David Halloway had been writing novels for twenty years.
Some good. Some bad.
Most forgotten.
But one night, while cleaning his study, he found something strange.
A stack of papers on his desk.
Pages from a book.
Typed in his own style.
With his name on the title page.
A book he had never written.
His hands trembled as he flipped through.
The first chapter described his morning perfectly—
Right down to the burnt toast and the coffee stain on his shirt.
The second chapter described him finding the pages.
The exact way he was reading them right now.
His breath hitched.
This wasn't a prank.
This was real.
And the next page—
It was about tomorrow.
David barely slept that night.
The pages sat on his desk, waiting.
Taunting.
The next morning, he forced himself to read on.
It described everything in perfect detail.
His breakfast.
The phone call from his editor.
The car that nearly hit him while crossing 5th Avenue.
His heart pounded.
But it couldn't be real.
Could it?
He decided to test it.
The book said he would order a turkey sandwich for lunch.
Instead, he ordered a salad.
His waiter frowned.
"Sorry, sir. We're out of salad."
David felt sick.
He ordered the turkey sandwich.
It arrived.
Exactly as described.
Word for word.
The book was never wrong.
The pages kept coming.
Every morning, there were more.
Day after day, predicting everything.
At first, he thought he could use it to his advantage.
Win the lottery.
Make the right investments.
But then he reached the final chapter.
And his blood ran cold.
It described his own death.
That night.
At exactly 11:47 PM.
A man with a knife.
A struggle.
Blood on the floor.
His own last words:
"I didn't write this."
David panicked.
He tried to leave town.
Checked into a motel.
Locked the doors.
Stayed awake, watching the clock.
11:45 PM.
11:46 PM.
He gripped his phone, ready to call the police.
Then—
A knock at the door.
His heart stopped.
He backed away.
The knocking came again.
Louder.
Faster.
David grabbed the manuscript, flipped to the last page, desperate for some clue—
But it was blank.
The words had vanished.
As if they had never been there.
Then—
The lock clicked open.
And someone stepped inside.
The next morning, police found David's body in the motel.
Dead, just as the book had predicted.
And on the desk—
A stack of fresh pages.
The first chapter described a detective arriving at a crime scene.
Finding a dead writer.
Picking up a strange manuscript.
Reading the first line.
The detective hesitated.
Then turned the page.
And the story continued.