Lia stood outside the archives building on Tuesday morning, the folded paper from Professor Finch crumpled in her sweating palm. The Gothic structure loomed before her, all dark stone and narrow windows that seemed to watch rather than welcome. Most students avoided it—the building smelled of mold and decay, and the ancient heating system made strange groaning sounds that echoed through empty corridors.
She'd barely slept. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw that shifting form from her dream, heard that voice like burning paper. Why are you looking for us, Lia Vance?
But standing here now, in the cold October morning with people walking to class around her, it all felt absurd. She was a history student. This was research. Nothing more.
She pushed open the heavy wooden door.
Inside, the air was thick with dust and the particular smell of very old paper—sweet and slightly acidic. The main reading room stretched before her, filled with dark wooden tables and green-shaded lamps that cast pools of sickly light. Shelves rose to impossible heights on either side, packed with leather-bound volumes and archival boxes.
An elderly woman sat at the circulation desk, her silver hair pulled back in a severe bun. She looked up as Lia approached, her eyes sharp behind wire-rimmed glasses.
"Can I help you?" Her voice was crisp, suspicious.
Lia tried to smile. "Yes, I'm working on my undergraduate thesis. Nineteenth-century folklore acquisition practices. My advisor suggested I look at the university's collection of Middle Eastern manuscripts."
The archivist studied her for a long moment. "Name?"
"Lia Vance. History department."
The woman typed something into an ancient desktop computer, then frowned. "You're not on my access list."
Lia's heart sank. Of course Finch couldn't have arranged access without drawing attention. "Oh, that's strange. Professor Finch said—"
"Professor Finch doesn't have archive privileges anymore." The woman's tone made it clear this was not up for discussion.
Lia thought quickly. "Right, of course. That's why I'm here instead of him. Professor Davis is supervising me now. From the Anthropology department? He must have forgotten to add me to the list."
Another long pause. The archivist's fingers hovered over her keyboard.
"Please," Lia added quietly. "I've been working on this for months. My thesis defense is in six weeks."
Finally, the woman sighed. "Middle Eastern manuscripts are in the Special Collections room. Third floor, east wing. You cannot remove any materials. No photography. No pens—pencils only. And I'll need your student ID."
Lia handed over her ID, trying not to show her relief.
"You have until closing at five," the archivist said, writing Lia's name in a ledger. "The Special Collections door locks automatically. If you're inside when I close this desk, you'll be locked in overnight."
"Understood. Thank you."
The woman handed her a visitors badge and pointed toward a narrow staircase.
The third floor was dimmer than the main reading room, lit only by small windows set high in the walls. Lia's footsteps echoed on worn wooden floors. She passed rooms filled with map cases, rooms stacked with leather-bound journals, rooms whose doors were locked with heavy padlocks.
The Special Collections room was at the end of a long corridor. The door was heavy oak, reinforced with iron bands. A small placard read: Restricted Access - Sign In Required.
Lia pushed it open.
The room beyond was circular, perhaps once a tower. Shelves lined the curved walls, filled with manuscripts in protective boxes. A single table sat in the center, illuminated by a hanging lamp. Security cameras watched from three corners.
She pulled out Finch's paper and unfolded it. The handwriting was hurried, almost frantic:
Third floor, east wing. Shelf 7, Box 12. "Testimony of Kharafa ibn Malik al-Harrani, circa 850 CE." Read sections IV and VII first. Note the marginalia—someone else has been here. Be careful. Trust no one.
Lia found Shelf 7 easily. Box 12 was plain cardboard, labeled in faded ink. She carried it to the table, hyper-aware of the cameras tracking her movement.
Inside the box was a manuscript—perhaps fifty pages of aged parchment, bound in cracked leather. The text was Arabic, written in careful calligraphy, with marginal notes in Latin and what looked like medieval French. The pages felt strange under her fingers, almost warm.
She opened to the first page and began reading the Latin translation someone had carefully written alongside the Arabic text.
"I, Kharafa ibn Malik, son of a merchant of Harran, write this testimony so that those who come after may know the truth of what dwells beyond the veil of our world.
In the year of the Hijra 232, when I was but nine years of age, I was taken from my father's caravan by beings my eyes could not properly see. They appeared first as heat shimmer on the desert road—distortions in the air that moved with purpose. Then as shadows that fell wrong, casting darkness where the sun should have illuminated.
I remember screaming. I remember my father's voice calling my name. Then I remember nothing until I woke in a place that was not a place—a space between spaces, where the very air tasted of copper and smoke."
Lia's hands trembled as she turned the page. This was real. This was a first-hand account from over a thousand years ago.
"They did not harm me at first. They seemed... curious. As a child might be curious about an insect, not cruel, but not gentle either. They kept me in what I can only describe as a dwelling made of heat and shadow. The walls shifted. Time moved strangely—sometimes a day passed in what felt like minutes, sometimes hours stretched into eternities.
Slowly, I learned to see them properly. They were not formless, merely difficult for human eyes to perceive. They had structure, hierarchy, society. They called themselves many names, but the closest translation to our tongue would be 'The Hidden Ones' or 'The Ancient Flame.'
There were three castes among them:
The Flyers—swift beings that moved through the air like wind made visible, scouts and messengers who traveled vast distances in moments. I saw one called Ifrit who could ride inside sandstorms, becoming one with the churning dust.
The Shifters—those who could take forms that our world would recognize. Most commonly they appeared as serpents or as large black dogs with eyes that burned like coals. These were the infiltrators, the ones who walked among humans unseen.
The Terrestrials—the dwellers, those who had learned to exist in our realm without fully manifesting. They were the most dangerous because they could observe us constantly, influence us through whispers and suggestions, feed on our emotions like we feed on bread."
Lia stopped reading and rubbed her eyes. The room suddenly felt colder. She glanced at the cameras, then back at the manuscript. How much time had passed? It felt like minutes but could have been an hour.
She flipped forward, looking for sections IV and VII that Finch had mentioned.
Section IV was titled "On Their Society and Governance."
"They have kings and courts, just as we do. During my captivity, I heard them speak of the great assembly held in the time of Suleiman ibn Dawood—when seventy-two of their greatest were bound to serve the prophet-king. They spoke these names with fear and reverence:
Pazuzu, whose body shone like molten gold.
Lamia, the white one, terrible in his clarity.
Asmodeus, whose voice could shatter stone.
Apophis, the thief who once stole the seal of Solomon itself and was imprisoned in the black depths for his crime.
But above all these, they spoke of Azazel—the First Rebel, the one who refused the command and was cast down from the upper realms. They called him many names: The Adversary, The Whisperer, The Father of Lies. He dwells somewhere far from their courts, plotting against the children of Adam with a hatred that has burned for millennia."
Lia felt ice spreading through her chest. Azazel. The same being Finch had mentioned in yesterday's lecture. The prototype of rebellion.
She forced herself to keep reading.
"Their weaknesses are few but significant:
Iron disrupts their forms. A blade of pure iron can wound them, drive them back. This is why in my homeland, blacksmiths were often holy men—they worked with the substance that held the Hidden Ones at bay.
Certain invocations repel them. Words of power, prayers spoken with conviction and faith. They cannot cross a threshold where the name of the Creator has been invoked with sincere belief.
They feed on heat, on darkness, on the liminal spaces between states—dusk and dawn, the moment between sleep and waking. But most of all, they feed on human emotion. Fear strengthens them. Anger nourishes them. Doubt opens doorways they can slip through."
Lia thought of Marcus, terrified and exhausted. Of the forum posts describing escalating fear. Were they feeding on the students? Getting stronger as the panic spread?
She turned to Section VII: "On the Bonding."
"The most terrible discovery I made during my captivity was this: every human carries one of them. From birth to death, each person is assigned a companion from among the Hidden Ones—a shadow-self, a dark twin, what they call in their tongue a 'Doppelganger.'
This companion whispers constantly, suggesting, tempting, amplifying every negative thought and darkest impulse. Most humans never realize it is there. They believe the voice is their own, the thoughts are their own.
I asked my captors why they do this. Why torment us so?
And one of them—I believe it was a Shifter named Meimon—told me: 'Because your kind were elevated above us. Because you were given a gift we were denied—free will bound to consequence, mortality bound to meaning. We have eternity but no purpose. You have purpose but no eternity. So we seek to prove you are unworthy of what you were given. We seek to drag you down to our level, or below it.'
This is the truth of the Doppelganger. This is the secret war waged in every human heart."
Lia sat back, her mind reeling. She thought of her own intrusive thoughts, her moments of inexplicable anger or fear. Was that her, or something else?
She forced herself to focus. She needed to find whatever Finch had wanted her to see. She flipped forward, scanning pages, and then she saw it.
A section near the end, marked with a wax seal that had been broken. The wax was still bright red—recent, not centuries old. Someone had sealed this page and someone else had opened it.
The section was titled: "A Warning to Future Seekers."
"If you are reading this, you have sought knowledge of the Hidden Ones. Know this: the act of seeking is itself an invitation. There are objects in this world that act as beacons—things that draw their attention like moths to flame.
I have heard from travelers of artifacts from before the great flood, objects that contain knowledge of the invisible realms. These are dangerous beyond measure. To study them is to be seen. To understand them is to be known. To possess them is to become a target.
During my captivity, I heard the Hidden Ones speak of a 'preserved record'—something that would one day be discovered by humans, something that would tell truth from lies. They feared this record. They said it was sealed away in a place neither of earth nor sky, neither of fire nor water. They said when it was found, a war would begin.
I do not know what this record is. But I know this: whoever finds it will draw the attention of both the Lumin and the Hidden Ones. They will become a battleground.
Pray you are not that person."
Lia's hands were shaking so badly she could barely hold the page. The preserved record. The codex. It had to be.
She noticed writing in the margins—not medieval Latin, but modern English, written in blue pen. The handwriting was shaky, hurried:
Oslo team confirmed this - codex acts as active transmitter. Subjects experiencing escalating contact. Recommend immediate cessation of all research.
And below that, in different handwriting, more recent still:
Singapore team ignored warning. All twelve subjects vanished within 72 hours of attempting spectral analysis. DO NOT REPLICATE THEIR WORK.
And at the bottom of the page, a third note, the ink still fresh:
October 15, 2025 - Student symptoms match historical patterns. The codex has been activated. May God help them.
Five days ago. Someone had been here five days ago.
Lia quickly pulled out her phone, ignoring the no photography rule. She started taking pictures of the pages, her hands trembling. She needed this information. She needed—
"Excuse me."
Lia jumped, nearly dropping her phone. The archivist stood in the doorway, her expression carefully neutral.
"You need to leave," the woman said quietly. "Now."
"I'm sorry, I know I'm not supposed to take photos, I just—"
"Now, Ms. Vance."
There was something in the woman's voice—not anger, but fear. Her eyes darted toward the hallway behind her.
Lia heard voices. Male voices, speaking in low tones.
"Is she still here?"
"The Vance girl. Professor Finch's student."
"Anyone studying the Kharafa text needs to be monitored. Those are the orders."
Lia's blood turned to ice. She looked at the archivist, who gave the tiniest shake of her head—a warning.
"The back stairs," the woman whispered. "Through that door. Go. Now."
Lia grabbed her bag, leaving the manuscript on the table. She moved toward a small door in the curved wall she hadn't noticed before—a service entrance, probably for staff.
"Wait," she whispered. "Who are those men?"
"I don't know. But they've been here three times this week, asking about manuscripts, about students, about Professor Finch. They're not university administration." The archivist's voice dropped even lower. "They knew your name before you signed in. They were waiting for you."
Lia felt her stomach drop. "How—"
"Go!" the woman hissed, pushing her toward the door.
Lia slipped through the service entrance and found herself in a narrow stairwell. She ran down the steps, her heart hammering, not stopping until she was outside, breathing hard in the cold October air.
She looked back at the archives building. Through the windows, she could see figures moving inside—men in dark suits, searching the reading room.
They were looking for her.
Lia pulled out her phone and dialed the number Professor Finch had given her. It rang once, twice, then went to voicemail.
"Professor Finch, this is Lia. I found the Kharafa manuscript. I found the warnings. And I think someone's following me."
She hung up and started walking quickly across campus, trying to look normal, trying not to run.
Behind her, the archives building seemed to watch her go.