A Kindle-Inspired Breakdown

It started with a harmless purchase. A second-hand Kindle, slightly worn but fully functional, was delivered to my doorstep on a cold October evening. I had always been a book lover, and the idea of having an entire library at my fingertips thrilled me. But I had no idea that this device would soon lead me into the darkest days of my life.

The first few nights were uneventful. I downloaded a few horror novels and read them late into the night, enjoying the eerie atmosphere of the stories. But then, something strange happened. One night, I noticed a book on my Kindle that I had never downloaded: "The Forgotten Pages." Confused, I clicked on it, thinking it was some pre-installed content. The book had no author, no summary—just a black cover with faint, almost fading letters. My curiosity got the best of me, and I opened the first chapter.

The words were unsettling, as if they were being written specifically for me. The first line sent a shiver down my spine: "He sits alone in his dimly lit room, his Kindle screen reflecting in his hollow eyes, unaware that he is being watched." I froze. It perfectly described me at that very moment. My heart pounded as I read on, each line narrating my exact actions in real-time. I slammed the Kindle shut and tossed it aside, trying to convince myself it was a glitch, some eerie coincidence.

But the nightmare had only begun. That night, I had the most vivid dream of my life. I was in a pitch-black library, the shelves stretching endlessly into the void. The only source of light came from the Kindle, floating mid-air, its screen glowing eerily. Pages from "The Forgotten Pages" flipped on their own, whispering in a language I couldn’t understand. Suddenly, I felt something breathing down my neck. I turned, but there was nothing—just endless darkness pressing against me.

I woke up gasping for air, drenched in sweat. My room felt unnaturally cold. With shaking hands, I grabbed my Kindle to delete the book, but it was no longer in the library. Instead, a new message awaited me on the screen: "You cannot erase what has already begun." My blood ran cold.

Over the next few days, my world spiraled into chaos. Shadows moved in my peripheral vision, whispers slithered through the silence, and my reflection in the mirror seemed… off, as if it was watching me with a mind of its own. Sleep became a distant memory. Every time I closed my eyes, I was back in that endless library, forced to read pages that made no sense yet felt deeply personal, as if they were documenting a life I had no memory of.

Desperate, I searched online for any mention of "The Forgotten Pages," but nothing came up. It was as if the book never existed outside of my Kindle. I even tried to throw the device away, but no matter what I did, it always reappeared on my nightstand, waiting for me.

One night, in a fit of terror and frustration, I smashed the Kindle against the wall, shattering it into pieces. The moment it broke, the room went silent—too silent. The usual city noises outside my window had vanished. My phone screen flickered, and a final message appeared before it powered off: "Breaking the device does not break the curse."

That was two weeks ago. Since then, the nightmares have worsened. The library feels more real with each passing night. I wake up with ink stains on my hands, my fingertips blackened as if I’ve been flipping through ancient, cursed pages. And the worst part? I can hear the voice now. A soft, rasping whisper telling me to keep reading, to finish the book.

I know I’m running out of time. I can feel myself slipping into the story, becoming part of the pages. The words no longer just describe my actions—they predict them. And soon, I fear, I will become nothing more than another forgotten page in that accursed book.

Maybe this is my punishment for wanting an endless library. Maybe some books should never be read.