Mr. Graham sat down slowly, his hands clasped together, eyes fixed on the book lying on the table. The library around us was silent; only the faint hum of the ceiling fan filled the air. His face was pale but steady, and when he finally spoke, his voice carried the kind of weight that made you listen.
"Three hundred years ago," he began, "there was a city called Eldham, a place so alive it was almost legendary. People said the streets smelled of cinnamon and fresh bread, the markets were never quiet, and the city square was always full of laughter. Eldham was proud of its scholars, its writers, its endless love for books. There were no televisions, no phones, no distractions—only words. Books were their world."
He paused for a moment, looking down at the carved letters on the cover of Zoriton.
"And then this appeared," he continued softly. "A book titled Zoriton. No one knew who wrote it. No one knew where it came from. One morning, copies simply appeared in bookshops, on stalls, even in people's homes. No advertisements, no announcements—it just… existed."
I leaned forward. "What was in it?"
"That's where the trouble started," Mr. Graham said. "It wasn't a story. It was filled with strange writings—rituals, forbidden practices, drawings of symbols that no one could explain. Some pages spoke of life, death, and the bridge between them. Others mentioned gods, demons, and the anatomy of the human soul. A few passages described ways to 'cross the line,' whatever that meant. People called it fascinating, terrifying, brilliant."
He adjusted his glasses, his tone tightening.
"Within months, it became the most popular book Eldham had ever seen. Everyone wanted a copy. Scholars argued about it, priests tried to burn it, but the more people warned others, the more it spread. The city couldn't get enough of it."
He leaned back in his chair.
"Then came the rumours. First, small whispers—people saying that readers of Zoriton began acting strangely. Losing sleep. Talking to themselves. Seeing things that weren't there. A few months later, entire families were claiming that those who read it went mad. Some said the book contained an inverted scripture—a kind of 'devil's bible.' Others said that by reading certain lines aloud, a pact was formed, binding your soul to something not of this world."
Tyler frowned. "You mean like… possession?"
Mr. Graham nodded slowly.
"Some believed so. But the strangest part is that it wasn't all horror. A handful of readers became incredibly wealthy overnight. They claimed the book showed them the 'truth,' gave them ideas, inspiration, power. Newspapers printed stories about it—men who went from beggars to merchants in weeks, artists who painted masterpieces after reading it once. Many of them even mentioned Zoriton publicly, saying it changed their lives. And it had—just not the way they thought."
The light from the window flickered slightly as a cloud passed by.
"People grew obsessed," he went on. "Bookstores couldn't keep it in stock. Families fought over single copies. Children began sneaking into their parents' rooms to read it at night. Then came a darker rumour—that children who finished reading it died within months. At first, no one believed it. But one by one, those stories began to look less like rumours and more like patterns."
I felt a chill run down my spine. The air inside the library seemed to grow colder.
"Even with all the fear, no one stopped," Mr. Graham said. "The more dangerous it sounded, the more people wanted to read it. It was as if the book was… calling to them. Like it had its own voice."
He rubbed his temple slowly, as though remembering something unpleasant.
"Then, one day, a man appeared in Eldham. No one knew his name, but he claimed to be the author of Zoriton. He spoke in public, in the city square, dressed in black, smiling as if the chaos didn't bother him at all. He said the book wasn't cursed—that it was a 'gift' misunderstood by small minds. He spoke about destiny, knowledge, and freedom from the gods themselves. People listened to him like he was a prophet."
I swallowed hard. "Was he the real author?"
"No one ever proved it," Mr. Graham said quietly. "No records, no signature, no origin. But what mattered was the effect. After his appearance, everything went worse. Strange fires broke out across the city. People vanished. Some swore they saw shadows moving even at noon. And then, just as suddenly as it came, Zoriton disappeared. Every copy. Burned, stolen, or simply gone."
He looked at the book on the table again—the same title staring back at him.
"And now," he said, his voice barely above a whisper, "one has found its way here again."
The three of us sat in silence. The ticking of the wall clock felt deafening.
"You have to understand," Mr. Graham said, finally breaking the quiet, "this isn't just a story. Every time Zoriton resurfaces, something follows it. People change. Places change. The world around it bends, like reality itself starts to remember the things it once forgot."
He took a deep breath and closed the reference book.
"That's the history you needed to know. But what happens next… depends on whether you keep that thing with you."