You're still trembling from the Librarian's missing eye---- you found it, didn't you?
It haunts you.
You thought you'd escaped her gaze, but as you stumble out of the corridor you find yourself suddenly back into your room— if this is still your room that is.
The walls are cracked, and your bed looks smaller and shrunken, as if it's been eaten away at by a set of teeth.
As for your window, it's completely bricked up.
... Every single thing in your room looks different from the way it was before, only the book remains the same way.
It sits on your desk, now open to a fresh page and resting on top of it is one red pen rests.
Its cap is missing, and the ink is already oozing out and onto the paper, forming a dark red puddle that looks a lot like blood.
You don't remember putting blood there, so you go to stand right in front of it, and then the pen twitches, lifting itself upright and trembling with the tip of it pressing on to a line of the open page.
"Write," it whispers in a voice so thin that you imagine it to look like a spider's thread.
"Write your confession," it says, "Or I'll finish the story myself."
You back away, but the pen inches closer across the page, leaving behind a trail of red coloured letters that crawl and wriggle as if they are living things.
"Write down every lie you've ever told," it whines.
"... and every sin you've evey hidden. Write the secret that rots your soul."
The words form into shapes---- faces that you recognize, ones that you think only you can see.
There's the face of the girl you betrayed, the friend you abandoned and the promise that you broke.
You can't look away, and the pen's nib scratches across the page, leaving a line of red ink that pulses like a heartbeat.
"I want them all," it says. "Your shame is my ink."
Your hands clench at your sides, not wanting to do as it says, not wanting to reveal your secrets but then the pen shivers again, and speaks for the second time.
Its voice grows louder, turning into a chorus of voices of which some are familiar to you while some are not.
But anyway, each one hisses your name like it's a curse.
"You opened the book," the pen croons. "So you chose this fate."
Suddenly, the ink on the page bulges and stretching upward, turning into.... The Ink Hands.
They claw at the page, reaching for you and you recognize them from Chapter 1.
You remember how they grabbed your wrist and pulled you into this nightmare of a library, and so you back away from the book completely scared but it doesn't do you any good at.
... They're back now, coming out from the words themselves with their black fingers dripping with blood----- or rather ink.
"Tribute," they rasp. "We demand tribute."
You take another step back, but your feet sink into the floor--- as in literally SINK IN--- so you're stuck at the spot.
"Write," the pen hisses. "You know the rules now; Write or be written."
You reach for the pen, but it jumps right out from your grasp, dancing across the page.
It scribbles down the words: READER'S SECRETS, then jumps back into your hands, and like a puppet you close your eyes, and your hand begins to move on its own, closing your fingers around the pen.
The pen feels hot and that's abnormal but you press it on to the page anyway, and the ink bleeds from the nib— so dark and thick, and full with the stench of iron that's so strong it almost makes you throw up.
The pen's voice rings in your eyes again but it's more urgent now:
"Write your confession, every hidden, shut and closed sin and every secret that festers in your soul. The Library demands it."
The start to write and suddenly your eyes sting with tears as the words pour out of you from your memories.
The ink hands caress your wrist as you right and in that moment their fingers feel very sharp but oddly comforting, like that of a parent guiding a child's hand to write their first letters.
"Write," they chant. "Write."
Right then, there's a sudden shiver through the room, causing the walls to buckle and the ceiling to crack.
Then a voice that sounds just like your own suddenly speaks from out of nowhere from no direct source at all;
"Don't trust the pen."
You freeze instantly and stop writing, and in response, the pen quivers in your hand.
It's red ink now turns into black and it hisses.
"Lies," it spits. "Don't listen. Only I can save you, only I can write the truth through you."
Then ink hands tighten their grip around you wrist and begin dragging your finger that's holding the pen closer to the page.
Their touch burns you as if punishing you for stopping at all and your vision begins to blur.
In the mist of all these, you still feel the paper that's beneath your hand pulse and throb like a beating heart.
You can suddenly feel the library's hunger and you hear the pen cry again, using the same words it had used earlier.
"Write. Write, or I will finish the story myself."
Your hand trembles and you feel when the pen stops to scratch a word into the page, right between the secret memories you're writing.
'Your soul,' it reads and it seemingly jolts you out of the trance like compulsion state you were in.
Immediately you try to pull your hand away, but the ink hands hold you tightly.
"Write! Write!! WRITE!!!" The voices say again, chant loudly and going up to such a high, long pitch that it makes both of your ears to begin to bleed.
You scream in pain, but the sound is completely swallowed by the book.
"Don't trust the pen," the voice that sounds like yours whispers again, but it's weaker now so you can barely hear it at all.
You close your eyes, but the darkness behind your closed eyelids are full of multiple eyes.
Startled you jolt and open your eyes again.
You look around you and notice that it seems like you blacked out because you are at another corner of the room and you don't remember walking there.
Suddenly you feel you're holding something and look down to see the pen and also a message that has been written on your hand.
"Don't trust the pen."
Confused, you hurl it across the room, but it lands on your bed, still upright and still oozing with ink.
"Write," it moans.
You turn around the room—if it's still a room— looking for an exit to run out from and realize that the walls are now covered in writing:
... Writing of your confessions, secrets t nightmares which you had written in the book.
Gasping you stare at the book on the table, then at the walk and then the ink hands fly off your wrist and back into the pages,
... Laughing.