The scratching under Lena's bed wasn't from claws on wood.
It was fingernails on paper.
Slow. Intentional. Like someone carefully turning pages.
She stood frozen in the middle of her apartment, still gripping the broken key. The metal had turned ice cold again—so cold, it burned her hand. Outside, the streetlights flickered, throwing strange, twisted shadows that didn't match anything in the room.
Then came the whispering.
Not from under the bed.
From her teeth.
A dry, papery voice hummed through her jaw:
"Find the others."
---
THE FIRST PAGE
Her reflection in the microwave door wasn't her.
The woman looking back wore Lena's face but moved on her own—tilting her head, running inky fingers through hair that dripped black onto not-quite-solid shoulders. When she spoke, Lena felt it deep in her molars:
"You thought breaking the key would save you?"
The reflection laughed—a sound like paper ripping.
"Keys don't open doors here, Keeper. They open mouths."
Something rough brushed her cheek. Lena reached into her mouth and pulled out a tiny scrap of paper.
A single handwritten word in brown ink:
LIBRARY
The reflection smiled. "He's waiting."
Then the microwave exploded.
---
THE SECOND LIE
Glass floated down around her, each shard reflecting a different nightmare:
- A hallway covered in books made of skin
- Alistair, screaming, mouth stitched in gold
- The Collector's mask splitting open to show her own face
Lena stumbled back—
And dropped through her apartment wall.
Cold air. Darkness. The smell of iron and rot.
She hit the floor, landing on her hands and knees. It looked like Columbia's Rare Texts Room, but twisted. Endless shelves stretched into the dark, their contents pulsing like organs. The floor tiles were shaped like teeth. The ceiling—
Oh god.
The ceiling was Alistair.
His face stretched across it, mouth wide where the lights should be. His eyes rolled in every direction until they locked on her.
"Lena—"
His voice came from everywhere, rumbling through the floor.
"This isn't a library. It's a stomach."
Then the shelves screamed.
---
THE THIRD SACRIFICE
The books were alive.
Not in a poetic sense. Literally. Their covers rose and fell, breathing. Their spines arched like they were in pain. Lena touched one—and the leather melted under her fingers, revealing—
A face.
Jenna's face.
Pressed under the parchment, her mouth formed soundless words. The book's title shone in gold:
Jenna Park: One Final Story
Lena stumbled back—
And hit another shelf.
This one had Dan's screaming face on it.
Then Varrick's.
Then Mira's.
"No..."
The Collector's voice slid through the dark:
"Every story needs an ending. Even yours."
A hand touched her shoulder.
Not a glove this time.
Bone.
---
THE LAST WITNESS'S GIFT
The skeleton wore Mira's sundress.
Its bony fingers dug into her skin as it leaned in, empty eye sockets staring straight through her. Dust poured from its teeth when it spoke:
"You're looking at it wrong."
It grabbed her wrist and shoved her hand into Dan's book.
The pages opened like wet skin.
Lena's fingers closed around something cold and hard—
A second key.
It looked exactly like the broken one in her other hand.
The skeleton grinned.
"Now you see."
Then the ceiling tore open.
---
THE FINAL TRUTH
Alistair's face peeled away like damp paper. Underneath—
A tunnel of tongues.
Thousands of them, slick and twitching. Each one had a name burned into it:
KAREL BOHDAN
MARGUERITE DURET
ALISTAIR VOSS
And in the middle, hanging like a rotten uvula—
The original book.
Its cover looked like it was made from her own skin.
The Collector stepped into view. His mask was cracked down the center. Through the break, Lena saw—
Herself.
Older.
And hungry.
"Welcome home, Keeper," the thing inside the mask purred.
"It's time to finish your story."
---
THE AFTERMATH
Lena woke up choking on ink.
Her apartment was normal again.
Both keys sat on her chest, crossed like something laid on a grave.
And on the table beside her bed:
One sheet of paper. Blank.
Except for three fresh words written in blood:
"THEY MISSED ONE."
From the hallway outside came a sharp, final sound—like a book snapping closed.
Then—
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
---