That night was the longest I can remember.
Even after that phone call ended, and the room went quiet again, I couldn't shake the sound of that voice from my head. I checked every corner of my room twice, turned the lights on, then off again, but the feeling didn't leave. It was like something invisible was still standing right behind me, just watching.
I forced myself to lie down. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw that line in the book—"I am waiting for you." The words burned in my mind, glowing red against the darkness.
When I finally drifted into sleep, it wasn't peaceful. I dreamed of fog, cold water, and shadows that moved like they were alive.
I woke up to sunlight leaking through the curtains. For a second, everything looked normal—my desk, the books, the half-open window. Then my eyes fell on it.
The book.
Still there. Closed this time. The cover looked colder now, like it had lost all warmth from last night.
Before I could think, my phone rang again. The screen showed Tyler.
I picked up quickly. "Hey, man."
His voice came through fast, nervous. "Ethan, listen—I talked to my uncle."
"Your uncle?" I rubbed my eyes. "Why?"
"You remember that book, right? That weird one—Zori… Zori-something?"
"Zoriton," I said quietly. The name alone made my stomach twist.
"Yeah, that. I told him about it." He paused. "My uncle owns a library in Maple Creek, you know that, right? The big one near the old station?"
"Yeah, I've been there once."
"Well, I told him about what happened last night—the flash, the site, that man, everything. Then I showed him the photo I took of the book when you were looking at it. Dude… you should've seen his face."
"What do you mean?"
"He went pale. Like—really pale. He didn't even say anything for a minute. Then he just told me to bring you and the book. Said to meet him at the library before noon because he had to leave for some meeting in the afternoon."
My pulse started to race. "He knows something about it?"
"He said he does. Or at least he's seen it before."
I didn't need any more convincing.
Tyler picked me up around ten. The book was in my backpack, wrapped in an old T-shirt. The air outside was warm and heavy with that faint smell of rain even though the sky was clear.
We drove out of Ridge Valley, taking County Road 14 that curved through the pine woods. The road was empty except for a few early trucks heading the other way. The drive to Maple Creek usually took around forty minutes, but neither of us spoke much, so it felt longer.
The highway ran alongside the river for a few miles. Sunlight shimmered on the water, but the trees that leaned over it looked darker than usual, like they were hiding something between their branches. I tried not to think about it.
By the time we crossed the Maple Creek Bridge, clouds were starting to roll in. The air changed—cooler, still. The town wasn't big, but it had that old charm: narrow streets, tall lamps, brick buildings that looked like they hadn't changed in a hundred years.
The library stood near the end of Old Station Road, a huge, three-story building made of gray stone. Ivy covered the sides, and the tall windows looked almost black from outside. I'd seen pictures before, but standing in front of it felt different—it had presence.
Tyler's uncle, Mr. Graham, was waiting at the main door. He was tall, with silver hair and glasses that caught the light sharply. But his expression wasn't calm like last time I'd met him; he looked tense, eyes darting toward the backpack slung over my shoulder.
"You brought it?" he asked immediately.
I nodded and pulled out the wrapped book. His hands trembled slightly when he took it. He placed it gently on a wide oak table inside the main reading hall. The air inside smelled of paper and dust, the kind of scent that usually feels comforting—but not today.
Mr. Graham didn't speak for a while. He just stared at the book, his face serious, eyes narrow behind the lenses. Then he finally said, "You boys shouldn't have this."
Tyler frowned. "Why? What is it?"
He sighed, walked toward a tall shelf filled with old, thick volumes, and pulled out a faded green book. "It's called Zoriton, right?"
"Yes," I said quietly.
He opened the green book and flipped through the pages quickly, then stopped and turned the book toward us.
There, printed in black and white, was a drawing—of the exact same book that now sat on his table. The same carved letters, the same marks on the spine. Below it, a heading:
"The Chronicle of Zoriton — The Forbidden Copy."
Mr. Graham adjusted his glasses. "This," he said, tapping the picture, "was written nearly three hundred years ago. Or at least, that's when the first records appeared."
He paused, looking at me and Tyler one after the other. "But the real Zoriton was never published. Only fragments—handwritten copies—were ever made. Extracted copies, they called them. Each one carried a… trace of something that shouldn't have been preserved."
My throat felt dry. "What kind of trace?"
He looked down at the book on the table, then back at me. His voice dropped to almost a whisper.
"Chaos," he said. "Pure chaos."
He closed the reference book softly, the sound of the pages echoing in the still air.
"Every person who's ever come across a copy of Zoriton," he continued, "has vanished. Or gone mad. Or worse. And now you say one of you found it in the forest?"
Tyler and I exchanged a silent look.
"Yes," I said. "But… what is it really?"