The Man in the Raincoat

It started with the sound of rain.

A soft drizzle tapping against the windowpane. I was alone in the old bookstore, surrounded by the scent of damp pages and forgotten stories. It was the kind of place people walked past without noticing—except for him.

He came in just before closing. Tall. Thin. Wearing a long grey raincoat and a hat that shadowed most of his face. I should have asked if he needed help, but something about him made me pause. He walked slowly through the aisles, fingers brushing over the spines of books like he was greeting old friends.

“Looking for anything in particular?” I finally asked.

He stopped at a shelf labeled Mystery & Supernatural and turned his head slightly. “Just something… unusual.”

I tried to smile. “You’re in the right place.”

He chuckled—soft and low. “I know.”

For some reason, that sent a chill down my spine.

After a while, he brought an old book to the counter. It was one I’d never seen before, though I knew the entire inventory. The cover was faded leather with no title. Just a strange symbol etched in gold.

“Where did you find this?” I asked.

“Back corner, top shelf,” he replied.

Odd. That shelf had been empty since I moved in.

He handed me a crisp fifty-dollar bill. The book didn’t even have a price tag.

“I think it’s free,” I said.

He shook his head. “Nothing good is ever free.”

He took the book and turned to leave, but paused at the door. “You might want to check that corner after I leave.”

I watched him step out into the rain, then disappear into the street like a shadow dissolving into fog.

Curiosity got the better of me. I went to the back corner where he said the book was. Empty shelf. No dust. Just a small paper note taped to the wall behind it. The handwriting was old-fashioned, in ink that had slightly bled into the page.

Once opened, the story writes back.”

I didn’t understand.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking about the book, the symbol, the man’s eyes—dark, unreadable. I regretted letting it go. But when I came back to the store the next morning, the book was sitting on the counter.

No note. No sign anyone had broken in.

I opened it.

Page one: "It started with the sound of rain."

That was exactly how the previous night began.

The next pages described the man, the conversation, my words—verbatim. My hands trembled as I flipped further.

Then it wrote: “She reads this, heart pounding, wondering if she’s dreaming. But the truth is, she is not.”

The ink was fresh.

I slammed the book shut.

That should have been the end of it, but the story kept writing itself. Each morning I found new pages filled in with things I hadn’t said or done yet—but would later that day. I tried burning it, but the fire didn’t touch it. I buried it in a box outside town. The next morning, it was on my bed.

It knew me. It became me.

I stopped opening it for a week.

But on the seventh day, curiosity won again. I opened it.

The new page read: “She turns the page and sees her end.”

I froze.

Underneath were four simple lines:

“In rain she met the man of fate.

Through pages cursed and bound by hate.

She turned the key, now cannot flee.

At midnight sharp, her soul breaks free.”

Midnight. That night.

I ran. I packed my bag and took a train to the next city. I threw the book into the river.

But when I got to the hotel and opened my suitcase, it was there—dry and waiting.

I locked the door. Boarded the windows. I didn’t care how insane I looked. I counted the hours until midnight.

11:55 p.m.

I sat in silence, book in hand, shaking.

11:59.

I closed my eyes and whispered, “Please.”

12:00.

Nothing happened.

Silence.

I opened my eyes, relief washing over me—until I saw the book. It was open on the bed, though I hadn’t touched it.

The page read:

“She will spend her life running. Telling her story. Hoping someone will believe. But they never do.”

That was five years ago.

I don’t own a phone. I don’t stay anywhere more than a few days. But the book is always with me—writing, watching.

So if you see a man in a grey raincoat, if he offers you a book with no title—

Don’t take it.

Because once opened...