I couldn't stop flipping through the red book.
Each sentence felt like it was meant for me.
Each warning — sharper, more frantic.
But the most terrifying part?
The last page was missing.
Not torn gently. Ripped — violently.
The edges were jagged, and I swear… there was something like a fingerprint in the ink. A smudge that looked like someone tried to grab the page mid-tear.
That night, I placed the book under my pillow before sleeping.
Not because I was afraid it would vanish.
But because… I was afraid I might.
The dream came quickly.
I was standing in my room, only the walls were breathing — expanding and shrinking like lungs.
A shadow stood in the corner.
And behind it… someone was whispering numbers:
"Three… two… one…"
I turned — but instead of seeing a face, I saw my own hand flipping through the red book — only now the countdown was starting again.
From 7.
Backwards.
And the voice whispered:
"You're the next story."
I woke up drenched in sweat.
The book was open beside me.
A new sentence had appeared in faint pencil:
"It always finds the next reader."
The next day, I skipped class and went to the only place I hadn't checked.
The back stairwell of the PG.
Old, rarely used, always locked from the bottom floor.
But I remembered what cook uncle once said: "Some doors don't stay shut forever."
I reached the base of the stairwell… and noticed something odd.
A thin piece of paper, barely sticking out from under the third stair.
I knelt down and pried it loose.
It was a torn notebook page.
It matched the red book exactly.
The handwriting was rushed and frantic:
"Day 2: I saw her again. She doesn't blink. She knows I'm leaving clues. If you find this — burn the book. Don't let her finish it. If she does… you become part of it."
I read it three times.
Then I looked up…
…and the hallway light flickered.
Footsteps echoed on the floor — slow, heavy, deliberate.
No one was supposed to be here right now.