Present Day
My name is Asmo. I am eighteen years old. I am an introvert by nature, which is why people often perceive me as calm and composed. My greatest hobby, however, has always been fear. I sought out danger like others sought comfort—climbing the highest peaks or walking alone through desolate forests at midnight. I never understood people who were easily frightened. Watching horror films was my daily routine... until that day.
I first encountered that book when I was fifteen. I remember it vividly. It all began with that mysterious scream—a sound that still haunts my dreams. In those nightmares, I am surrounded by girls clutching their hair, kneeling, and screaming at the top of their lungs. But the most terrifying part? They have no faces. Just a blank, hollow void where features should be. I always wake up shivering.
For three years now, a lifeless object has been my stalker. At first, I thought the QR codes and the Gmail notifications were just a glitch, or perhaps I had mistakenly entered my details on some strange site. But then, a small book began to appear in the middle of the night, as if a ghost were wandering through my home. I thought it was a prank played by my friends or family. But the book kept moving, changing its place even when I was entirely alone. Books don't have souls. They don't have legs. And yet, it followed me.
Finally, I picked up that blood-stained book. It wasn't bravery; I was simply exhausted. The psychological pressure was unbearable. I thought, perhaps this book needs help. That's how it usually goes in the movies, isn't it? As I gripped it, I asked myself, "Asmo, will you regret this later?" But I knew that if I didn't find the courage now, I would definitely regret it forever.
The book reeked of blood. A sickening, metallic scent. As I opened it, the bloodstains on the pages began to vanish before my eyes. Before I could process what was happening, the scent of blooming rosebuds hit me. I knew that scent well—my mother is obsessed with roses; our garden is full of them. For a moment, I felt like I was back home.
I lifted my head. No. This was wrong. It was so incredibly strange. I was sitting on a bench in a vast field, surrounded by flowers. Not far from me, a beautiful woman with auburn hair and a man—not just white, but an eerie, colorless white—were celebrating their golden-haired daughter's first steps.
"Come on, Ponty, just one more step!" the man cheered.
"Our little girl is growing up so fast, Richard," the woman added.
Looking at them made me feel nauseous. My head spun, and everything went dark. It felt like a lucid dream. I lost my balance but didn't fall. Gathering my strength, I opened my eyes again. The same man and woman were there, but the setting had shifted. Now, I was in a kitchen decorated in an antique style. The air was damp. The house was surrounded by thick trees and bushes. Outside, it was raining—it looked exactly like a nature aesthetic from Pinterest. Everything inside was old-fashioned and arranged with great taste.
The auburn-haired woman and the colorless man were now trying to coax their daughter, who looked about three years old, into eating. It felt like a living nightmare, or perhaps a dark fairy tale. No matter how terrifying it was to witness these events so rapidly, the atmosphere was hauntingly beautiful. I tried to speak to them.
"Madam? Madam, can you hear me?"
Suddenly, I realized they were speaking English. Fortunately, I knew the language. I repeated my question.
"Miss? Miss, can you hear me?"
Nothing. They couldn't hear me. As I tried to move toward them, I collapsed. First, I felt a sharp pain in my head, then a cold dampness. When I opened my eyes, I was surrounded by blood. It was streaming down my face. I was lying face-down on the asphalt. I could feel the coldness of the road against my hands and my heart thumping as if it were trying to escape my chest. My forehead and eyes felt heavy. It was pitch black, save for the bone-chilling sound of the wind, which howled like a distant wolf.
The endless road glistened with rain.
I lay there, ready for my life to flash before my eyes and end, when a sudden sobbing sound caught my attention. I lifted my head and looked back. There was a little girl, about seven years old. Ponty.
She was standing in the middle of the road, barefoot, wearing a white dress splattered with mud and blood. She clutched a long-eared, pink-nosed stuffed rabbit that was soaked in bloody water. Her long golden hair was matted with rain, clinging to her face. Her tiny palms and knees were scraped and muddy. Beside the road, ancient oak trees loomed like the gnarled hands of monsters ready to snatch her. An old black car lay overturned in the ditch. One of its wheels was still spinning—creak, creak—a maddening sound in the silence of the night. One headlight was smashed; the other flickered weakly, illuminating the trails of blood on the asphalt.
Inside the car, among the lifeless bodies, was the auburn-haired woman. So, this was that girl. She had grown. She wasn't screaming. Her grief was silent—only her small shoulders trembled as tears washed the mud from her cheeks. She stared at her dead parents, too young to fully comprehend what death meant.
I rushed to help her. I was in a terrible state, but her situation was worse. She was just a child. I tried to crawl toward her, but my legs wouldn't obey me. I pleaded with her under my breath, reaching out with all my might. Then, I saw her shift her gaze from the car to the forest.
There, among the trees, was a ghost in white with long, straight hair. I couldn't see its face; it stood with its back to me. But the girl saw it. Perhaps that phantom was the cause of the accident. Before I could reach her, I lost consciousness.
The name "Ponty" echoed in my ear. It was a woman's voice, filled with pity and a strange sort of affection.
I opened my eyes again. I was on a faded sofa with a broken leg, tilting to the left. I was in a large room. The walls were pink, decorated with various tinsel. The pink wallpaper was peeling at the corners, yellowed from moisture. The air was thick with the smell of dampness and mold. The room was littered with girls' toys, every single one of them broken. Porcelain dolls lay shattered everywhere. Their hair had been hacked off. The plush toys were torn, their stuffing spilling out.
A woman walked in. She looked like the one who had died—auburn hair, but with a sharper nose and disheveled hair. She uncovered the girl lying in the bed. It was the same girl from the road. I felt a wave of relief knowing she had made it home. But she was miserable, and she seemed older now. Her long golden hair was a mess, reaching all the way to her knees. She was hauntingly beautiful, like one of her porcelain dolls—exquisite, yet shattered.
The auburn-haired woman looked at her with pity and love.
"My child, why won't you come out to eat?"
"I won't," the girl replied with a sharp edge of anger.
"Why? Did someone upset you?" the woman asked tenderly.
"Yes. Cas. He didn't want to play with me," the girl sobbed, her breath hitching.
"Did he now?" the woman said, her tone mock-stern. "Come, I'll make him include you in the game."
"I don't want to. I won't play," the girl snapped, pulling the blanket over her head.
Suddenly, everything around me began to collapse. The furniture and walls vanished, replaced by massive bookshelves. I was no longer on a torn sofa; I was sitting on a chair in a colossal library. The smell of mold was gone, replaced by the scent of old parchment. The air was filled with the sound of turning pages. It was an old, magnificent library. People were scattered about, some talking, others lost in their books.
A voice whispered in my ear, startling me.
"Ponty."
A boy's voice—soft, yet hurried. There was that name again. I searched for the golden-haired girl and spotted her two tables away. She was the same girl, but now she was about my age. A tall, handsome dark-haired boy—looking like he had stepped right out of a comic book—sat down beside her. "You're late, Cas," Ponty said without looking up from her book.
"I'm sorry, I got caught up," the boy panted, glancing around.
"I think I'll have a word with my aunt about your attitude toward your studies," Ponty said, looking first at the boy... and then, directly at me.
My heart froze. Could she see me? How? How was this possible?
She was staring at me as if she wanted to devour my very soul. The sorrow in her eyes had been replaced by a boundless sense of wonder and pure horror. She slowly closed her book, her fingers trembling against the ancient cover.
"Ponty? What is it? Why are you looking at me like that?" Cas asked, staring at her in confusion. He turned his gaze toward where I was sitting, following her line of sight. But he saw nothing. To him, I was merely a void.
But Ponty stood up. Her gaze felt as though it were piercing straight into my eyes. Her lips moved, and she whispered:
"You... Who are you? Why are you sitting inside of me?"
My breath hitched. She could see me! Suddenly, the library walls began to melt, and books tumbled from the shelves, swirling into a black vortex. Ponty's figure blurred, leaving behind only her golden hair and those eyes, filled with that terrifying question.
"I... I'm just..." I tried to speak, but no sound came out.
Suddenly, Ponty reached out to me. The moment her fingers touched my chest, a sensation like a freezing electric shock jolted through my body. The entire library filled with a horrific scream—the same shrieks of the faceless girls from my dreams!
Existence shattered into a thousand pieces.