I wasn’t supposed to be in the restricted archives of the Chicago Public Library. The door was slightly open, the lights flickering, and a single black notebook sat on a metal cart labeled Uncatalogued Donations.
At first, it looked harmless — handwritten entries, dates spanning decades, different ink colors, different handwriting styles. But every entry ended the same way: a name… and a date exactly seven days later.
Curious, I read one aloud. The next morning, I searched the name online. The person had died — on the exact date written in the book.
Now my name is in it.
The final page wasn’t there before. The ink is still drying. And the date listed beside my name is getting closer.
If you ever find a notebook in a library that doesn’t exist in the catalog… don’t open it.