I didn't order anything.
That's the first thing I remember thinking when I saw the package on my doorstep—plain brown paper, no return address, tied with red string like someone watched too many detective movies. It was raining, of course. Rain makes everything creepier. The string looked almost fresh, like blood if blood had been silk-screened into cord.
I live on the third floor. No doorbell. No neighbors who care. No one should've left anything there unless they wanted it to be seen by only me.
I stood there for a moment, my coffee going cold in my hand, staring down at this square little box that hummed something low in my skull. A wrongness. Like something you know is off even if you can't explain why—like waking up in someone else's dream.
I picked it up.
It was too light for electronics, too heavy for clothes. Just the right weight for regret.
Back inside, I dropped it on the kitchen table, wiped the rain off my jacket, and stared at it again. No stamps. No brand. Just one word scribbled in black marker across the top like it had been clawed out by a drunk hand:
"READ."
Not "To Evan." Not "Open Me." Just READ—like a command. Like an order from something not used to being disobeyed.
Of course I opened it.
I know. That's how every cursed object story starts. Idiot finds the thing. Idiot opens the thing. Idiot dies horribly, lesson learned. Except no one learns. Because humans are nosy, broken things with a need to poke every bear and press every glowing red button.
Inside was a book.
No title on the cover. Just black leather, cracked and worn, the way Bibles get when they've been thumbed too much in desperation. It smelled like the kind of secondhand shop that used to sell pornography under the counter. Musty, damp, too alive.
When I opened it, the first page said:
"This book is not meant to be finished."
Nothing else. Blank page after that. Until I turned again. And there it was:
My name.
"Evan Callister lit another cigarette and wondered if the rain would wash the guilt away this time."
I didn't move.
I hadn't told anyone what I did that night.
Hell, I barely remembered it myself. It wasn't something I talked about. Not online. Not to my therapist. Not even in that journal I burned after graduation.
But the book knew.
It didn't describe my day. Not exactly. It described the moment—that parking lot outside the convenience store in 2008. The blood on the bumper. The way the girl had looked up at me like I was the last thing she ever wanted to see. Then the way I ran. Left. Pretended I didn't know. Built a life on top of it.
I slammed the book shut.
I should've thrown it out. Burned it. Flushed it.
But I didn't.
Instead, I sat down, opened it again—because like I said, we're broken things—and I kept reading.
By midnight, the story had changed.
Same book. Same cover.
But the words weren't the same anymore.
Now it said:
"The book watched Evan as he slept. It liked the way his breath slowed when the nightmares reached him."
The hairs on my arms stood up. I threw it in the freezer.
Don't laugh. That's what you do with cursed shit, right? You isolate it. You freeze it. Like trauma. Or relationships.
Next morning, I opened the freezer and the book was gone.
In its place: a note.
"You're doing great. Keep going."
Same handwriting. Same ink.
But now the message was on my mirror too. Written in steam. I hadn't even showered yet.
That was the first time I vomited blood. Not because I was sick. Because I knew—something was inside me now. The book had opened something. Like a hatch at the bottom of a dry well.
And I couldn't shut it.
By day three, I stopped sleeping.
Not because I was afraid. That came later.
I stopped sleeping because every time I closed my eyes, the book read me.
I don't know how else to explain it.
You ever feel like something is turning pages inside your skull? Like memories are being rearranged while you're blinking?
That's what it felt like.
On day five, I tried to trace the book's origin.
ISBN? None.
Library stamp? Nothing.
Paper? Pre-war.
Ink? Smelled like rot and cloves.
I took it to a rare book expert.
He took one look at the first page and turned white.
"Where did you get this?" he asked, backing away like it was radioactive.
I lied. Said I found it at a flea market. He didn't buy it.
He pulled a photo from his drawer. Black and white. 1976. It showed a man holding the same book. His mouth was open mid-scream. Blood on his chin.
"That man died two hours after this photo was taken," the expert whispered. "Heart attack. But look at his eyes."
I did.
They were pointing up, like he was reading something floating above him.
Or something inside him.
I left the book on my desk that night. Locked the door. Didn't touch it.
Next morning, it was open again.
This time, the chapter title was:
"Chapter 2: You Were Warned."
And below it, in perfect typeset:
"You have eight days left."