When I got to the library this time, I went straight to the spiritual beliefs section. The brown Selena Ryder book was sitting on the shelf, right where I left it. Nothing looked out of the ordinary. Even the new librarian didn’t lift her gaze from whatever it was she was doing when I walked past her. I didn’t bother to pick any other texts from the bookshelf, although I had another paper to write. I wanted to dive straight into the Selena Ryder book, to hopefully figure out what was going on in my life. The paper could wait. I sat on the closest chair I could find and turned the page to the part where Alexander Orwell’s murder was.
Reading it again was tough. Every detail registered itself in my head, creeping me the hell out. It not only detailed Alexander’s death in the same way Alex died, it also described that Selena’s reaction.
“Selena let out the loudest scream of terror her entire clan had ever heard. Blood rushed to her head, registering its presence with excruciating pain. She couldn’t accept it. She refused to believe it. The world suddenly began to spin around her. As neighbors rushed to the scene in reaction to her scream, everything went blank. Her legs gave in…”
That was my exact reaction when I discovered Alex lying dead on my bed! It was impossible. There was no way everything could have happened in exactly the same way – At least, I didn’t want to think so. I continued reading the brown book to the pages where the note was mentioned.
“The Sheriff’s men searched the scene thoroughly, leaving no stone unturned. They could not find the note. It had lodged itself between the headboard of the bed and the first side rail…”
I stared at the lines with a raised eyebrow.
“Is it possible?”
I had searched for that note myself and was sure it wasn’t there. I even moved the headboard from the wall to see if it had fallen. It wasn’t there.
“I’ll just check again when I get back. You don’t really believe this book, do you? What do I have to lose? I can just check.”
I ended the conversation in my head and went back to reading the lines. With each new one came a creepier discovery. It seemed the book’s author observed the events in my life and went back in time to document them in the book.
“Wait a minute, who is the author of this book?”
The thought prompted me to turn the book over to its back cover and check – just out of curiosity. My discovery was quite unusual. There was no author’s name. I checked the front cover again, as well as the spine. The result was the same. No author’s name.
“That’s not weird at all.” I said out loud, flipping the pages back to the part I was.
At this point, I couldn’t put the book down any longer. I needed to read more. I needed to know what the hell was going on in my life.