The old bookstore smelled of dust and leather, a scent Edwin relished. He prided himself on finding rare editions no one else could. Tonight, in the dim light, he traced shaking fingers over a weathered tome locked behind glass. The clerk, a skeletal man with ink-stained hands, watched him with something like pity.
“No one reads that one aloud,” the man murmured, but Edwin hardly listened. He had spent a fortune acquiring lesser works—what would it mean to read lines no one else dared?
Later, in his candlelit study, he hesitated, the skin between his fingers prickling. The book’s cracked spine yawned as he opened it. He spoke the first line in a whisper. Then another.
At first, silence. Relief curled in his chest like warm smoke. But the air shifted. A breath that wasn’t his sighed from the pages. Cold fingers brushed his throat. He tried to close the book, but unseen hands pried it wider. His mouth moved against his will, voice stolen. The words would not stop.
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