I arrived at the coordinates at 3:09 a.m.
Because of course it had to be the devil's hour.
The building wasn't marked on Google Maps.
Didn't show up on Waze.
Didn't even have a number on the mailbox—just a rusted iron gate and a half-fallen arch that read:
"Faith Shall Be Written"
The church stood crooked, like it was leaning away from God.
Windows cracked. Doors missing.
But it wasn't empty.
I felt it the second I stepped onto the property.
The same humming I felt when I first picked up the book.
Like something thinking just beneath human hearing.
Inside, the pews had been burned—charred black bones in rows.
Ashes everywhere.
But the altar?
Still clean.
Not dusty. Not cracked.
Just... clean.
Like someone still came here to worship.
Behind the altar was a staircase.
Old wood. Spiral. Tight. The kind of staircase you only walk down if you're either brave, stupid, or looking for closure.
Guess which one I was.
The basement wasn't a basement.
It was a library.
Hundreds—no, thousands—of books lined the walls.
Black leather. No titles.
All exactly like my book.
A woman sat at the center table.
She looked like she hadn't blinked in ten years.
Eyes sunken. Cheekbones sharp enough to cut silence.
She was writing. Slowly. Carefully. Dipping a metal-tipped pen into what looked like red ink.
I cleared my throat.
She didn't look up.
I said, "I was told this place had answers."
Still writing.
Then:
"You're already written, Evan."
Her voice was dry parchment.
I took a step closer.
"Who are you?"
She dipped the pen again. The red liquid glistened unnaturally. Too thick. Too fresh.
"I'm the archivist," she said. "I record every reader. Every death. Every unfinished story."
She gestured to the walls.
"All of these are people."
I scanned the shelves.
Each book had a faint shimmer, like heat off asphalt.
I pulled one down.
It buzzed in my hand.
The name on the first page:
"Jordan A. Vellum."
My breath froze.
Jordan. The girl from university. The one who warned me.
I flipped through the pages.
Each chapter was a memory—things I never knew about her.
Poems she never shared.
A note she left on a dorm door that was never found.
The final page just said:
"Reader stopped at page 312. Entry closed."
I turned back to the archivist.
"Why me?"
This time, she looked at me.
Her pupils weren't round.
They were vertical. Like a cat's.
Or a snake's.
Or something older than either.
"Because you kept reading."
She stood.
Walked to a side shelf. Pulled out another book.
Handed it to me.
"Evan Callister"
It was heavier than the others.
And warm.
I flipped it open.
Blank.
"Why is it empty?"
She gave a ghost of a smile.
"Because you haven't finished dying."
I sat down. My legs couldn't hold the weight anymore.
She returned to her table and continued writing.
"So what, you just… document us?"
"I document what the book writes. Or what you write inside it. The line is thin."
I looked down at my copy.
"Can I stop?"
She paused.
"You can delay. But stopping is… rare."
"What about burning it? Or forgetting it?"
Her pen scratched faster.
"That's not how story works. Story wants to finish. If it can't end, it spreads."
A cold horror climbed my spine.
"You mean—others?"
She didn't answer.
Just nodded toward the shelves.
And for the first time, I noticed it:
A whole section titled "UNPUBLISHED DRAFTS"
Dozens of books.
All open.
All half-written.
All still writing themselves.
One book sat alone in a glass case.
Different from the rest.
It had no spine.
No pages.
Just a black cover that pulsed like a heart.
I asked her, "What's that?"
She looked at it with something close to fear.
"That is the first book.
The one that wrote the others."
"It doesn't have words.
It has will."
"It doesn't read you.
It becomes you."
My hands were shaking.
I had to get out. But I had to ask one last thing.
"What happens if I finish mine?"
She stopped writing.
Looked straight at me.
"You don't finish a book like this.
It finishes you.
And then it writes someone else."
I left.
Ran up the stairs. Out the doors. Into air that tasted like burnt paper.
I didn't look back.
Not until I got home.
And found it.
On the desk.
My copy.
Still open.
Now on:
"Chapter 8: The Archivist."
But here's the part that scares me more than anything:
It didn't describe what I saw.
It described what she saw.
Her thoughts. Her fears. Her secret hope that I'd succeed where she failed.
Which means…
Which means the book doesn't just read you when you're holding it.
It reads you when you're remembered.
When your name is spoken.
When someone thinks about you.
I'm writing this with gloves on.
Trying not to touch the pages anymore.
But it doesn't matter.
Because it's in now.
In the walls.
In the corners of your screen.
In the pause between your thoughts.
If this text reaches you…
And your name shows up next…
Close the book.
But do it before you see what it's titled.
Because once you read the title…
You've already started writing yourself in.