Ava stopped writing in the book. For three days, she didn't even open it. She tucked it into a drawer and covered it with sweaters, trying to forget the way her heart had raced when she read the warning: Nothing is given without cost.
But forgetting was harder than she expected.
The silence of the house started to press on her. Grandma was quieter than ever, always lost in her novels or napping in the sunroom. The weather turned gloomy again, as if the storm hadn't truly left. Even Ink seemed restless, pacing the windowsills and pawing at doors that led nowhere.
Ava spent her days reading, walking in the woods, and avoiding the drawer. But every so often, she would feel it—like the book was calling to her, not in words, but in need.
On the fourth night, the dreams began.
She was in the attic, but it was wrong—too big, too dark. The book hovered in the air, its pages turning in a wind that didn't blow. A voice echoed around her, ancient and low: Write. Feed me.
She woke with a scream and sweat-soaked sheets.
That morning, she found a crack in her bedroom mirror. A long, jagged split down the center. She hadn't touched it. She hadn't even looked at it in days. Then she saw the walls—thin black veins crawling out from the corners, as if the house itself had begun to decay.
Fear gnawed at her. She had to know more.
Back in the attic, Ava searched through every box, trunk, and drawer. At the bottom of an old cedar chest, beneath brittle newspaper clippings and a moth-eaten shawl, she found it—a bundle of letters wrapped in twine.
They were old. Really old. Addressed to "E. Bennett"—her grandmother's name. The return address was from someone named Helena Rhodes. Ava opened one carefully.
Dearest Eliza,
I fear I've done something terrible. The Book... it grants what I ask, but it has begun to ask things of me in return. Small things, at first. A broken plate. A lost cat. But now... now my sister is sick, and I dreamed I had written it. I don't remember doing so, but the ink was mine. The pen was mine.
Burn it, Eliza. Burn the book. Before it decides what you'll give.
Ava read the letter three times.
Then she pulled out the book.
She didn't write anything. Just held it.
And in the silence of her bedroom, she heard it again.
Write.
Ink growled from the foot of her bed.
Ava stood, clutching the book to her chest, and walked downstairs. The fireplace still had ashes in it. She knelt, opened the grate, and set the book on the hearth.
Her hand trembled as she reached for the matches.
But when she struck one and touched the flame to the book's cover—nothing happened. The fire licked at the leather and died. The match went out. She tried again. And again. The book refused to burn.
Then she noticed something—her hand. Her fingers were stained.
Black ink.
Spreading.
From the tips inward.