The street was silent as the ominous carriage vanished through the winding roads.

The night felt unusually quiet as if the city was holding its breath. I'm sure there was life all around us, but only the crickets appeared awake.

Mr. Fontaine and I stood in awkward silence, the box in my hands weighing heavily on us. Should I just leave it in an alleyway? Whatever...

At last, Mr. Fontaine sighed, though I wasn't sure if it was in relief or depression. Most likely the former.

Whatever it was, it carried no good omen.

"Uhm... Well, young stalker..." His voice finally breaking the silence. "Don't ever talk about what happened tonight and..." His eyes flicked to the box I was holding as if seeing a very dangerous creature. "Don't open it. Your life will change the moment you do."

It kind of already has, Mr. Fontaine. I voiced it internally.

I expected to see a flicker of greed in his eyes, because of the steep price it held. But instead, there was something else—resignation, perhaps even mockery. It was sort of strange seeing this man, who moments ago was so meek and silent, now speaking with a kind of hollow authority. I guess I'm really background.

"Mr. Fontaine," I asked, keeping my voice low, "what is inside?"

He hesitated, his gaze drifting away from mine as if the question itself was an inconvenience. "... Uhm..." His expression was one of frustration like he wished the whole ordeal would just disappear. But I wasn’t about to let it go when he was the only person I could question. I waited, giving him an obnoxious amount of time to answer hoping the awkwardness between us to force it out of him.

Finally, he sighed again, sounding tired and defeated, settling my victory. "To be honest, I have no idea. Never opened it."

I studied his face, searching for any sign of deceit, but all I saw was weariness. He looked back at me.

"What I know is..." he continued, his voice dropping to a near whisper, "that all the previous owners either went crazy or died shortly after acquiring it." He then looked at me with visible fear. Do you want it back, perhaps?

"You don't mean a night's short, right...?"

He didn't answer. Only looked at me with deep irritation at my sarcastic comment. That's my defense mode, hey.

A chill ran down my spine. There was no drama in his voice, no exaggeration—just the cold, hard truth. It made me wonder how far he’d gone to entangle himself with something so dangerous. But before I could press him further, he shifted his weight, clearly eager to distance himself from the entire situation. Please don't leave me alone now. You're the one with a wary wife.

"You’re better off forgetting you ever saw it," he added, almost like an afterthought. "Trust me."

But how could I? The box in my hands felt heavier than before as if it held more than just its physical contents. Despite his warnings, I knew this wasn’t something I could walk away from.

The night seemed to close around us, the city’s usual noise muted, waiting for something to happen. Mr. Fontaine gave me one last glance before turning to leave, his steps echoing softly on the cobblestone.

I guess he'd look for a carriage or something.

The Old Quarter stretched out before me like a city within a city, its cracked cobblestones glistening with dampness and mud, and its narrow streets twisting into themselves as though ashamed to be seen.

I guess this place is even more depressing at night.

The shadows swayed in an awkward rhythm, cast by faint flickers of oil lanterns and stray candlelight spilling from the windows covered by curtains. It reminded me of my short-lived career as a lamplighter. Romantic, right? Hardly. Back then, I was tempted to pinch a few spare lanterns—or even the copper gas lines—but who would buy them from someone with soot-covered fingers? I'm still pondering about my quirk of being ignored and how it could mean profit if I ever decided to follow a career as a thief.

Even now, as I walked through its maze, I couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched—not by people, but by the walls themselves, which seemed alive with mildew and stories too stubborn to fade. The streets were quiet, the kind of quiet that didn’t promise peace but whispered threats if you listened too closely.

Why do I always end up here? I muttered under my breath, kicking a loose stone that clattered too loudly in the silence. I must be the worst combination of bad decisions and luck.

The box weighed heavy in my arms, its edges pressing into my skin as if it wanted to remind me it was still there. My shoes scraped against the uneven cobblestones, each step announcing my presence to the entire quarter. Should I buy another pair? Not that I had the money right now. These cursed things had already cost me three crowns at a thrift shop—and half my dignity.

I half-expected some shadow to peel away from an alley and demand to know why I was trespassing. But, as usual, no one paid attention to me. Hey, I’m right here.

Without realizing it, my steps had carried me to King’s Quarter, the adjacent neighbourhood. Quieter than the Old Quarter—not peaceful, just... quieter. The streets here were narrower, the buildings shorter, and the atmosphere just slightly less suffocating. A regal title for a place filled with sagging roofs, peeling shutters, and windows lit by flickering candles.

Ah, King’s Quarter. Where rats live like dukes and dreams of nobility come to die. If the monarchy named this place, they must’ve had a wicked sense of humour.

This was where the working class congregated. Shoemakers, seamstresses, bakers. Honest work. Too honest for my taste, but at least the walls didn’t threaten to eat you alive.

It wasn’t until I stood outside the chipped wooden door of my building, staring at the rusted metal number barely hanging onto its hinges, that I realized where I was.

Really? The corner of my mouth twitched into a bitter smile. My feet had carried me here out of habit as if my body knew the path better than I did. So much for self-determination.

I shifted the box under one arm and fished the key out of my coat pocket. The keyhole fought back, sticking as it always did, before grudgingly letting me in. The air inside hit me like a damp towel. Thick with the smell of mildew and something faintly metallic—old water pipes or maybe a leaking radiator. Probably both, considering the overall charm of the place.

The hallway was dim, lit only by the faint glow of a lone candle at the far end, perched precariously on a rusted sconce. It had almost burned down to the base, leaving the air tinged with wax and smoke. The wallpaper was peeling, a sickly green shade that made it feel like the building itself was ill. Green of all the colours. My apartment was at the end of the hall, marked by a door so warped it didn’t quite close properly unless you shouldered it like a battering ram.

Inside, the space wasn’t much better. The floorboards creaked, each one lodging a formal protest against my intrusion. The walls were blotched with mould in places the peeling wallpaper couldn’t pretend to hide.

The kitchen was a masterpiece of neglect. A gas fixture hung above the stove, but it had long been cut off—probably stolen by my enterprising neighbour. I’d been left to rely on oil lamps and candles that burned down faster than my patience. I’d discovered this charming reality shortly after signing a one-year lease. It had felt like a steal at the time. Turns out, it was the kind of steal where I was the one getting robbed.

I glanced at the flimsy lock on the door and chuckled to myself. I could probably leave this thing wide open, and no one would bother. Hell, if a thief walked in, they might drop a coin out of pity. Maybe even organize a fundraiser.

Setting the box down on the rickety table, I gave the room a once-over. It hadn’t improved since yesterday. Or the day before that. A loaf of bread sat in the cupboard—a loaf so stale it could double as a weapon.

Well, at least no one’s stealing that, I muttered, closing the cupboard with a sigh. Unless they’re planning on using it in a duel.

The chair groaned as I sank into it. For a moment, I just stared at the box. Its polished wood gleamed faintly in the dim light of an oil lamp, its brass edges catching the glow. It sat there, silent, ominous, and annoyingly smug, like it knew it held the answers to questions I wasn’t ready to ask.

Leaning forward, I tapped its edge with a finger. Alright, box. Got a name? Address? How about an invoice? I hear your going rate’s a thousand five hundred crowns, minimum. That true, or are you just here to bankrupt me in spirit?

The box didn’t reply. Of course, it didn’t. But its presence felt loud enough. Something about it tugged at the edges of my thoughts, like a whisper I couldn’t quite catch.

Great. A box that glares. I leaned back, running a hand through my hair. The night felt like a blur, every moment from the warehouse to now layered with questions I wasn’t ready to answer. My body had just moved on its own, dragging me back here like it knew something I didn’t.

The room was still, the kind of stillness that made you feel watched. But no matter how much I stared at the box, it didn’t move, didn’t shift, didn’t do anything.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

I sat there for what felt like hours but couldn’t have been more than a few minutes, just staring at the box. Its edges gleamed faintly, mocking me, as if daring me to open it.

What am I even doing here? I muttered, leaning forward. My elbows rested on the wobbly table, the wood groaning like it was sharing my mood. I hear you. I felt the weight of the night pressing on me—on my chest, my arms, my mind. Everything felt heavy. Maybe I was that tired after the whole ordeal. It was late in the night, but I felt like days had gone since the warehouse incident.

My eyes flicked to the threadbare curtains. Beyond them, the pale light of the moon shone over the King's Quarter. Somewhere out there, Mr. Fontaine was probably climbing into a fancy carriage, off to sip brandy and forget this whole mess. And the red-haired woman? She looked like she belonged in some well-kept mansion, like a rich heir, not skulking around mouldy warehouses.

Even the two goons—what was it about them? They looked rough but clean. Like they could blend into the shadows of the city and still somehow come out cleaner than me. Now that I think about it, I was the only one in place. I could surely win the competition for being a resident of the Old Quarter if they were my opponents.

Everyone I’d met tonight—everyone—seemed to have a place. A role. And here I was, sitting in an apartment so run-down that the local beggars probably avoided it out of pity.

I sighed, leaning back in my chair, and that’s when it happened. I heard a cracking of wood.

With a sharp snap, the back leg of the chair gave out sending me straight to the cold hard floor.

It wasn’t a slow, graceful collapse. It was immediate, brutal, and entirely unforgiving. My ribs bore the full brunt of the impact against the chair's back.

One moment, I was pondering about the unfairness of life; the next, the universe was enforcing its unfairness upon me. Ironic, to say so.

"Fucking ironic."

For a moment, I just sat there on the floor, stunned. My breath caught in my throat, and before I knew it, I was...

"hahaha"

Laughing?

Not the good kind, either—the sharp, bitter kind that hurt your ribs and burned your throat. Oh, sure, I gasped between the jagged breaths.

"This is exactly what I needed. The damned chair’s joined the rebellion."

The laughter stopped as quickly as it had started. My chest tightened, and my eyes burned, but no tears came. I wanted to cry, to scream, to punch the wall and curse at the universe, but I couldn’t even muster that much energy. Like I've been sucked dry. I just sat there, crumpled on the floor with splinters under my boots and the weight of everything pressing down on me.

My gaze drifted back to the box on the table. It sat there, perfectly balanced, untouched by my chaos. Of course, it’s untouched. This piece of wood didn't belong here, in my hands...

I dragged myself up, my knees creaking as much as the broken chair. The room felt smaller somehow, the air thicker. My thoughts circled themselves, chasing questions that had no answers. Why was this box so damn important? Why did they all act like it could kill us just by existing? Lastly.

"What the fuck do you hold?"

And then a new question whispered in the back of my mind: What if opening it could change everything?

"A thousand-five-hundred-debt will surely change my miserable life."

But should I consider it a debt? What if it is an opportunity?

I hesitated, my hands trembling as they hovered over the latch. My reflection wavered on the polished brass edge, distorted and faint, like even the box couldn’t decide if it wanted me to see my laughable self.

“Alright, fine!” My voice cracked as I slammed my hands onto the table. “Worst case scenario it IS poisonous and I die, right?"

Like a rich man would use such an elaborate and expensive killing method on a poor bastard like me.

My fingers fumbled with the latch, with a simple brass lock —no locket—, the cold metal biting into my skin. With a snap that sounded far louder than it should have, the lid creaked open, and the air in the room seemed to shift. I held my breath as I peeled the lid back fully, revealing what lay inside.

A book.

Wrapped in what looked like leather, but not the kind you’d find in a cobbler’s shop. The texture was uneven, marked with faint ridges and strange imperfections, like it had been skinned from something that wasn’t entirely natural. It glinted faintly under the flickering oil lamp, exuding an unnerving sense of presence.

“A thousand five hundred crowns… for a bloody book?” I muttered, lifting it off the table like it might explain itself. It looked ancient, almost like it’d crumble if I breathed too hard. Maybe it held the meaning of life, or maybe it was just some sick joke. The leather—or whatever this stuff was—was cracked and etched with swirling patterns that seemed to shift under the dim light. No title, no labels, and no hint of what it was. Just a plain black cover that somehow felt heavier than it had any right to be.

I flipped it open, half-expecting some dramatic revelation—a treasure map, a cursed warning of the impending apocalypse, or the mad scribblings of someone long dead. I'll take the treasure map, thanks...

No way, right?

Unfortunately, the pages were blank. Every last one.

“Isn't that lovely?” I muttered under my breath. “Now I owe a favour worth a thousand five hundred crowns to god knows who... And all I’ve got for it is the world’s priciest fucking diary. Real generous, pal.”

And then it hit me.

I’d opened the damned box.

My stomach plummeted as chills went down my spine, and my blood turned to ice as my gaze locked on the blank book, sitting there on the table like it owned the place. That man—the refined one from the carriage, with his unsettling calm and veiled threats—what if he finds out? What would he do if he knew? Somehow I knew he would.

My hands gripped the edge of the table so hard that the rough wood dug into my palms. That thing didn’t move. It didn’t need to.

Why did I open it? My breath quickened as my thoughts spiralled. Why couldn’t I just leave it alone? Why couldn’t I just listen for once? Why, why, why, why, why?

WHY?

The words slipped out in a low murmur, then louder, growing with each repetition. “Why, why, why, why?” My voice weakly echoed, bouncing off the peeling walls of my cheap room.

I shoved myself away from the table, the splinters from the broken chair creaking in protest as I scrambled to my feet. My hands tangled in my hair, pulling at the messy strands as I paced the room in frantic, uneven steps.

“No, no, no, no, no!” The word burst from me, a jagged shout of desperation. Each syllable cut through the air like a whip. “This isn’t me. I...” I stopped mid-sentence, my chest heaving, each breath a battle against the chaos in my head.

You...

My eyes shot back to the table, to the book, sitting there like some smug overseer of my unravelling. “Wait... What the fuck is wrong with me?” I spat, slamming my fist into the wall. Pain flared up my arm, but it felt distant. Unnaturally distant—secondary to the storm inside my skull.

The room felt smaller than it already was. Smaller than the damned cubicle it always had been. The cracked window let in just enough moonlight to make everything feel worse. Pale, cold, mocking. Even the bloody moon looks smug tonight.

I dropped back into the remains of the chair, its fractured frame creaking beneath me. My head fell into my hands, my fingers pressing against the back of my ears. My knuckles dug into the bone as hard as I could, trying to feel some semblance of pain. A habit I’d always had whenever dealing with a headache.

And then the silence. Thick, suffocating, and oddly clarifying.

Something was wrong. Something was damn wrong.

Not just with the empty book. Not just with the situation.

With me. With my very self.

My hands fell away from my face as the realisation hit like a punch to the gut. A creepy smile drawing on my face. The anger, the panic—it wasn’t entirely mine. It had been there, yes, but it wasn’t natural. It felt foreign. Coiled. Planted.

“Ever since I’ve been near this thing...” I whispered, the words trembling as they left my mouth.

The warehouse. Miss Dufresne.

I remembered now. She’d opened the box in front of me. The moment the seal was broken, something had shifted. I’d felt it, even if I hadn’t understood it at the time. That suffocating pull, like invisible hands locking me in place, drew my attention to it.

That’s when it started. Or that's when it intensified.

The impulsiveness. The reckless decisions. The emotional chaos. The insanity drawing nearer... Well, this one's always been there.

The connection.

I wiped a trembling hand across my face, the roughness of my palm grounding me, if only for a moment. My voice came out hoarse, broken as if I had a dry throat. I probably did.

“You’ve been in my head this whole time, haven’t you?”

It didn’t answer, of course.

“It’s you,” I muttered, the words tasting sour as they left my lips. Anger taking over. This one I could feel was purely mine. "You little fucker..."

The fucking thing wasn’t just an object. It had done something—to me, to my thoughts, to the very core of how I acted. I mean, I curse, a lot, but I'm not this mentally unstable. Well, most of the time.

I stood slowly, my legs shaking under the weight of my own fear and frustration. My gaze locked on the book, and for the first time in my life, I took a step back from a fight I couldn’t comprehend.

I hit the wall, sliding down it until I was seated on the floor. My knees pulled up to my chest as I stared at the book with a mixture of terror and bitter anger.

“Great,” I said, the sarcasm dripping from my voice like venom. “Not only do I owe some rich sociopath a favour, but now I’ve got a damn haunted notebook babysitting my brain. Really stellar life choices, Crowe.”

My breathing slowed as the sarcasm became my shield. Bad habit of mine. “You’re not going to ask me to write my memoirs, are you?” I glanced at the table, half-expecting it to respond. “Not that my life story would fill more than a page."

The book remained, of course, silent.

"No wonder you're blank."

I leaned my head back against the wall, letting out a shaky laugh that sounded too much like a sob. “And now I’m talking to a book. Brilliant. Truly.”

But as I stared at it, that static-like pull crept back into my mind, stronger now that the air had settled. My curiosity itched, my fingers twitching. What if I write in it?

Yeah, what could possibly go wrong, right?

Fumbling through my coat pocket, I found the stub of a pencil Gideon had left there during our last case. My hand trembled as I sat back at the table, the book waiting, open, its blank pages somehow more menacing than if they’d been covered in cryptic text.

“Well,” I muttered, tapping the pencil against the edge of the table. “Care for a chat, maybe?”

With a deep breath, I wrote, half-expecting nothing to happen.

“What are you?”

The pencil had barely left the page when an answer appeared beneath my question, sharp and immediate. No delay, no fanfare. Just one word, burned into the paper like they had always been there:

What am I?

The answer was maddeningly cryptic, almost childlike in its simplicity like a kid repeating a difficult question to which they didn't know the answer.

My brows furrowed as I stared at the answer. I couldn’t tell if the heat rising in my chest was anger or plain, unfiltered terror. “Really...? You’re just a damn piece of paper.”

A piece of paper that writes on its own.

But something tugged at me, deeper than the words themselves. They weren’t just an answer—they were a reflection, a mirror I hadn’t asked for, showing me my own confusion. My own self. I didn’t know if I was speaking to the book, or if it was somehow speaking through me.

Frustration gnawed at me, and I couldn't resist writing another question, the hand holding the pencil a bit shaky. You can't judge me, can you?

What do you do?

The response came slower this time, the ink dragging itself across the page like a hesitant whisper:

What do you need?

The vagueness of the answer only deepened my unease. My fingers gripped the pencil tighter as the room seemed to hum with an almost imperceptible ring right behind my ear.

I leaned back, forcing myself to think. “What do I need?” I muttered, half to myself, half to the book.

“I need a straight answer, for starters.”

The notebook offered none.

I leaned forward again, tapping the pencil against my chin. Maybe it needed a more direct question—or maybe it thrived on my confusion. I decided to test its limits, writing carefully this time, my hand trembling less as I tried to focus. Think, Kieran, what do I need?

I need money.

The ink appeared swiftly, sharper this time, the letters etched with an unnerving clarity:

The weight of gold. The shadows beneath.

I blinked, rereading the phrase as a chill ran down my spine. “What the hell does that mean?” I whispered, more to myself than the book. The answer felt poetic, deliberate—and completely, utterly, useless. But as the words sank in, a deeper part of me stirred, connecting dots I didn’t know were there.

And then, the pain hit. Stronger than before, accompanied by a vast sense of weakness that couldn't be just anaemia.

A sharp, stabbing sensation erupted behind my eyes, like hot needles piercing my skull. I clutched my head, the pencil clattering to the table as I doubled over. My vision blurred, the room spinning in jagged, surreal angles.

“What... the... fuck...” The words escaped between gritted teeth, my breath ragged. The pain ebbed slightly after a few agonizing moments, leaving a throbbing ache in its place. My hand shook as I reached for the notebook again, its blank pages staring back at me, as indifferent as ever.

I glared at it, my voice cracking from the dryness of my throat, as I muttered, “This is going to cost me, isn’t it?”

The notebook didn’t respond. It didn’t need to. The price had already been paid. I could feel that if I used it again, I might have more problems than before.

The pencil stub lay discarded on the table, and for a fleeting moment, I considered tossing the entire book out of the window. But something stopped me—an invisible tether, an insidious curiosity that refused to let go.

"This isn't right..."

I closed the notebook with a trembling hand, its leather cover feeling colder than before, like it had been sitting in frost. My head swam as I tried to piece together what I’d learned, if anything.

The cryptic answers. The pain. The undeniable pull of the notebook itself. It wasn’t just an object. It was something far more dangerous than I could possibly grasp. And more important: Something alive.

As I sat there, the room grew quieter. The distant hum of the city faded, leaving only the sound of my shallow breaths and the faint creak of the floorboards. My gaze drifted back to the notebook, its swirling patterns shifting faintly under the dim light.

My voice came out weak, tinged with bitter sarcasm. “Right. Babysitting a haunted piece of stationery. That’s exactly what I needed in my life.”

The silence deepened, oppressive yet strangely comforting. And then, with no prompting, a new line of text appeared on the cover of the book itself, faint but undeniable:

What am I?

I froze, my breath catching in my throat as the words seemed to shimmer, disappearing as quickly as they’d appeared, almost leaving me thinking if I was hallucinating.

Right, that's what I should've thought in the beginning.

After all, it all seemed unreal.

My hands trembled as I shoved the notebook shut, shoving it to the far end of the table like it might bite.

I sort of know now why they treated this like a venomous snake.

This wasn’t normal. None of this was normal. My thoughts raced, each one more panicked than the last, but one thing was clear.

I wasn’t just dealing with an artefact.

I was dealing with something sentient—and it wanted something from me. Maybe my blood, maybe my soul. Or maybe my thoughts.

I slumped back into another chair, that groaned under my weight, hoping it wouldn't snap like the other one.

“What the hell have I gotten myself into?” I muttered, my voice hoarse and broken. But the question lingered in the air, unanswered, as the book sat there, silent yet watchful.