What do stories mean to you? For me, they are a refuge from the relentless grip of reality, a portal into the infinite universes that dwell within the human imagination. Even here, in this peculiar corner of the internet, where all kinds of horrifying tales find their home, I’ve found solace—a place where my narrative, too strange for the mundane world, can find its voice.
As I slipped into my shoes, the ominous rumble of thunder echoed through the sky, heralding the imminent arrival of rain. Rainy days had always held a peculiar charm for me, a melancholic beauty that beckoned me outdoors.
With a contented sigh, I reached for my umbrella and embarked on my journey to the library, a sanctuary of solitude amidst a world of social perplexity. I had long struggled to decipher the enigma of human interaction.
The repeated mantra of “Humans are social animals” had been drilled into me by well-meaning parents, but my disposition remained steadfast. I was content to be an observer, a silent witness to the intricacies of human behavior, finding fascination in the chaos of life’s theater.
Books were the epitome of my mindset. All you had to do was read the story unravelling before you. A perfectly organized set of actions and consequences. Yet, as of late, the thrill had waned. No matter the genre, the tales had grown predictable, like old friends recounting the same stories over and over. I’d devoured thousands of narratives, traversing realms from the tenderest romances to the darkest horrors, seeking that elusive spark.
As I entered the library, a familiar hush descended, like a warm, welcoming embrace. The soft rustle of pages turning and the gentle creak of polished wood painted a tranquil symphony. There weren’t a lot of people here today, which made me somewhat happy.
As I walked down the aisles, I heard a voice from my right. “Hey!”
Turning to the source, I met the librarian’s warm gaze. “Hello, nice to see you again.”
She smiled at me. “I’m assuming you’ve already finished the previous books I saw you reading the other week, right?”
Somewhat embarrassed, I replied. “That’s right, could you give me a recommendation?”
She looked at me speechless, smile widening. Unable to handle the awkwardness I asked. “Is something wrong?”
She shook her head. “No, it’s just that, you’ve been coming here for months now and this is the first time you’ve asked for a recommendation. Do you have anything particular in mind?”
I pondered for a moment. “Actually, surprise me. Give me a book about whatever you feel like.”
Her eyes somewhat lit up with delight. “Sure! In that case, I’ll get you one from the new batch we got.” Having said that, she disappeared into the neighboring isles. Moments later, she returned, cradling a book in her hands, a hint of mystery in her expression.
“I picked this one at random just like you’ve asked! I’m right here if you need anything.”
With the book in hand, I found a cozy corner and settled into an overstuffed chair. The book boasted a cover made of black leather, sleek and polished. The title, “Ripples of Choice,” was embossed on the front cover in a stark, almost blindingly white hue. The letters themselves were bold and commanding, seemingly etched with precision.
As I opened the book, my gaze shifted to the preface section. “This book would not exist were it not for you, devoted reader. If you seek the long-lost thrill of a good story, why not create one yourself? Try writing and see where it takes you.”
I was confused. I continued to flip through the pages only to discover they were all empty. “Is this some kind of joke?” I thought to myself. I glanced around me, but the library remained deserted, a silent witness to my growing unease.
As I looked through the book a second time, there was no author nor date of publication, nothing that hinted at its origins. Or so I thought, there was a publisher that read “Scriver”.
I had never heard of that publisher, so I contemplated returning the seemingly empty book. As I walked toward the librarian, a sense of uneasiness gripped me, like I was on the verge of missing something crucial. Surely it wouldn’t hurt to write one sentence. I could always claim that’s all the book contained in the first place.
It was then I saw from the corner of my eye an unusual sight. A man was arguing with the librarian, stirring up the whole library with the noise. I had seen that man before. He was a junkie, spending most of his day picking fights for money. A real piece of shit I must say. I had no intention of intervening, not with his foul stench and reputation.
All of a sudden, an irresistible urge washed over me, as if an invisible hand compelled me to write in that enigmatic book. I pulled out a pen from my pocket and scribbled: “As the librarian and the man were arguing, suddenly, a sniper riffle fired at the man’s head, killing him instantly.” I couldn’t help but let out a nervous snicker, what the fuck was I even doing? I still had some books left at home, so I decided to come back tomorrow.
However, I still had to return the book, as I had no idea which section to leave it. As I cautiously approached the front desk, the argument between the librarian and the unruly man showed no signs of abating. Their voices clashed like thunderheads in a storm, drowning out all other sounds within the library’s hallowed silence. My heart raced as I debated whether to intervene.
Summoning all my courage, I uttered a barely audible, “Umm, excuse me.”
The man, his face contorted with anger, abruptly swiveled to face me. His eyes bore into mine with an intensity that sent a shiver down my spine. “And what do you want, huh?!” he practically screamed, his words reverberating through the library, the air heavy with tension.
As I opened my mouth to respond, the library was suddenly pierced by a deafening gunshot. Time seemed to slow as I watched in horror. The man’s body contorted, and he crumpled to the side, his eyes wide with shock. A crimson pool formed beneath his lifeless form, staining the polished library floor.
The librarian’s scream cut through the air like a knife, echoing my own inner turmoil. Without thinking, I turned and fled from the scene, leaving my umbrella behind as I burst out into the pouring rain. The cold drops soaked through my clothes, chilling me to the bone as I sprinted towards the sanctuary of my home.
Inside, I slammed the door shut and locked it with trembling hands. Leaning against the wood, I was a shivering wreck, gasping for breath as adrenaline coursed through my veins. My heart hammered against my ribs, threatening to burst.
I clutched my stomach, the nausea rising within me. “What the hell was that?!” I screamed, the words a desperate plea for answers in a world suddenly turned upside down.
Did that book really just turn my words into reality? Panic surged through me like a tidal wave as I fumbled to retrieve the ominous tome from my bag. With trembling hands, I pulled it out and stared at its pages in disbelief.
The text had multiplied, spreading like a creeping darkness, recording not only my past actions but also the thoughts swirling in my mind, as if the book itself had become a narrator.
The final sentence sent a chill down my spine: “The audience was satisfied with the conclusion of the first act.” My breath caught in my throat. An audience? I glanced around, but there was no one in sight. I was alone, trapped in a nightmare of my own making.
I looked at the book again. “Noticing the author’s confusion, Scriver decided to offer his assistance. With an elegant, gloved hand, he gestured toward the balcony.”
Summoning every ounce of courage, I hesitantly stepped outside. The relentless rain had ceased, leaving a haunting silence in its wake. The sky above, devoid of clouds, held a nightmarish sight.
Hundreds of colossal, unblinking eyes stared down at me, their unrelenting gaze piercing through my very soul.