Okay. So I have a bunch of junk in the basement that needs to be organized. Free time is a luxury I don’t often have, but there were a few hours I could spare and decided to cash them in on this.
Everything was going fine, and the minutes ticked by quite fast. It was nearing seven p.m., and most of the boxes had been rummaged through, their contents segregated into “keep” and “toss” piles. It even felt nice to see the small room appear spacious with less stuff cramped in there. I only had an hour before I had to leave for work—a late night pet sit a couple miles down the road; it’s a side hustle—so I told myself I’d go through one more box and then call it quits.
There wasn’t anything particular about the box I chose, just that it was nearest to me and not taped shut, which I thought was odd at first glance since I always tape my boxes closed, but I figured I had opened it at one point and forgot to reseal it. My brain is scrambled eggs most of the time.
As I unpacked what was inside—old stuffed animals from when I was kid, destined to move from house to house with me because I have a strange abandonment issue at the mere thought of getting rid of them—carefully putting everything into the “keep” pile, I noticed a book at the bottom of the box. The ashy hard cover was blank, no title, no author, nothing. It was strange that a book would be in a box full of toys; I wondered why I hadn’t packed it with my other books. Nonetheless, I picked it up and inspected its peculiar bare appearance, trying to remember when I had even bought it.
The pages were cream-colored, thick, not out of the ordinary for a book, and like the cover, there was no title, no author, not even a copyright statement on the inside. Curiosity kills my better judgment on a good day, so I flipped to the first page.
Written in and at the center was a two-line stanza.
Ignore the knocking at your door.
Keep the light on, and it’ll stay away.
Now, I didn’t think anything of the prose. It’s a book, ya know? Stories are stories, and I’m a fan of horror anyway. What struck me was the chosen font or lack thereof. It looked more like someone had used their fingernail to engrave each letter into the paper; the lines varied in thickness, their lengths were uneven, and the ends were jagged. I ran my finger over the sentences, half-expecting there to be divots as if the words were truly carved by hand, but in spite of its rough, unsettling appearance, its surface was as smooth as the rest of the page.
I followed to page two. The next stanza was written in the same font with the same format.
You’ll hear a familiar plea and scream and cry.
Don’t give in.
It continued like this, these strange, short stanzas on each page, all in the same scratchy font.
Don’t search for it.
It has already found you.
—
There’s no use hiding.
It knows where you are.
—
The day is your friend.
For shadows reside only in the dark.
—
Then, something, faint at first, caught my ear and stopped me short of going to page six. That was when my dog started to bark.
In a rush, the book came with me on my journey upstairs, following the sound that grew louder and clearer the closer I trod.
Someone was at the door, knocking in a succession of three with a brief pause between each set.
My Yorkshire terrier, Scout, was already there, barking and growling, tail and ears erect, small body shaking.
The sound became abrasive the longer it went. I hurried over and flicked the porchlight on, but when I opened the door, the mudroom, now bathed in a yellow glow, was empty. I contemplated opening the outside door and settled on peeking through the glass. No one was there.
Everything went silent.
I closed the door and turned off the light. Scout had quieted, so I assumed all was well. Both she and I took leave on the couch, only my eyes were glued to the book in my hands.
I went to page six.
Once you let it in, it’ll never leave.
Don’t—
The knocking arose again, and my head snapped toward the door. Scout growled.
Like before, I turned on the porchlight. The knocking ceased, and when I checked the mudroom, nobody was there. This time, I went outside. I even hollered. Nobody answered. Nobody revealed themselves. I went back in, shut the door, and turned off the light.
I didn’t make it back to the couch before a high-pitched whine stole my attention. It was like a dog’s whine and then a bark. I frantically scanned the living room.
Scout wasn’t there. She must’ve run out when I had the door open.
My heart was in my throat. I didn’t even turn the light on; I was so worried. I threw open the doors and beckoned her.
The whining stopped. I was surrounded by darkness and silence, and a shiver I couldn’t explain touched my spine. I called for Scout again, and a whine came from behind me.
Scout was standing in the doorway. She was inside the entire time? Did I hear someone else’s dog?
Something didn’t feel right. I ushered her back in and locked the door.
But as I did, I saw something in the corner of my eye, something standing just beyond the entrance to my roommate’s bedroom. Even in the darkness of the room, its figure was distinct, like a person… When I turned, though, nothing was there. I thought it was my mind playing tricks on me, so I shook it off and sat on the couch.
My gaze then drifted to the open book before me.
Once you let it in, it’ll never leave.
Don’t close your eyes; don’t fall asleep.
Then, I watched Scout walk over to my roommate’s bedroom unprompted, stand just outside of it, and stare into the blackness before letting out a low growl.
I’m terrified to check the room, but she won’t leave it. I don’t know what to do.
—