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Jackson had been reading for hours, the flickering candle beside him casting shadows that danced and trembled on the pages. He was lost—utterly consumed—in the stories within the 30 Doors to Dread anthology. Each chapter, each nightmare, had been a trip to a new land of terror. Every story gripped him, paralyzed him with fear, and yet, he couldn't stop turning the pages. The horrors were like a drug, drawing him deeper into their grip.
He had started the book on a cold, rainy evening, curled up in his favorite armchair by the fire. It had been a way to pass the time, a distraction from his own mundane life. But the longer he read, the more unsettling it became. Something about the stories felt… off. They didn't just feel like fiction. They felt real.
And now, as he neared the end, something was different. There, at the final page, he had come across a strange note. It was handwritten, in a script that he didn't recognize. The ink was dark, almost black, like it had been penned in something more sinister than mere ink.
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"The 31st Door has been opened. You are the next key."
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Jackson's fingers hovered over the words. His heart skipped a beat as he reread them. What the hell did that mean? Was this some sort of twisted bonus content? Some hidden feature meant to hook readers, pull them in further? He stared at the note, feeling a chill slide down his spine. The candle beside him flickered, casting long shadows across the room, as if urging him to read more.
He flipped the page, expecting the next chapter. But instead, there was only one sentence.
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"You are standing at the threshold now. Will you step through?"
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His breath caught. His fingers trembled as he read those words over and over, the meaning sinking in slowly, like a drop of ink spreading in water.
Jackson felt a sudden heat on the back of his neck. He turned around, expecting to find the room behind him empty—just as it had been for hours. But there, in the corner, stood a figure, shrouded in shadows. The light from the candle was dim, casting the figure's form into vague, unsettling shapes. It wasn't clear who or what it was. The more he stared, the more it seemed to blur and shift, becoming something not quite human.
A cold laugh echoed through the room, low and menacing.
Jackson stood, heart racing. He backed away from the figure, his pulse pounding in his ears. His mind was scrambling, trying to make sense of it. The stories. The book. What was happening? Was this part of the story? A hallucination brought on by too much reading? Or was it something worse?
"Did you think this was just a book, Jackson?" the figure whispered. Its voice was distorted, like it came from somewhere deep, a place beyond comprehension.
"No, I…" Jackson stammered, his mouth dry, every inch of his skin on fire. "This isn't real. This is just a book. A story."
The figure took a step forward. The shadows seemed to swallow the light. "The stories were never just stories. They were the doors. And now you've opened the last one."
Jackson's heart hammered in his chest. He didn't know what this meant, but he was beginning to understand something far worse than he had imagined.
"You've read the tales of terror," the figure continued. "But they weren't just written for you to enjoy. You've been chosen, Jackson. The 31st door isn't a chapter in the book. It's waiting for you to walk through it. And you will."
Jackson tried to speak, tried to deny what was happening, but the words stuck in his throat. His mind was clouded with panic, his body frozen in place.
He looked down at the book in his hands. It was open on the final page. The words were no longer static. They were shifting, twisting on the page, as if alive. The text was rearranging itself, forming new sentences, sentences that weren't there before.
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"You have read the tales. Now you will live them. The door is open, and you are its key."
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The figure took another step forward. Jackson's heart raced, every instinct screaming at him to run, but his legs wouldn't move. His body felt heavy, his vision narrowing. The air around him grew colder, as if the very room were being drained of warmth.
"You've crossed the threshold," the figure said, its voice a haunting whisper now. "The door has claimed you."
Jackson's breath came in shallow gasps. "No, this can't be real," he muttered, his eyes darting to the door, the only way out. But it was no longer there. There was nothing but the figure before him and the book in his hands.
The figure smiled. "You were always meant to be part of the story, Jackson. Now you will join the others. The final chapter is written. And you... are the next character."
And with that, the room dissolved.
Jackson tried to scream, but no sound came. His body was pulled into the darkness, swallowed whole by a terror far greater than anything he had read in the book. The last thing he saw before everything went black were the words from the final page, now burned into his mind:
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"The 31st door has been opened. Welcome to your nightmare."
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When the morning light finally crept into the room, Jackson was gone. The chair where Jackson had been sitting was empty, as though he had never been there at all.
Only the book remained. On the very last page, the sentence was still there, waiting for the next reader to find it.
"Will you step through?"
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