Subtitle: A Novel of Cursed Pages and Unseen Voices
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PROLOGUE: THE LAST ENTRY
Prague, 1987
The old bookshop smelled like dust and faded ink. Alistair Voss cleaned his glasses with a shaky hand, heart pounding in the stillness. The ancient book lay open on the desk, its pages rustling softly—though no one touched them.
He never should've taken it from the monastery.
Decades ago, he'd laughed off the monks' warnings. "It only records," they had said. "Until it decides to write on its own."
Now he believed them.
Lately, the book had started adding names by itself—people he knew. People who had died exactly the way it said.
Last week it wrote his neighbor's name. Two days later, she was found with her wrists cut. She had never seemed sad or depressed.
Alistair picked up his pen, dipped it in old-fashioned ink. Maybe if he wrote his own name first, he could control what happened.
Alistair Voss. October 31, 1987. Throat cut by unseen hands.
The ink shimmered… then turned dark, like dried blood.
A sudden cold breeze slid through the room, though the windows were shut. The lone lightbulb flickered.
"Thief."
The voice was thick and wet, like it came from a mouth full of mud. Alistair spun around—no one was there, just long shadows between shelves.
Then, the bell over the door rang.
But no one walked in.
The book flipped pages wildly, stopping at a list titled The Keepers. Most names were crossed out. The last name read:
- Father Karel Bohdan, 1612
- Madame Duret, 1799
- Alistair Voss, 1987
Alistair's breath came in short gasps. In the grimy mirror behind the counter, his reflection was… wrong. A tall, bony figure stood behind him, its long fingers curled over his shoulders.
Something cold touched his throat.
The last sound he heard was the book snapping shut.
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CHAPTER ONE: THE INHERITANCE
New York, Present Day
The box came from Prague.
Lena Carter stared at it on her kitchen counter. She hadn't known her grandfather—Alistair Voss had died before she was born. Her mom never talked about him.
Inside the box were old sweaters and, at the very bottom, a heavy leather-bound book.
The cover showed a snake eating its tail.
A yellowed note fell out:
"Burn this. Do not read it. —A.V."
Lena raised an eyebrow. Drama much?
She opened the book anyway.
Names. Dates. Causes of death.
Eleanor Shaw. June 18, 2001. Car accident (brake failure).
Marcus Renfield. November 3, 2015. Heart attack (no prior issues).
Then her eyes stopped on a name that chilled her:
Jenna Park. Today. Stabbed in subway (assailant unknown).
Jenna was her co-worker. Probably drinking a latte right now.
Her phone buzzed. A news alert.
WOMAN STABBED AT 42ND STREET SUBWAY—POLICE INVESTIGATING
Lena clicked it. The photo hit her like a punch.
Jenna.
She grabbed the book. The entry now had a red checkmark beside it—like the task was finished.
Fresh words bled onto the page:
Lena Carter. Soon.
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