Chapter Nine – The Corridor of Pages
The darkness didn't release me.
It pressed against my eyelids like wet cloth, suffocating, heavy, alive. My breath came in shallow, ragged gasps. Every muscle screamed to move, to fight, to wake, but something—someone—held me in place, tethered to the edge between sleep and wakefulness.
Flip.
A page turned somewhere behind me. I knew it. Knew it without seeing, like knowing the rain is falling before the first drop hits. The sound was sharper than before—closer, deliberate, slicing through the thick air. My chest constricted.
"Stop…" I whispered. My voice barely reached the darkness.
No answer.
I forced my eyes open.
Not enough. The shadows clung to corners, stretched along the walls, like ink soaking through paper. My limbs were still trapped in invisible chains, powerless. My stomach twisted. My feet ached—my blistered, burned feet—but here they felt naked, exposed to something older than fear.
Then—light.
A thin streak, almost imperceptible, cut across the floor ahead. I blinked until my eyes adjusted.
The room was gone. The hospital walls, the white lights, Hudson, even the comfort of the blanket—I was somewhere else.
A corridor. Endless. Black. Lined with doors that hummed faintly, low and constant, like the thrum of blood in a skull. Each door was slightly ajar, spilling shadows into the hallway. And the air… it smelled of paper, dust, and something metallic, sharp, cold.
Flip.
The sound came again, now from behind me. My head whipped around. Nothing. Only darkness. Only the corridor stretching forward endlessly. My heartbeat drummed loud enough to scare me.
I tried to speak. "Who's there?"
No answer. Only the whisper of pages.
Then I felt it—cold, damp fingers brushing my shoulder. Not human, not solid, but heavy, intentional. My body flinched violently. I stumbled forward, toes scraping against the floor. Pain ripped through my feet, each step a shock of agony. Blisters screamed beneath thin hospital shoes, but here they were bare, raw, vulnerable.
I ran.
The corridor seemed to stretch with me, doors multiplying, twisting, corners bending where they shouldn't. Flip. Flip. Flip. The sound circled me, closer and closer, echoing, pressing. Waiting.
My lungs burned, my chest heaved. I forced my legs to move faster. Something was behind me. I knew it. Felt it in the hollow spaces of my ribs, in the shiver that rattled my spine. Something alive. Patient. Predatory.
A door ahead opened slowly, of its own accord, light spilling out, pale and yellow. I froze. My mind screamed no. My legs screamed yes. Curiosity, fear, and some foolish spark of hope drew me forward anyway.
The room beyond was impossible.
Books. Hundreds. Thousands. Lined every wall, stacked to the ceiling, some floating midair. Pages turned themselves slowly, quietly, then snapping open with a deafening crack. Dust swirled in the air, thick and choking. Paper smelled of ink, decay, and something ancient.
And there, at the center, on a pedestal of black stone, rested it—my book.
My fingers itched to touch it, to clutch it, to save it. My heart pounded so loudly I thought it might escape my chest.
Then I heard it.
"Kaia."
The voice froze my blood.
I spun.
There he was.
The boy from the garden. My real world. The one who led me to the well. The one who made me wish. But he wasn't a boy anymore. No—he was taller, sharper. His eyes glowed faintly, unnatural, faint green like moonlight over stagnant water. His smile… patient, knowing, hungry.
It made my stomach drop.
He laughed. The sound crawled under my skin, slow and deliberate, echoing off the walls and books and shadows, vibrating in my bones.
I backed up, hands raised defensively, but my legs refused to obey. My feet burned on the cold stone floor, but I couldn't move.
"Where… what… why are you—" my voice broke.
"You came." His words were soft, almost a whisper, but they hit like hammers. "I told you… the well listens. And you… you answered."
I swallowed. My throat felt raw, dry. "You… you're not a child."
He tilted his head, studying me. "No. I am what I need to be." His smile widened. Too wide. "And you… you are exactly where you belong."
A shiver ran up my spine. "I… I want my book. Give it back!" My voice cracked with desperation.
He laughed again, slow, almost indulgent. "Your book? This?" He gestured to the pedestal, eyes glinting. "It's always been mine. And yet… you hold the key."
"The key?" I echoed. Panic tightened my chest. "I don't understand. None of this… makes sense!"
"Oh, it makes sense." His gaze flicked to the pedestal, and for a heartbeat I saw it—the pages moving, flickering with a strange light, almost alive. "You wished. You gave. You've been chosen. This world… your story… it's not yours anymore. Not fully. And neither are you."
I stumbled backward. "Chosen? No! I just wanted… I just wanted to—"
"To escape," he said softly. "Yes. Exactly."
Flip.
A page turned behind me. Closer now. I could feel the edges of it brushing my arm. My chest tightened, lungs screaming.
"Why are you doing this?" I demanded, fighting the invisible chains holding me. "Why take me here?"
He tilted his head. "Because you were curious. Because you opened the door. Because every story demands its reader… and its protagonist."
My stomach dropped. "I… I'm not ready!"
He smiled. That patient, cruel smile. "No one ever is."
Flip. Flip. Flip.
Pages turned themselves rapidly now, circling me like a storm. The books groaned, the air thickened. The smell of ink and wet earth grew stronger, suffocating. Shadows pooled at the corners of the room, stretching, reaching for me.
I wanted to run. I wanted to scream. My hands clawed at the pedestal, but the book rose slightly, floating, pages fluttering violently. A wind blew from nowhere, carrying whispers of words I couldn't read aloud, letters forming sentences in my mind, incomprehensible yet familiar.
The boy-turned-man stepped closer. "Do you know what it means… to lose yourself in a story?"
I shook my head, tears streaming. "No! I just… I want my book. I want—"
Flip.
A page smacked against my face. Cold, rough, unyielding. It stung, but the pain grounded me. I blinked through my tears.
"You cannot have it back," he said gently. "Not yet. Not until you understand. Not until you learn."
"What? Learn what?!" My voice cracked, raw and loud. "I didn't ask for this! I didn't want this!"
He crouched slightly, eyes level with mine. "You wished. You chose. You crossed the boundary. There is no undoing. There is only… continuation."
The room pulsed. The books shivered. The pages became a chorus of whispers, chanting, calling, waiting. Shadows stretched, wrapped, pressed closer. My chest constricted. My mind spun. I was naked of armor, of safety, of certainty.
Flip.
A single page hovered in front of me, shimmering. On it, words formed: "Do you accept what you have begun?"
I backed away, knees buckling. My tears fell freely. "I… I… I don't know!"
The man's eyes glowed brighter. "Then you will learn. You will remember. And you will write again… whether you wish to or not."
Flip.
The pages turned faster, louder, a storm of paper, wind, and whispers. The floor beneath me shifted, black stone rolling, edges curling. I stumbled, fell, and my hands scraped the pedestal. My book hovered over my palms, pages fluttering violently.
And then… silence.
He stood still. Watching. Waiting. Smiling.
"I told you," he whispered, "you are exactly where you belong."
And in that moment, I knew.
I was trapped.
Not by walls. Not by chains. Not by fear alone.
But by the story I had written, the wish I had made, and the boy who had become something I could no longer fight.
My chest heaved. My fingers trembled over the book. Tears streamed down my face.
I was in deep, unspeakable shit.
And this time… there was no turning back.
Flip.
The room went black.