You never intended to write a book.
At least, not one like this.
You had always been a reader, a silent observer, flipping through stories that belonged to others. The idea of writing your own had never truly crossed your mind.
But that changed on that night.
The night the idea came to you.
Not as inspiration. Not as creativity. But as a presence.
A whisper at the edge of your mind, barely a voice but something deeper—something that knew you.
"Write it down."
You don’t know why you listened.
Your hands moved without thinking, pulling out an old notebook, the one you'd bought years ago but never used. You hadn’t even realized you still had it.
The pen felt too heavy in your grasp, yet it glided across the paper with unsettling ease.
And the words poured out.
At first, you thought you were making up a story. Just a harmless experiment, a moment of creative impulse. But as you wrote, something felt wrong.
It didn’t feel like you were creating.
It felt like you were remembering.
A story that had already happened.
A story you had never lived.
The first sentence made your breath hitch:
"He doesn’t realize he’s being watched."
Your pen froze.
Your heart pounded against your ribs.
Slowly, carefully, your eyes darted around the room. Nothing. Just your desk, your bookshelves, the dim glow of the lamp.
You were alone.
Right?
Swallowing hard, you forced yourself to keep going. Maybe it was just a coincidence. Maybe your mind was playing tricks on you.
"The moment he stops, they will know he sees them."
A chill crept up your spine.
The lamp flickered.
Your breath hitched.
Something about the air felt different. Thicker. Heavier. Like the room was holding its breath.
You dropped the pen.
But the notebook kept writing.
The ink bled onto the page, forming words without your touch.
Your fingers trembled as you read them.
"You should not have started."
Your body turned cold.
This wasn’t fiction anymore.
Your chair creaked as you stood, the sound sharp in the suffocating silence.
You should have stopped.
You should have burned the notebook before you ever turned the next page.
But you didn’t.
Because something deep inside you, the same force that had told you to write, was telling you:
"Keep reading."
And that was your mistake.
You should have stopped.
You should have slammed the notebook shut, thrown it into the fire, and never looked back.
But you turned the page instead.
Your pulse pounded in your ears as the ink crawled across the paper, forming words that should not have existed. Words that should not have known.
"Now, he knows."
A prickling sensation crawled up your spine.
You turned your head, slowly, carefully.
The room was empty.
Yet it felt wrong.
Like someone had just been there. Like someone had just stepped out of view the moment you moved.
The silence pressed against your ears. It wasn’t just quiet. It was waiting.
You took a slow breath and looked back at the notebook.
The next line had already appeared.
"If he keeps writing, he might survive."
Your fingers curled into a fist. Your mind screamed at you to stop, to walk away, to leave the story unfinished.
But the pen was already in your hand.
It felt warm. Too warm.
Like it had just been used by someone else.
Your hand trembled as you touched the tip to the paper. And the moment you did—
you lost control.
Your fingers moved on their own, dragging the pen across the page. You weren’t writing. You were being made to write.
And the words spilling from the ink weren’t yours.
"He doesn’t remember why he started writing. But they do."
Your throat tightened. “Who are you?” you whispered, though you weren’t sure who you were asking.
The answer bled into existence.
"We are the story."
A sharp breath caught in your throat.
The air around you thickened. The shadows in the corners of the room shifted.
And then—
The lamp flickered.
Brighter this time.
Like something had stepped closer.
The walls stretched higher. The room wasn’t your room anymore.
The desk, the chair, the notebook—they were still there. But everything else had changed.
The ceiling arched into endless darkness. The bookshelves twisted, their spines filled with titles you had never owned. The air smelled of dust and ink, but beneath it—something else. Something rotting.
You gripped the edge of the desk, heart hammering in your chest. You flipped through the notebook in a panic, hoping—praying—that the words had stopped.
They hadn’t.
They were writing your thoughts.
"He is afraid. He knows he shouldn’t have started. But it’s too late. The story is writing him now."
Your breath hitched.
You pressed your fingers against the ink.
It was still wet.
It smeared under your touch, warm like fresh blood.
You shoved the notebook away. Stood up too fast.
The room lurched.
Your stomach flipped. Your vision blurred.
And then—
The whisper.
Right behind you.
"Keep writing."
The voice was too close.
Too real.
You spun around.
There was nothing there.
But you felt it.
The pressure of unseen eyes. The weight of something waiting.
The notebook lay open. The pen rested beside it, perfectly still. A blank page beckoned.
The voice returned.
"You started this. You have to finish it."
Your fingers twitched.
The story wanted you back.
You took a step backward—
And the floor wasn’t there.
You fell.
Fell through ink and paper, through paragraphs and sentences, through stories that weren’t yours.
Your thoughts unraveled, twisting into words, dissolving into language itself—
until all that was left...
...was a book.
Sitting on a desk.
In an empty room.
Waiting for someone new to read it.
Waiting... for the next writer.
Waiting... for you.
React
