Don stepped out of the store, the black book clutched tightly under his arm. The rain had stopped, but the air felt unnaturally cold. He glanced back, half-expecting the strange shopkeeper to be watching him from the doorway. Instead, the shop itself was gone.
Confused, he blinked and rubbed his eyes. There was only a blank wall where the store had been moments ago. Shaking off the unease, he hurried home, trying to convince himself it was just his imagination.
Once in his room, Don placed the book on his desk and sat down. His small apartment was cluttered but familiar—a comforting contrast to the strange events of the night. The book, however, was anything but comforting. It seemed to radiate a faint chill, and the plain black cover seemed darker than it should have in the warm light of the desk lamp.
Curiosity won out. Don opened the book.
The pages were blank.
At first, he thought it might be a journal, but the quality of the paper was too fine. He flipped through, hoping to find some hidden text or a clue as to its purpose, but there was nothing—just endless, empty pages.
Frustrated, Don tossed the book aside and leaned back in his chair. "Weird," he muttered, staring at the ceiling.
Then he heard it.
A faint whisper.
His heart skipped a beat, and he sat up straight, his eyes darting around the room. The sound was so soft it could've been mistaken for the wind, but there was no breeze in his sealed apartment.
He turned toward the book.
The whisper grew louder.
Swallowing hard, Don reached out and touched the cover. The whispering stopped. For a moment, the silence was deafening. Then, as if compelled by an unseen force, he opened the book again.
The first page was no longer blank.
Scrawled across it in sharp, elegant handwriting was a single word:
"Hello."
Don's breath caught in his throat. He stared at the word, his mind racing. He hadn't written it, and no one else had been in the room. Slowly, he turned to the next page.
More words appeared, forming as though an invisible hand was writing them.
"Do not be afraid. My name is Adrian."
Don slammed the book shut and stumbled back, his chair toppling over. His pulse thundered in his ears as he stared at the closed book, now sitting innocently on his desk.
A laugh escaped him—nervous and shaky. "This is ridiculous," he muttered, backing away.
But as he turned toward his bed, he froze.
There, reflected in the mirror across the room, was a figure standing behind him.
Tall, shadowed, and unmistakably human.