The Book of Endings

Prologue: The Last Chapter

The antique shop smelled of dust and dying roses.

I never intended to buy anything—just killing time while the rain passed. But the leather-bound tome on the back shelf pulled at me. Its title, stamped in tarnished silver, made my fingers tingle:

Finis Omnium

The End of All Things.

The shopkeeper didn’t look up from his newspaper as I flipped through the yellowed pages.

"I wouldn’t," he murmured. "Not unless you’re ready for your story to finish."

Too late.

I’d already seen my name on the last page.

Chapter 1: The First Death

It started with a coffee shop prophecy.

Three days after buying the book, I overheard a barista tell her coworker: "I swear, if Mr. Henderson stiffs me on tips again, I’ll kill him."

Page 147 fluttered open by itself:

"The girl will push him into the subway at 8:17 AM. His last thought will be of the grandson he forgot to call."

The next morning, news vans swarmed the 14th Street station.

Mr. Henderson’s briefcase was still on the platform.

Inside it—a birthday card for a six-year-old named Jake.

Unsigned.

Unmailed.

Chapter 2: The Librarian’s Warning

The rare books archivist at Columbia turned pale when I showed her Finis Omnium.

"This was destroyed in 1793," she whispered. "The Marquis de Sade used it to—" Her throat clicked mid-sentence. A thin trickle of black liquid seeped from her left eye.

Page 309 yawned open:

"The scholar will drown in ink before she speaks the maker’s name."

Behind me, a bottle of India ink shattered across the librarian’s desk.

I ran as the screams began.

Chapter 3: The Blood Ink

By week’s end, I’d locked the book in a safe.

Bad idea.

It reappeared on my pillow each night, its pages thicker, its leather cover now warm as living flesh. New entries blossomed in rust-colored ink:

"The firefighter will forget his oxygen mask (see page 412)."

"The child on Elm Street won’t check both ways (page 88)."

I tried burning it. The flames turned blue and whispered thank you in my dead mother’s voice.

Then I noticed the changes to my entry:

"Liam Carter’s ending will occur on—"

The date kept moving closer.

Chapter 4: The Author

The address in the book’s colophon led me to a Brooklyn brownstone.

Inside, a wizened man hunched over a writing desk, his fingers fused to a fountain pen that dripped black-red fluid. Dozens of Finis Omnium copies lined the walls—some ancient, some disturbingly new.

"Ah," he croaked without turning. "You’ve come to negotiate."

When I demanded he remove my name, he laughed—a wet, gurgling sound.

"I don’t write the endings," he said, finally facing me.

His eyes were hollow.

His mouth stitched shut with what looked like human hair.

Behind him, something larger shifted in the shadows, its countless hands holding countless pens.

"I just transcribe them."

Epilogue: The Next Reader

They’ll find my apartment empty.

No body. No note.

Just Finis Omnium on the kitchen table, its pages slightly damp.

If you look closely, you’ll see new stories have appeared—each one ending in tragedy.

And on the last page?

A fresh name.

Maybe yours.