The Book I Was Never Meant to Read a 100-year-old vintage book

The Book I Was Never Meant to Read

by [Farooq Hashmi]

It started with a rainy afternoon and a curiosity I couldn’t ignore.

I had moved into my grandfather’s old house after his passing, a creaky Victorian home filled with forgotten corners and the scent of wood polish and old paper. It was the kind of house where time seemed to slow down, where shadows lingered a little too long. While unpacking a trunk in the attic, I came across an old, leather-bound journal. The cover was cracked with age, the corners frayed. No name. No title. Just an odd symbol pressed into the center—something like an eye inside a triangle.

I should’ve left it alone.

That night, I lit a candle and opened the book. The pages were fragile, yellowed with time. The handwriting inside was tight, deliberate, and painfully familiar. That was the first oddity. The more I read, the more disturbed I became. The entries dated back to the early 1900s, but the person writing sounded… like me. The tone. The style. Even the wording. And then, the handwriting—identical to mine.

At first, I thought it was a coincidence. Maybe I was imagining it. But the deeper I read, the more detailed the entries became, and the less I could explain. The journal described moments that hadn’t happened—yet. Encounters with strangers I’d meet days later. Conversations I hadn’t had. Dreams that hadn’t yet entered my mind.

Then came the entry about the book.

"I found it today in the attic. Strange thing, really. Smells of dust and age and… something older. I must read it. I must understand."

That line chilled me to my bones. It was dated exactly 100 years to the day.

From there, the journal turned darker. The entries spoke of something watching through the mirrors, whispers heard through the walls, waking up in places the writer couldn’t remember walking to. But the voice remained mine—calm, analytical, almost detached. As if all of this made sense.

By the fifth night, the dreams began. I saw the same candle-lit room, the same desk, the same journal open in front of me. But in the dream, I wasn’t alone. A man stood in the corner—tall, shadowed, wearing a long coat. I couldn’t see his face, but I felt his eyes on me. He never moved. He just watched. And every time I tried to speak, the room grew colder, until I woke up gasping.

Back in the real world, strange things started happening.

One night, I woke up with ink-stained fingers, the same black ink used in the journal. But I hadn’t written anything—or so I thought. When I returned to the attic and flipped open the journal, new entries had appeared. Entries I didn’t remember writing, describing events that hadn’t yet occurred. One spoke of a storm. Another, of a broken mirror in the hallway. Hours later, the mirror shattered for no reason.

I tried locking the book away. I even buried it once in the garden. But the next night, it was back on my desk, candle lit beside it, open to a fresh page.

Then came the final entry—at least, the last one I could bear to read.

"He will come tonight. He always does. And this time, I won’t wake up. If you’re reading this… it’s your turn now."

I slammed the book shut, heart pounding. That was last week.

Since then, I’ve seen him. In dreams. In mirrors. In the flicker of a candle I didn’t light. He’s always watching, never moving. Waiting.

I know I should burn the book, but something stops me. Maybe it’s fear. Maybe it’s… curiosity.

Tonight, I sit at the same desk, the journal open in front of me. My hand trembles as I write this. The candle burns low. The room feels colder than usual.

Outside, thunder rumbles.

And in the hallway, I hear footsteps that don’t belong to me.