I’ve always loved old books. Not just the stories, but the books themselves. The smell of time-pressed pages. The creak of aged leather. The way the words seem to whisper when no one else is around. It’s a quiet obsession.
So when I heard about the estate sale on the outskirts of town, I made my way there, rain or not. The house was a crumbling colonial giant, leaning into the wind like it had secrets it couldn’t bear to hold upright. Ivy had claimed the walls, and a rusted bell chimed hollowly above the door.
Inside, everything smelled like dust and rot. A single dim bulb lit a room filled with antiques and forgotten heirlooms. An old man sat in the corner behind a fold-out table, eyes milky with age, skin like old parchment. He didn’t speak as I wandered.
Most of the books were brittle textbooks, encyclopedias, and religious volumes.
But one stopped me cold.
It was thin, maybe fifty pages. Bound in black leather, the texture uneven, almost bumpy. No title on the spine. When I picked it up, it felt warm. Not like it had been sitting near a heater—warm, like something alive.
I flipped it open.
Blank.
Every page.
“What's the story with this one?” I asked, turning to the man.
He didn’t look up. “Been sitting there fifty years,” he rasped. “No one wants a book that doesn’t speak.”
I should have left it there.
But I didn’t.
I bought it for twenty rupees, tucked it under my coat, and walked home through the pouring rain. I placed it carefully on my shelf, between an 1898 volume of Indian folklore and a crumbling British travelogue. Then I forgot about it.
Until 3:12 AM.
I woke with a jolt, my mouth dry, chest heaving like I’d surfaced from underwater. A dream clung to me, slippery and vague—something about whispering, pages turning themselves, and eyes watching from behind walls.
I sat up. My room was dark, except for the faint streetlight bleeding through the curtains.
That’s when I saw it.
The book was open on my desk.
I know I hadn’t touched it.
Heart thudding, I walked over and switched on the desk lamp.
There, on the first page, written in a dark, glistening ink that hadn’t been there before:
“Why did you wake me?”
I stared. The ink shimmered slightly, like it was still wet. I touched it.
It didn’t smudge.
It felt... warm.
I grabbed my phone and snapped a picture.
In the photo?
Blank.
I flipped through the rest of the pages. Nothing. All bone-white and dry.
Then, before my eyes, another line began to form.
“You saw me, didn’t you?”
I backed away, knocking over my chair. The room felt suddenly too small, the shadows too deep. The air turned cold—unnaturally cold. My breath fogged in front of me.
I turned toward the window, drawn by something.
In the reflection, behind me—just for a second—I saw movement.
A tall figure. Thin. Long arms. No face.
I spun around.
Nothing.
I slammed the book shut and shoved it deep in my drawer. Then I locked the drawer. Then I locked my room.
Sleep didn’t come.
The next morning, the drawer was open.
I know I locked it. But there it was—open like it had never been shut.
And the book?
It wasn’t there.
I found it in the bathroom sink.
Soaked in red. Not ink. Not wine. Something thicker. Metallic. The pages bled as I picked it up, staining my hands.
Only one new sentence had appeared:
“Now you’re part of the story.”
I stopped going to work. I stopped answering texts. I just watched. Waited. Documented every message. Every moment.
At first, the book gave vague descriptions:
“He is standing at the kitchen sink, wondering if he's next.”
Then it grew more specific:
“He hasn’t eaten in two days. The shadows grow restless.”
And then… it started giving commands.
“Don’t look behind you.”
“Turn off the lights before it finds you.”
One night, the message simply read:
“Say his name.”
But I didn’t know his name.
Not yet.
I told my best friend Aarav. Desperately. He didn’t believe me. Thought I was spiraling after the breakup and the job loss. Said I needed a break from all the "creepy vintage shit."
I brought the book to him. Told him to wait, to watch.
We sat in silence for nearly ten minutes.
Nothing.
Just as he started laughing at me, it happened.
The words began to write themselves on the page. Right in front of him.
“Aarav won’t wake up tomorrow.”
His smile dropped. He shut the book immediately.
I stayed at his place that night. He laughed it off again before bed.
In the morning, he didn’t wake up.
Massive stroke, they said. Peaceful. Instant. Nothing anyone could’ve done.
That was the first death.
Now I live alone. I don’t go out. The book wants me to be isolated.
It keeps writing.
Every night.
Sometimes I argue with it.
Sometimes I scream at it.
Once, I tried to burn it.
I watched the pages curl in the flames—only to find it back on my bed the next morning, perfectly intact.
That day’s message:
“We wrote you back in.”
I tried drowning it. Tearing it. Mailing it to another country.
It always returns.
And now, the messages are changing.
They’ve started counting down.
Five nights ago:
“Four days left.”
Tonight’s message:
“Tomorrow, the ink dries.”
I don’t know what that means. But I think... I think the book is finishing. And once it does, I end with it.
I’ve started dreaming again. But the dreams aren’t mine.
They’re his.
The tall figure. No eyes. No face. But always watching. Crawling through vents. Standing at the foot of my bed. Reaching down from the ceiling. Waiting for something.
Sometimes I wake up to scratches on my back.
Sometimes on the walls.
Sometimes... on the inside of the book.
Yes.
The ink is now on the inside of the cover.
Claw marks.
I’m writing this down for whoever finds the book after me. If it chooses you next, don’t read the words out loud. Don’t try to burn it. Don’t show it to anyone.
Most importantly:
Never answer its questions.
Tonight is the last entry.
The book hasn’t written anything new yet, but the air feels heavier. Like something is pushing against the walls of my apartment. Like it’s already inside.
I don’t think I’ll be here tomorrow.
There’s a knock on the door now.
It’s 3:12 AM.
Just like the first night.
The lights are flickering.
The book is open on the desk.
One final sentence has appeared:
“Welcome, Reader. Your chapter begins now.”
If you’re reading this... you’ve already turned the page.
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