When I bought an old book without a cover at a used bookstore, the shopkeeper gave me a strange look. He stared at me for several seconds before saying in a hoarse voice, “This book—its previous owner also abandoned it halfway through.”
I didn’t think much of it; I paid and left.
When I got home, I flipped to the first page. The pages were yellowed, and the handwritten text was faint, the ink slightly faded. The story was about a man named Jack who moved into an old house and could hear the sound of fingernails scraping inside the walls every night.
I smiled, thinking the opening was pretty cliché.
On page ten, Jack wrote in his diary: “I’m certain there’s something in the wall. It knows my name.”
I kept reading.
On page thirty, Jack wrote: “It’s starting to mimic my voice. Last night, I heard myself speaking in the living room, but I was clearly in the bedroom.”
I furrowed my brow. Why was this book starting to feel more and more real?
On page fifty, Jack’s handwriting became sloppy: “It’s not something in the wall. It’s behind me.”
I jerked my head around.
The living room was empty.
I breathed a sigh of relief and kept reading.
On page sixty, there was only one line: “It’s watching you.”
My hand trembled, and the book nearly fell to the floor.
I forced myself to stay calm and turned to the next page.
On page seventy, Jack’s handwriting had completely changed, as if it had been carved with a fingernail: “It’s already in your house.”
I immediately closed the book and shoved it into the drawer.
That night, I couldn’t sleep.
In the middle of the night, I heard the sound of pages turning in the living room.
I crept out and found the drawer open, with the book lying open on the table, stopped at page seventy.
But on the page, there was a new line of text:
“Why don’t you keep reading?”
I jerked my head up.
In the mirror, my face was smiling.
But I wasn’t smiling.
I looked down at my hands.
In my hand, I was holding a pen.
And on the page, that line of text was in my handwriting.
I suddenly remembered what the shopkeeper had said.
“The previous owner also abandoned it halfway through.”
I looked down and saw the first page of the book; under “Author,” it read:
“Jack.”
And my name is Jack.
I’ve never been a reader.
I am the one who is supposed to continue writing this book.
But I can’t finish it now.
Because—
The book is already closed.
