The book stared at me.
Its pages no longer simply held words — they were eyes, hundreds of them, each flickering with their own twisted, sentient light. I could feel their gaze upon me, as if they were studying me, evaluating me.
Waiting.
I stepped back, my mind racing. The words I had read before echoed in my ears, growing louder:
"Every ending is a new beginning. Every story has its author."
And now, standing in front of the book, I understood what it meant.
The book was the story. But it wasn't finished. It needed someone to finish it. And I was its next victim, its next writer.
"You're the author now," the voice whispered behind me.
I spun around.
The girl.
But she wasn't the same.
Her eyes were black now, voids where nothing could escape. She was no longer just a part of the book's world — she was its creation. She was its writer.
"You can't run," she said softly. "Once you've entered, you're bound to it. You have to choose. To write. To finish."
I looked back at the book, trembling.
It was impossible. How could I possibly finish a story that had no clear beginning or end? How could I write my escape from a place that was built on confusion, on endless loops of fear?
I turned back to the girl.
"How do I stop it?"
She smiled, a hollow expression, as if she had known the answer all along but was letting me figure it out.
"You don't stop it," she said. "You rewrite it. You become the author. Write the ending you want."
But her words didn't make sense. How could I rewrite something that was never finished? I was just a pawn in a game I didn't understand.
Then, a strange sound cut through the air.
The pages of the book began to flip, faster than ever before. A deep, rumbling voice echoed through the room:
"You must write. Or be written."
Suddenly, the world around me shifted. The walls of the room bent, the air crackling with static. The ground beneath my feet trembled.
And then I felt it — the book calling to me, pulling at my very soul.
It wasn't just a book. It was a prison. A realm that fed on stories, feeding on those who dared to open it. And now, I was part of it. The girl was part of it. Ruhani was part of it.
And soon, I would be, too.
I reached out, my fingers brushing the first page.
The words began to form beneath my touch, twisting and curling, changing as I moved.
"She has no choice."
My heart skipped a beat.
The book wasn't just asking me to write. It was forcing me.
I wasn't the author. I was the tool. The tool to complete the story it was waiting for.
But I had to fight. I had to choose.
I clenched my fists, staring down at the page. The words were taking shape, and I couldn't stop them.
I thought of the girl, the girl upstairs, her hollow eyes staring into mine, telling me it was too late to escape.
But I couldn't believe it.
Suddenly, the book split open, its pages flying everywhere, and I was pulled into the center, surrounded by the eyes.
I screamed.
The pages closed.
The story was still unfinished.