Hey y'all. srry, its been a while. I've been more active on my other account
It began with a book. Not a cursed tome bound in flesh or buried in an ancient tomb. Just a tattered, forgotten library book with no author, no title, and only one phrase embossed on the black leather spine: INDEX. I found it while browsing the university archives for a thesis on posthuman philosophy. No barcode. No checkout slip. It shouldn't have been there. Still, I opened it. And then... I couldn't stop reading. Page 1 was blank. So was page 2. Then I flipped to page 3, and the ink bled across the page as I watched, forming strange symbols—evolving, pulsing, changing like they were alive. I don’t remember turning any more pages, but somehow, I kept reading. That night, I woke up screaming. Not from a nightmare—there were no dreams. I just woke up with a word burning in my mind: “Thal'Zineth.” I don’t know what it means. But it was still echoing in my head when I tried to speak. My voice stuttered, then froze. I bled from my nose. And the word just kept growing in my brain. Days passed. My reflection no longer moved in sync with me. It started smiling before I did. Blinking after I looked away. One night, it whispered: “We are only the index. The pages haven’t turned yet.” A colleague found the book. I begged him not to open it. He laughed. “It’s just paper.” The next day, he walked into traffic. But not like someone lost—no. He did it like someone who had seen a road that didn’t exist in our reality, and was trying to reach it. He smiled the whole time. The pages are inside me now. I stopped sleeping three days ago. Every time I close my eyes, I see the true version of the book—a vast, towering structure made of spines and bone, floating in a void that has no up, no down. Entities—hollow and vast—crawl across it, whispering in voices older than light. They don't speak to me. They read me. Last night, I finally understood the meaning of “Index.” This book… it isn’t a book at all. It’s a catalogue. A reference guide. And we—humans, planets, galaxies—we're nothing but brief footnotes in something else's library. Our screams, our wars, our science? Merely annotations. I tried to burn it. The fire turned blue, then silent, then gone. The book remained. Open. Waiting. Now, sometimes, I wake up and the world is… off. My shadow has too many arms. People say my eyes don’t blink in unison. There’s a humming in the walls that no one else hears. And sometimes, late at night, I feel pages turning in my chest. They are reading my soul aloud—loud enough for something outside the universe to hear. I don’t know when it’ll get to the final page. But I think it’s soon. Because this morning, I looked in the mirror— —and there were no eyes. Just black ink, dripping from the sockets.
