My days had always followed the same rhythm: school, work at the library, then home. Six years of routine, six years of nothing unusual. But one afternoon, something that teetered between blessing and curse broke the cycle.
I was shelving books, doing my part as the librarian's assistant, when I stumbled upon a volume I had never seen before. No record in our catalog. No label. Its cover felt older than the library itself, and yet it hummed with a strange pull that made my fingertips linger.
I showed it to the librarian, expecting her to scold me for slacking. Instead, she frowned, as if remembering something unsettling.
"Earlier today," she said, "a man in his twenties brought it in. He told me to keep it safe here, no questions asked. Then he left."
That was odd enough, but what unsettled her most was his appearance.
"He wore a turtleneck and a coat," she added.
"But it's summer," I muttered dryly.
She nodded. "Yes. But stranger still was his earring—it wasn't jewelry at all. It was… a watch. The kind from ancient times."
A chill ran down my arms. The book seemed heavier in my hands after that.
When I opened it, the dedication struck me like a whisper in my ear. The words seemed to resonate, vibrating through my chest. Before I could second-guess myself, I asked if I could buy it. The librarian simply said yes.
---
That night, as I walked home, I couldn't shake the sense of being followed. Footsteps trailed mine. Eyes watched from places I couldn't see.
"Stop."
The word was soft, almost polite, yet it rang through the silence like a command.
I turned—and froze. A man stood in the fog, matching the librarian's description exactly. The turtleneck, the coat. And that strange earring: a miniature watch, ticking faintly in the mist.
His eyes glowed like galaxies, crystalline purple that pulled me in and warned me all at once. He tipped his top hat with a courteous bow, revealing hair white as snow—not of age, but something else entirely.
"Where did you get that book?" he asked.
His tone was ordinary, but his presence was anything but. Holy and unholy, angelic and demonic. My throat tightened.
"The librarian gave it to me," I answered carefully. "I… I want to finish it. I want to see it through."
His gaze sharpened, then softened, almost pleased.
"Very well, brave one. The book has chosen you. A small warning, though—every chapter hides a clue. Follow them well."
He bowed again. And as the fog thickened, he simply… faded, waving as though saying goodbye across realms.
Terror struck me. I ran, bolting home until I slammed the door behind me.
BANG!
My parents rushed over, finding me on the floor, gasping for air. I told them everything, but I saw it in their eyes—they didn't believe me, no matter what they said. So I smiled weakly, lied, and told them not to worry.
Later that night, alone in my room, I opened the book again.
[Chapter 1]
Night arrives at AM
bus is a ride you will be taking
A ghostly whisper and a ghostly chill
Invites you to a ride
To a place in hide
Welcome to the ghost town
The words tangled in my mind. I remembered what the man said: every chapter has a clue.
"AM," I whispered. "Midnight. The bus. A hidden place…"
It couldn't be real. And yet, my heart pounded.
No—I didn't just want to see it.
I needed to.