Two days left.
At least, that's what the book said this morning.
But I'm starting to think time doesn't work the same way anymore.
The clocks tick. My phone—when it works—says it's Tuesday.
But the air feels like Sunday night.
That kind of tension. The kind that lives in the corners of your bedroom, just out of sight. The kind that makes your breath feel heavier than it should.
I tried not to look at the book all day.
Did chores. Drank too much coffee. Played the same three jazz records on loop.
I even went out.
First time in a week.
Walked two blocks to the bodega just to see if the world was still there. It was. Barely.
The cashier looked at me like I'd crawled out of a drain.
I bought cigarettes. I don't even smoke anymore.
When I got home, the apartment smelled wrong.
Not like rot. Not like blood.
Worse.
It smelled like me.
Like something had been living in my skin while I was out.
The book was on my bed.
It hadn't been there before.
This time, the chapter title read:
"Chapter 7: The Ghost in the Spine."
Underneath, scrawled in that familiar ink:
"Books don't end. Readers do."
I tried to trace the handwriting again.
There was something about it. A curve in the "R".
I'd seen that curve before.
Not in someone else's journal.
Not online.
In a letter.
From her.
Her name was Jordan.
We met in university.
She was everything I wasn't: bright, intense, too curious for her own good.
She wrote poems on napkins. Believed in ley lines and haunted houses.
She always carried a little notebook with her.
Not for writing in. Just to hold. She said it helped "keep the real things in."
One day, she stopped coming to class.
Gone. No word.
A week later, someone found her in her apartment.
Slit wrists. Open book beside her.
The notebook.
With one page torn out.
I dug through my old files. Storage bin under the bed. Dusty, half-molded nostalgia.
Found it.
Her letter.
A birthday note. Simple. Messy handwriting. Curved "R".
Same as in the book.
She wrote:
"Evan, if you ever find a book that knows your name, close it. It's not a story. It's a trap."
She knew.
Or maybe it had her first. Maybe it wrote her into my life so I'd follow.
I ran back to the bedroom.
The book was gone.
Just… gone.
Not under the sheets. Not behind the door. Not in the freezer, again.
I checked the entire apartment. Nothing.
But my laptop was on.
I hadn't touched it in days.
The screen showed a Word doc titled:
"THE BOOK THAT KILLED ITS READER – Chapter 3"
I didn't write that.
It was open.
The text blinked:
"Welcome back, Evan. You may continue writing now."
I stared at it.
My fingers hovered over the keys.
What happens if I write?
Do I feed it?
Do I fight it?
Does it know what I'm about to type?
I wrote:
"Evan closed the laptop and refused to play along."
Nothing happened.
No storm. No curse. No dead birds.
But the words changed by themselves:
"Nice try. You closed the laptop. But you're still here, aren't you?"
I slammed the lid shut. Unplugged it.
Tossed it out the window.
Third floor. Glass everywhere.
I felt better for exactly eleven seconds.
Then came the knock.
Not on the door.
On my mirror.
I didn't look.
You don't look when something knocks from inside your reflection.
But I could hear breathing.
On the other side of the glass.
The kind of breath you hear when someone's too close behind you.
Hot. Hungry. Not human.
I left the room.
Sat on the floor of the hallway like a child who just saw a ghost and doesn't want to admit it.
My hands were shaking.
That's when I saw it—
New writing on my wall.
Not ink. Not paint. Etched into the plaster.
"Your death will be written by your own hand."
I thought about suicide.
Not in the dramatic way.
Just in the way you think about unplugging something that won't stop beeping.
But no.
This isn't about death.
It's about narrative.
It wants an ending. A proper one. A closing line.
And I'm not giving it that.
Not yet.
That night, I dreamed I was at a book signing.
People lined up.
Each one held a black leather book.
The same one.
They smiled. But their eyes didn't blink.
One by one, they handed me copies to sign.
Every time I touched a pen, it turned to bone.
When I looked down—my hand was writing by itself.
The same sentence, again and again:
"I consent."
I woke up to find my pen had rolled off the desk.
Onto the floor.
Beside it—
The book.
Back again.
This time, open to a blank page.
Waiting.
I think I get it now.
It's not just a book.
It's not just words.
It's a parasite made of story.
It lives off belief. It thrives on attention.
Every sentence I read is like feeding it a heartbeat.
Every sentence I write gives it a body.
It's been waiting for me to figure this out.
Because knowing the truth doesn't save you.
It traps you deeper.
I looked up the Palimpsest Society again.
The coordinates led to an abandoned church.
I'm going tomorrow.
Maybe they have answers.
Or maybe they're already part of the book.
Maybe I am too.
Maybe you are.
Two days left.
If you're reading this…
Check your mirror.
If it fogs up with a word you didn't write…
Run.
Or write faster than it does.