping the hand in a tub of melted beeswax. After months of work and preparation, my Glory was finally ready. After sticking the candle made of human hair and fat to the palm, I attempted to light my macabre creation. I held the flame of my lighter to the “wick” for minutes waiting for it to catch, but as moment after moment passes I feared I had made a mistake, or worse, the Hand of Glory was just another old-world folktale. I checked the book and realized that I somehow missed that the Hand required the phrase “Vox Vorbis Lux” to be chanted continuously for the hand to ignite. Once lit it could only extinguishable by the barer or by a splash of sterilized milk. I tried again, fearing failure meant no other options, many wasted nights, and my eventual death via starvation. This was it. It HAD to work...and it did. The candle ignited in a tiny explosion covering me in a bright, almost blinding, light emanating from a white, blue, and violet flame. It was wonderous, I could barely pull my eyes away from the miraculous flame. As I looked around the room, a thick inky void surrounded me, all-encompassing and inescapable. I pointed the light towards my dresser on the far side of the room and was astounded when the entire wall began to illuminate as though being basked in the light of the sun. I could see everything in perfect detail, nothing could escape my gaze. After that stealing became the easiest thing I could wish to accomplish. On my first job, I learned just what the Hand was capable of. When I entered a house through the basement, my usual means of entry, and ignited the Hand and the void blanketed everything in sight. Not only was the candle aflame, but so were the thumb and the first three fingers that I later learned indicated that the four members of the house were still awake. Cautiously, I started walking around the house and, to my complete surprise, slipped by every member of the house as if I wasn’t even there. I didn’t even try and hide, the young family just continued on their activities. As the children fell asleep, two of the flames slowly fade before snuffing themselves out. Without a single worry or care, I was able to make my way through and out of the house pilfering cash, jewelry, food, trading material, and other valuable resources. As I continued my thieving spree, I gained enough treasures and provisions to easily live out the rest of the quarantine in comfort and luxury. Through thick and thin I never forgot why I created the Hand of Glory, often leaving gifts or provisions to the house of the grief-stricken family whose lives I crippled. They never knew from where all the gifts came from, I never left a name with any of the gifts. The last thing I wanted or deserved was recognition. Before long I felt something was wrong with the Hand of Glory, with every use I could feel as though something was affecting me. I went back to the mysterious book, scanning the pages about the Hand vigorously, hoping to find any clue or list of side effects using the Hand may have caused. Nothing. What else could there be, I’ve read over each of those pages thousands of times... but I never bothered to read the back of the page. There, not only did I learn the properties of the Hand of Glory but also the eventual fate of whoever used the Hand, as well as whoever dares craft one. According to my translations (which I had confirmed by educated professionals), those who use a Hand of Glory for a prolonged period of time( or multiple times) are susceptible to horrific nightmares, visions, spontaneous parasites, all manner of illnesses, bleeding from the eyes, and leprosy. Though my use of the Hand had finished by this time, I made sure to seek out proper medical treatment to counteract any lingering side effects. It didn’t matter though, I was damned but just didn’t know it yet. The “sins” of using the Hand were microscopic compared to that of the creation of a Hand itself. According to my translations, consultation from the catholic arch-diocese, and advice from so-called paranormal investigators, “...those who use the Hand are already prepared to break a number of the Lord’s commandments. The creation of the Hand of Glory is not only a macabre and physically vile act but also spiritually binding to those that were deemed ‘suitable materials’. The Hand of Glory must be constructed with the left hand of a murderer, thief, or otherwise heinous villain. Their soul, already damned to hell, becomes warped and twisted by the procedure and incantations needed to construct the Hand, and their soul itself is used to light the Hand and acts as the source of its power. Those who actively seek to create the must understand the severity of this action; the sins one commits in order to create a Hand are numerous and horrendous, setting them on an unwavering path to the depths of damnation. Upon their passing, amongst the flames of the inferno, sits a malevolent beast waiting simply to torture and torment its victim. This demon is all that remains of the soul of whoever was mutilated post-mortem to gather the aforementioned materials from their corpse, seeking retribution for their eternity of suffering and deformity. There is no means of reversing this bond, for God himself contends those selfish enough to dare create a Hand of Glory.” There you have it, it’s all there. I am damned. Not only damned but awaiting a reserved torture chair and personal tormenter at the moment of my passing. I know I deserve to go to hell, for what I did to that girl, to her family. What I didn’t know, nor expect, was that I was horrendously tormenting the eternal existence of the poor man I found hanging from that street lamp. Now he, or what I can only imagine is left of him, sharpens his tools of torment and pain in anticipation. Can’t say I blame him, really. He deserves his vengeance, especially after the number of times I used the damned artifact to further my own agenda. I made the Hand of Glory 45 years ago. The years are catching up to me, there is nothing I can do about it and that frightens me terribly. Wallowing in my fortune, my breath grows shallower and shallower, there is nothing left I can do but wait for deaths cold embrace. All I can do anymore is glare at the key of my eternal punishment, and ponder that poor girl from all those years ago. What would she have made of herself? Would she have been happy with life? What good would she have accomplished? What was her name? My god, have I really lived my entire life without ever knowing the name of the little girl who died on my knife? I’ve spent all these years trying to avoid reliving that terrible mistake, but was it for their benefit or my own? The shadows are creeping in now, little time remains. If you are reading this, then my soul has already been claimed. I implore you to head this warning; there is no glory to be found with the Hands use. It shall rot you from the inside out, festering gluttony and incurable greed, it is a curse I would not wish upon my worst enemy. If you are smart you might cast it into the sea, or lock the thing away submerged in a bath of blue milk and holy water. There is nothing left for me to say, my time has arrived.