The scratching stopped right outside Lena's door.
Not like someone thinking about knocking—more like something listening. Waiting.
The air grew heavy, thick with the smell of old paper and rusted metal.
Her hands burned. The melted key scars in her palms pulsed in time with her heartbeat, cold as ice. She glanced at the note on her nightstand—there was a new line scrawled beneath the others. The ink still looked wet.
"THEY MISSED ONE"
"HE'S COMING"
"BURN IT ALL"
"BUT NOT YET"
A floorboard creaked.
Then—
A slow, wet drip.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
Not water.
Something thicker.
Lena pressed her palm to the door. It was freezing. The grain shifted beneath her hand like moving lines of text. She squinted—
And jerked back.
It wasn't wood anymore.
It was skin.
Taut, breathing, marked with pores. The nailhead beside the handle looked like an old scar.
The dripping picked up speed.
In the shattered mirror across the room, her reflection trembled. Its lips peeled open, revealing teeth made of tiny, bound books.
"Don't let him in," it mouthed. "He doesn't knock twice."
The doorknob began to turn.
---
The Gallery of the Lost
The hallway vanished.
In its place stretched a long gallery, cold and silent.
The walls weren't covered in paintings—
They were covered in stretched human faces.
Each mouth silently screaming.
The floor was made of finger bones, arranged like a mosaic, clicking softly beneath her boots.
At the center of it all, sitting atop a pedestal made of fused spines, was the Collector.
His porcelain mask was back—perfect again, freshly painted with the word: LIAR.
His gloved hands rested on a glass case.
Inside it: one page.
Not made of parchment.
Skin.
Lena's heart skipped.
She recognized that mole. The ragged edge.
Mira's forearm.
The Collector tilted his head. "You've been looking for this."
His voice was smooth now. Kind, almost gentle. It made Lena's skin crawl.
She stepped forward slowly. Her boots stuck to the floor slightly with every step. "What did you do to her?"
The mask's painted smile stretched. "Nothing she didn't ask for."
He tapped the case. The skin twitched, and words burned into its surface came into view.
The last page is the first lie.
Then the gallery began to shift.
---
The First Betrayal
The walls peeled back like curtains, revealing a memory—
But it wasn't hers.
A younger Mira stood in this very room. Her sleeve rolled up. A scalpel in her hand.
The Collector's voice was soft, coaxing. "Just a small piece. Just enough to throw it off the scent."
Mira's jaw tightened as she cut into her own forearm. The skin came away too easily.
Because it wasn't hers anymore.
It had already become paper.
Lena felt her stomach turn. "She gave you a fake page."
The Collector chuckled. "She gave me bait."
He snapped his fingers.
The memory melted into another—
The original book, lying open in a pool of black ink. The Collector reached for it.
And the pages rose up like a cobra.
A scream.
Then nothing. Just the book, gently dripping.
"The last page isn't missing," he said. "It's hiding."
He stepped closer. The air around him stank of ancient books and embalming fluid.
"And it's written in a language not even I can read."
Lena's hands ached. The scars throbbed.
"What do you want?"
A tiny crack ran down the mask.
"What all collectors want," he said. "The complete set."
And the floor opened beneath her.
---
The Bone Catalog
Lena fell.
Down, down—into blackness.
The echo of the gallery faded.
She landed in something soft and damp.
Moss?
No.
Hair.
Endless hair stretched in every direction.
Above her, the ceiling was made of ribs. From it hung thousands of glass jars. Inside each jar, a single glowing word floated in dark liquid.
Jenna.
Dan.
Varrick.
The Collector's voice came from everywhere.
"Every name the book has taken. Every story it's ever devoured."
Lena pushed herself up.
The hair under her shifted, parting to reveal a pedestal.
On top was an old, yellow index card.
Alistair Voss – Keeper #37 – Status: Archived
A cold touch slid down her back.
"He wasn't your grandfather," the Collector whispered. "He was your predecessor."
The burn in her hands returned, sharper this time.
"Liar."
The Collector laughed, pages fluttering behind his voice.
"Then ask him."
He snapped his fingers.
The jar labeled Alistair shattered.
---
The Unfinished Story
The fluid inside hissed when it touched the hair.
The word "Alistair" curled into smoke, shaping itself into a man.
His mouth was stitched shut with gold wire.
His eyes were nothing but black holes.
When he saw Lena—
He screamed.
A sound that made the jars tremble.
The Collector waved once.
The stitches fell away.
Alistair's voice rasped: "You weren't born. You were written."
Lena backed away. "What?"
He twitched like a broken puppet. "The book needed a new Keeper. So it made one. Out of scraps. Out of stories."
He reached for her—
And memories surged into her mind.
– A blank page, trembling like it was alive.
– Alistair's hand writing her name: Lena Carter. Age 28. Keeper #38.
– The ink writhing, reshaping itself into a life. A past. A person.
A gloved hand settled on her shoulder.
"You're not real, little Keeper," said the Collector. "You're just a character."
Then Alistair exploded.
Not into blood.
Into paper.
Thousands of scraps. Each one bore a single word:
LIAR
---
The Last Page's Secret
Lena collapsed. Her knees pressed into the thick hair.
Above her, the jars rattled.
The Collector crouched down beside her. His mask almost touched her cheek.
"The last page isn't Mira's," he said. "It's yours."
He pressed a finger to her chest.
And pushed.
There was no pain. No blood.
Just a cold, fluttering sensation as her skin opened like a book.
Inside—
Nothing.
Her chest was hollow.
The Collector sighed.
"It's not here."
Then a sound came from deep inside her.
A soft rustling.
The Collector froze.
"Oh," he whispered. "It's not missing."
His hand reached for her again—
But the rustling turned into a voice.
Mira's voice.
"Burn it all."
The Collector recoiled.
Lena's ribs unfolded. Like paper.
---
The Aftermath
Black fire erupted from Lena's chest.
Not orange. Not red.
Black.
The Collector screamed. His mask blackened, then cracked. The jars overhead shattered—words turned to smoke.
The hair beneath her twisted into words:
STOP
YOU'LL KILL US ALL
PLEASE
Lena stood. Flames flickered inside her, curling along her ribs.
The Collector's voice returned, this time warped and broken.
"You don't understand! Without the book, the stories disappear! The names vanish!"
She looked at her hands.
They were fading.
Transparent.
She was vanishing.
"You're killing yourself," he whispered.
Then the floor caved in again.
---
The Final Whisper
She fell.
But this time—not into darkness.
Into light.
Lena landed on cold tile.
The fire was gone.
Her body felt whole.
The air smelled like bleach and old paper.
She was in a morgue.
Rows of cold drawers surrounded her. On each one, names she knew.
Jenna Park
Daniel Reyes
Eli Varrick
In the center was a table.
Mira's body lay on it. Her throat cut. Her left forearm missing.
And sitting on her chest was something else.
The Last Witness.
Its stitched mouth curled upward.
"Welcome to the real story," it whispered.
Then the morgue door creaked open.
---