I stopped reading it out loud.
Didn't help.
Now it reads me out loud.
Sometimes it's my voice. Sometimes it's Jordan's.
Once, I swear to God, it was my mother's voice, the one she used when I was six and caught stealing chewing gum. Sweet. Disappointed. Final.
"Put the book down, Evan. Before it finishes your name."
It's been over 36 hours since I came back from the church.
I haven't left the apartment.
Haven't eaten.
Only thing I've consumed is… this.
This manuscript. This… thing.
I don't know if I'm writing it or if it's writing me anymore.
It's like breathing underwater now. You shouldn't be able to, but the longer you stay under, the more natural it feels.
This morning, I woke up and my arms were covered in ink.
Not tattoos. Not drawn-on.
Ink.
Like I'd been dipped in it. Or like the veins had started leaking language.
I washed them. Scrubbed till the skin cracked.
Still came back.
Different sentences each time.
This time it said:
"Reader accepted the terms. Reader became the story."
I needed answers. Real ones.
So I did something desperate.
I emailed someone from the underground literary circle I used to review with.
Name: Greaves.
Only guy I know who treats books like weapons.
Subject line:
"The Book That Reads You"
I didn't even write a full message. Just one line.
"Have you ever read a book that didn't want to be finished?"
He replied in minutes.
"Where are you? I've been waiting for this email for three years."
He sent me coordinates.
A warehouse.
Other side of town.
No phone signal near it.
No cameras.
No streetlights.
I went.
Because at this point, what the hell else was I supposed to do?
The warehouse looked like a dead god's ribcage. All metal beams and rust.
Inside, the air smelled like charcoal and printer toner.
And there he was.
Greaves.
Bearded, built like a librarian who lifted coffins for fun, and holding a leather-bound journal.
He didn't say hi.
He just asked, "How many chapters?"
"Eight," I said. "So far."
He nodded like that confirmed something awful.
"Most people don't make it past five."
We sat.
He showed me a file. Names. Dozens.
All with titles next to them.
"The Boy Who Spoke Too Soon"
"The Woman Who Skipped Ahead"
"The Reader Who Skimmed"
And then—
"The One Who Asked Questions."
I pointed at it.
"Who's that?"
He looked at me.
And didn't answer.
"This isn't just a book," he said. "It's a contagion."
"A meme?"
"No. Worse. A memetic parasite. It uses narrative structure to survive."
He tapped my temple.
"It needs belief. You give it structure by trying to understand it.
Every theory. Every guess. Every time you try to 'figure it out,' it gets stronger."
I asked the only question that mattered.
"How do I kill it?"
He sighed.
"You don't."
He opened his journal. Showed me a passage.
"The parasite only exists where narrative is allowed.
It dies in contradiction. In chaos. In randomness."
I didn't get it.
Until he explained.
"You have to break the story.
Talk nonsense. Write paradox.
Speak in broken language.
Refuse the structure."
"The book is bound to logic.
So if you stop making sense…
You starve it."
We did an experiment.
He gave me a pen.
Told me to write a sentence in my copy of the book that violated narrative logic.
I wrote:
"The fish married a cloud because Monday doesn't bleed in German."
The book twitched.
I'm not kidding.
It twitched.
Like a spine trying to cough.
The ink on the page bled.
Words warped.
The next page turned blank.
It was working.
But only for a moment.
Then, new words bled through:
"Nice try.
But you're still trying to win.
And that's still a story."
Greaves looked shaken.
He stood up.
Grabbed a matchbox.
Said, "There's only one way to end a story."
I thought he meant burning it.
But no.
He lit the match, smiled at me, and said:
"You end the story when the reader stops existing."
Then he swallowed the flame.
He screamed.
Collapsed.
Smoke poured from his mouth. His eyes.
I ran.
Didn't look back.
Didn't wait for answers.
Because I already knew—
He just wrote his own ending.
Back home, the book was already waiting.
Open on the table. Calm. Patient.
Chapter 9.
"The One Who Ran Back."
It didn't judge me.
Didn't mock me.
Just waited.
There was a sentence at the bottom:
"You can still choose your ending.
But it won't be yours unless you write it."
So now I sit.
Typing this.
Not because I want to finish it.
But because I want you to start.
Because I finally understand:
This book doesn't want to be read.
It wants to be shared.
It doesn't end when you reach the last page.
It ends when you write the next chapter.
So ask yourself:
Why did you keep reading?
Why are your hands still scrolling?
Why are you sweating?
Why did the lights flicker just now?
Why did that noise behind you sound like paper tearing?
Why do you feel watched?
Check the room.
Is the book still in Evan's world?
Or is it in yours now?
Check your reflection.
Do your lips move a little too slowly?
Do your thoughts feel like they're being spoken from somewhere else?
Don't try to answer.
Because the book already wrote this ending.
You're just reading it.
For now.