The Whispering Notebook

The notebook looked ordinary—just a plain black leather-bound journal with a faint smell of dust and old ink. I’d picked it up at a flea market for a dollar, thinking it might inspire me to start journaling again. The vendor, an elderly man with trembling hands, had simply said, *“Be careful what you write.”* I thought he was joking.

That evening, I sat at my desk, pen in hand, and opened the notebook. The first few pages were blank, but as I flipped further, faint, uneven writing began to appear. The words were smudged and hard to read, as though someone had tried to erase them but failed. A strange chill crept up my spine as I squinted at the ghostly text:

I didn’t mean to... but they wouldn’t stop screaming.”

I slammed the notebook shut. It had to be a prank, I told myself. Someone probably wrote something creepy and tried to scrub it out. But curiosity gnawed at me, and I reopened it. The words were still there, but this time, the ink seemed darker, fresher.

I frowned and grabbed a pen. “Who are you?” I scrawled on the next blank page. I waited, feeling silly, but after a moment, the ink beneath my question began to shift. Slowly, new words bled through the paper, as if written by an invisible hand.

Who are you?”

My breath caught. My first instinct was to throw the notebook across the room, but instead, I forced myself to keep writing. “What do you want?”

The reply came almost instantly: Help.”

Something about the urgency in the word made my fear waver. Against my better judgment, I continued. “What happened to you?”

This time, the response was slower, as though the writer hesitated. Finally, the page filled with a single word: Trapped.”

Before I could think of my next question, the room felt colder. The pages of the notebook began to flutter, even though the windows were closed. My desk lamp flickered. And then the pen in my hand moved on its own.

"Don’t stop. Keep writing.”

I couldn’t breathe. My hand moved against my will, scrawling letters I didn’t mean to write. The pen etched out a chaotic story—blood, betrayal, and desperation. A chilling realization dawned on me: it wasn’t a plea for help. It was a confession.

When the pen finally dropped from my hand, I stared at the notebook in disbelief. The story ended with a chilling line:

"And now it’s your turn.”

The pages went blank. Every word, every trace of ink vanished. But when I tried to move, I couldn’t. My hand twitched, then reached for the pen again.

I realized too late: the notebook wasn’t asking for help. It was hungry for another story. And now, I was part of it.