The final bell of the year rang through Ridge Valley High, echoing off the metal lockers. Dust floated in the air, glowing orange under the last sunlight of June. I remember thinking how slow everything felt when you wanted time to move faster.
Outside, the air smelled like warm asphalt and pine trees. The parking lot buzzed with car engines, laughter, and the sound of summer beginning. Emma was the first to speak, balancing her notebook on one arm. "We're actually free," she said, smiling. "For like, eighty whole days."
Jake spun his football. "Free? Mrs. Hanson just dumped a research project on us."
Tyler shrugged. "It's not torture if we make it fun."
Sarah smiled faintly. "Fun isn't the word Mrs. Hanson would use."
I laughed and looked back at the building. It already looked smaller, like the end of something.
We had to do a summer project on a local natural area. Emma was excited; she loved finding stories in boring things. Jake didn't care as long as he could drive. Tyler wanted something dangerous. Sarah just wanted all of us to survive the idea.
We decided to walk home through the woods behind the school. The sun was low, light filtering through tall pines, the air cool and quiet except for the soft buzzing of insects. The smell of wet dirt and wild mint drifted from the creek nearby. Ridge Valley always felt safe—small houses, cracked porches, kids on bikes—but the woods always felt like they were listening.
We stopped at Miller's Diner on Main Street. The neon sign flickered, and the smell of coffee filled the air. Tyler spread an old map on the booth table. "Here," he said, pointing to a thin trail that twisted up the mountain ridge. "Barely anyone goes there anymore. We can take photos, collect rocks, fake science, easy A."
Sarah shook her head. "That area's fenced off."
Jake grinned. "Only if you care about fences."
Emma leaned closer to the map. "There's a creek up there. Maybe we can test the water. Mrs. Hanson loves that stuff."
I looked out the diner window. The mountains were fading into violet. The sky looked heavy, like it was waiting for something.
Then it happened.
A flash outside—bright enough to turn the glass white. The diner fell silent. Every head turned toward the window.
Across the horizon, a streak of fire tore through the clouds. It moved fast, low, glowing like molten metal. It wasn't a plane. It wasn't fireworks. It looked alive.
The streak vanished behind the ridge, and the ground shook with a deep, rolling sound that rattled the dishes and made the lights flicker.
Tyler whispered, "Meteor?"
Emma's voice was quiet. "Too big."
We didn't even talk about it; we just moved. Jake grabbed his keys, and within minutes we were in his old pickup, gravel spraying under the tires as we headed toward the mountains.
The road climbed steeply, trees crowding in on both sides. The last of the sunlight disappeared behind us. The forest grew darker, thicker, the air heavy and strange. The radio hissed with static. The temperature dropped. No one spoke.
When we reached the ridge, the road was blocked. Bright floodlights glared through the mist. Black SUVs lined the clearing. Men in dark coats and earpieces moved around what looked like a crater, still smoking faintly.
One of them stepped forward, holding up his hand. "This area's restricted. Turn around."
Jake slowed the truck. "Since when does the government move that fast?"
The man didn't answer. His eyes looked blank, almost lifeless. We turned the truck around slowly.
That's when I saw him.
A tall man standing at the edge of the fog. His coat brushed the ground, and his skin looked pale under the harsh lights. His eyes met mine like he already knew who I was.
He stepped forward, the sound of gravel under his boots the only thing we heard. He pulled something from inside his coat—a small leather-bound book, edges cracked, symbols burned faintly into the cover.
He held it out to me. "Curiosity can opens many doors," he said, his voice low and rough.
Before I could speak, he turned and walked back into the fog. Within seconds, he was gone.
The five of us stood in silence, the sound of distant machines humming behind us. The book felt warm in my hands.
Emma whispered, "Ethan… what is that?"
I didn't know.
But as we drove back down the mountain, the night felt different. The woods seemed to lean closer. The air felt heavier...
LATER
When I got home that night, the air outside was still and heavy, like the world hadn't decided whether to sleep or stay awake. My house was quiet. Mom had already gone to bed, and the clock in the hallway ticked slow and lazy. I went straight to my room, the strange leather book still clutched in my hand.
I turned on my desk lamp. Its yellow light spilled over my papers, pens, and the small mess I called a study table. That's when I looked down at the book properly for the first time.
It was old. Really old. The leather cover was cracked like dried skin, and a faint smell of burnt wood came from it. Across the front, carved deep into the cover, were strange letters spelling one word — ZORITON. The letters looked hand-burned into the hide, uneven and dark. When I touched them, I could feel shallow grooves under my fingers.
There were symbols down the spine too — curling, sharp shapes I didn't recognize. When I moved the book under the light, they almost seemed to shift a little, like the shadows around them were alive.
For a second, I thought I could feel something — something very mysterious which was attracting me towards that book
I don't know what made me open it, but I did.
The first pages were thick and yellowed, rough at the edges. The handwriting inside was small, messy, and darker than normal ink — too dark, almost like dried blood! The words were written like journal entries, full of random notes and half-sentences. Some lines had little drawings beside them: eyes, strange marks, shadows shaped like people but not quite human.
Then suddenly, halfway through, the writing just stopped.
The rest of the pages were blank. Not like clean new paper, though. There were faint, uneven marks, like someone had pressed down a pen but no ink came out. It looked like the writer had tried to continue but couldn't.
I stared at those empty pages for a long time.
There was something about them — a quiet, strange feeling, as if the silence inside that book was alive. It wasn't fear exactly; it was more like being pulled toward something I couldn't see. The more I looked, the more I felt it. Like gravity.
I finally closed the book and pushed it away. "It's just a book," I whispered to myself. But it didn't sound convincing.
I turned off the light, lay down, and tried to sleep. The room was quiet except for the ticking of the clock. But my head wouldn't stop replaying the night — the fire in the sky, the man in the fog, the strange warmth of the book.
At some point, I drifted off.
Then my phone rang.
The sound cut through the silence so sharp that my heart nearly jumped out of my chest. I grabbed it from the nightstand, eyes still half-closed. The screen glowed in the dark — Jake calling.
I frowned. Jake never called this late. The timing on clock was about 12 o' clock.
I answered, my voice dry. "Jake? What's going on?"
Nothing. Just static.
"Hello?" I said again, sitting up now.
Still nothing. Then came a sound — slow, heavy breathing, deep and rough, like someone standing right next to the microphone.
"Jake?" I whispered.
The breathing stopped. For a moment, there was only silence. Then a voice came through the speaker.
It wasn't Jake's.
It was deep, raw, like something speaking from under the earth. My blood turned cold.
"Ethan…"
I froze. My throat felt tight. "Who is this?"
No answer. Just another long breath, followed by three words that made my skin crawl.
"Help… help… help…"
The voice sounded twisted, wrong, like it was being dragged through a hundred throats at once.
The call cut off.
The room was completely silent again, but I could still hear the echo of that voice in my ears.
Then I saw it.
The book.
It was open. I was sure I had closed it, but now it lay wide open on my desk, its pages moving slightly like they were breathing. My lamp flickered once and turned on by itself, dim and yellow.
Words had appeared on the blank pages. I stood up slowly, my legs shaking. The letters weren't ink — they looked burned into the paper, glowing faintly around the edges.
Most of it was written in some language I couldn't understand, full of sharp, twisted symbols that seemed to shift when I blinked.
But at the bottom, one line was clear. The letters were darker, cleaner — written in English.
"I am waiting for you."
My phone slipped from my hand and hit the floor. The sound echoed in the small room.
Then, in the silence that followed, I swear I heard it — a faint whisper, right behind me.
A breath that didn't belong to me.