Short Story: The Cursed Pages
Some books tell stories. Others make you live them. There are books that hold knowledge, books that entertain, and books that transport the mind to distant places. But some books—rare, forgotten, and bound in whispers of the past—do something more sinister.
They do not merely tell stories; they ensnare those who dare to read them, trapping them in the inked nightmares that lurk between the pages. Once opened, they do not rest until their tale is complete, and sometimes, the reader becomes the final chapter.
The Cursed Pages
The bookshop stood at the end of a crooked alley, its wooden sign creaking in the cold autumn wind. The name had long faded from the rotting wood, but the locals called it ‘Hollow & Sons.’ No one remembered ever seeing a Mr Hollow, nor any sons, but the shop had been there for as long as anyone could recall. The interior smelled of aged paper and something else—something metallic, like rust… or blood.
Thomas Fielding had always been drawn to odd places, and the shop’s eerie ambience intrigued him. He was in search of something unique for his collection, an antique perhaps, or an obscure tome. As he browsed the endless rows of books, a tattered leather-bound volume caught his eye. The cover was inscribed with strange symbols, and though there was no title, something about it compelled him to reach out.
The instant his fingers touched the leather, a sharp pain shot through his hand, as if a needle had pricked his skin. He yanked his hand back, only to find a small bead of blood welling on his fingertip.
“Careful with that one,” a voice croaked behind him.
Thomas spun around. An old man stood hunched at the counter, his milky eyes unreadable beneath heavy brows.
“How much?” Thomas asked, ignoring the sting in his finger.
The old man studied him for a long moment before rasping, “That book does not belong on your shelf.”
A challenge. Thomas smirked. “Then I’ll take it.”
The old man sighed, shaking his head. “You already have.”
At home, Thomas examined the book under the warm glow of his desk lamp. His fingers slowly traced and caressed the contours of the curious symbols on its worn cover.
The pages were thick, yellowed, and inscribed with dense, archaic text. Despite the unfamiliar script, the words rearranged themselves in his mind, shaping stories—dark stories of murder, madness, and things that slithered in the shadows. The tales felt real, too real. As he read, the room around him seemed to shudder, the air thickening like congealed blood.
One story, in particular, caught his attention. It was about a man named Elias Crowther, a debt-ridden gambler who had fled his home one stormy night. Desperate and reckless, he had thrown himself into the river to escape the men who pursued him. But something beneath the surface had not let him go. The story described the way his fingers clawed at the riverbank, his mouth open in a silent scream as he was dragged under. The words painted a horrifying image of Elias, his bloated body rising from the depths, his flesh grey and peeling, his mind consumed by the curse of unfinished business.
A sudden knock at the door jolted Thomas back to reality. It was almost midnight. Who would call at such an hour?
He hesitated before answering the door. A man stood on his doorstep, drenched as though he had crawled from a river. His eyes were hollow pits of darkness. His jaw was shivering from the cold and his mouth was gaping open wide, revealing jagged teeth.
Thomas staggered back. The man’s face… it was exactly as described in the last story he had read.
The figure stepped inside, water pooling at his feet. Thomas tried to scream, but the sound died in his throat as icy fingers clamped around his wrist. The drowned man grinned, yanking Thomas forward. Pain exploded in his ribs as he fell, the book tumbling from his hands and flipping open upon impact.
The pages fluttered violently, as if caught in a storm, and from the ink itself, shadows began to rise. Figures twisted and stretched into existence—ghosts, ghouls, horrors Thomas had only just read about. They clawed their way into his world, their eyes gleaming with the hunger of the long-forgotten.
Thomas tried to shut the book, but a voice, ancient and cold, whispered from within its pages. “The story must be finished.”
With a final, wet gurgle, the drowned man pulled Thomas into the darkness.
The book snapped shut.
Days later, a new customer wandered into the forgotten bookshop. The old man at the counter watched as they browsed, a knowing glint in his eye. Soon enough, another curious hand reached for the leather-bound volume.
And so the story began again.
© Colin Lawson 2024
© Colin Lawson Books