Lena snapped the book shut so hard she nearly caught her thumb. God, her chest hurt—she was breathing like she'd just sprinted up ten flights. The apartment, usually a toasty little sauna, now felt like a walk-in freezer. Radiator's rattling away, but nope, can't shake the chill.
She needed to prove this was just... I dunno, brain static. Coincidence. Not fate, not magic. Just a busted-up old book full of nonsense.
Laptop out, fingers flying. "Father Moretti," she typed, peeking at the margin where that name was scratched next to a crumbling newspaper bit about "occult artifacts." She fell down an internet rabbit hole for hours, eyes stinging, neck stiff. There he was: Father Moretti, apparently still above ground—barely—over at St. Michael's Home for Aged Clergy in Brooklyn.
That place? Absolutely reeked. Antiseptic, boiled cabbage, and old-lady perfume. Not a scent combo you ever want to bottle. Father Moretti sat by a window, rosary beads slipping through his fingers like he was counting down the days. Lena plopped the book in front of him. He flinched, crossing himself so fast his chair squawked.
"That... that's the Liber Mortis," he whispered, voice gone all papery and haunted. "The Book of the Dead. It doesn't just predict deaths, my child. It *wants* them."
Nurse cruising by, humming some tune Lena couldn't place. Moretti's lips snapped shut until the coast was clear.
"Every hundred years, it picks a new Keeper—someone to feed it names. Your grandfather… he tried to fight it, toward the end."
Buzz. Lena's phone lit up: subway stabber still running wild. Jenna's funeral was set for Friday. Awesome. Just what she needed.
"This is insane," she muttered, staring at the book. "It's just paper. Ink. Dead trees."
Suddenly, a whispery rustle from her bag—like the book was eavesdropping. Moretti's eyes went wide, pupils darting.
"It's waking up. You need to burn it before—"
He cut off, choking. Face went purple, veins popping out, gasping like a fish out of water. Nurses dashed in, panic everywhere. Moretti clawed at his neck, trying to say something.
"Father?!" Lena shouted, stumbling back.
His last words barely made it out, all shattered and desperate: "Don't… let it… write your…"
Flatline. That awful, endless beep. On the table, the book creaked open by itself. Fresh words oozed onto a blank page:
Father Antonio Moretti. Today. Suffocation (no cause found).
That night, Lena jammed the book into her fireproof safe and triple-checked the lock. But at 3:17 AM, she snapped awake. Someone was whispering in her closet. Freaking fantastic.
She cracked open the door. There it was, perched on her shoes, looking smug as hell. Cover hanging open, like it was waiting for her to make the next move. Or maybe grinning. If books can grin.
---