Level 1 - The Velvet Fears

The whispering books - Part 2

When I arrived at the shop, the sky was low and colorless, clouds clung to it like damp insulation, and the street was empty, as if the day itself hadn’t started yet.

Inside, the shop was darker than usual.

Not in light—just in feeling.

The corners looked deeper. The dust on the counter felt undisturbed, like no one had touched it in weeks. Like no one should.

I didn’t go near the crate.

I turned on the lights, but only the front half of the shop.

I wiped down the same shelf three times and pretended not to glance at the corner table where the last book had appeared.

Each pass of the cloth made a soft whisper against the wood.

Just before noon, the mail slot clattered.

I jumped.

Three envelopes. One flyer. And a newspaper slid onto the mat—glossy, full-color, the kind with page creases that never quite smooth out.

I picked it up, distracted—until a headline caught my eye:

YOUNG WOMAN FOUND DEAD IN HER HOME — UNUSUAL SYMPTOMS BAFFLE AUTHORITIES

The photo below was from a CCTV still—blurry, slightly grainy, taken from a hallway corner. The woman in the image was just turning to look back over her shoulder, mid-step, expression unreadable.

But the pale yellow cardigan was unmistakable.

I sat down behind the counter. The paper crinkled in my grip.

The article was short. Just a few paragraphs.

She had been found by her roommate, seated upright in an armchair. No visible injuries. No signs of trauma. No forced entry.

No sign of what had gone wrong.

Just still. Silent. Gone.

But her hair… had turned completely white. Root to end.

A rare trauma response, the article said. A nervous collapse. Sudden. Final.

Medical professionals were “puzzled.”

Psychological evaluation was “inconclusive.”

They didn’t have answers.

I read the article twice. Then a third time.

And I let the newspaper slide from my hands.

It landed face-down beside the register.

The silence in the shop had changed.

It was no longer passive. No longer watching from the edges.

It was waiting.

I stood slowly. Turned.

And saw it.

Resting on the counter.

One of the nameless books.

The cover was darker than the others. The cloth smoother. Newer.

Its corners weren’t frayed. Its spine was uncracked.

It didn’t look like the rest.

It looked like it was meant for someone.

I picked it up. It was heavier than the others. Dense and warm, like it had just been held.

I opened the cover.

There was no title. No publisher.

Just one thing, centered on the page:

My name.

Written with no flourish. No handwriting. Just… there.

I closed the book.

Set it down.

Stepped away.

It stayed there, still.

And somewhere inside me, something turned cold.

The rain came in the afternoon—light at first, then heavier, until it became a steady percussion on the alley windows.

I was shelving new arrivals when I heard the scratching.

Not loud, but persistent.

I followed the sound through the back hallway and found a shape crouched just outside the alley door.

Pressed against the glass, soaked through, was a small cat—thin, dark gray, with blue eyes that met mine without blinking.

I stood there for a few seconds, unsure why the sight unsettled me more than it should have.

Then I opened the door, and it walked in like it belonged there.

I dried it off with a towel and set a shallow dish of tuna on the storeroom floor. It ate without hesitation, then curled up on a folded blanket beside the heater and began to purr.

The purring didn’t stop, but it shifted—lower when I moved near the front.

It didn’t seem afraid.

But when it turned its head toward the front of the store—toward the crate—its ears flattened.

It stayed in the back, away from the books.

At the end of the day, I left the storeroom door open. It didn’t try to leave.

It just curled tighter into its blanket and kept its eyes fixed on the shadows.

It started just after closing.

I was standing behind the counter trying to finish my ledger, pen shaking slightly in my hand.

I couldn’t focus.

The whispers had grown louder throughout the day—like breathing between pages. Not voices. Not even words.

Just presence.

I had shoved the book into a drawer earlier, but now it felt like it was in the room again.

Or maybe it never left.

I told myself to go home. I even grabbed my coat.

But I didn’t leave.

Something held me still.

The air changed—quiet, but not empty.

Heavy. Pressed in around me like the walls were leaning forward. Like the room itself was waiting to exhale.

The light above the counter flickered once.

Then the book was there.

Lying open on the counter.

I hadn’t taken it out. I was sure of it.

But there it was.

Its pages fanned like a mouth frozen mid-word.

My knees bent without command.

I sat.

My hands reached forward.

I tried to stop. I tried to move, but my body felt distant—like it belonged to someone else.

I leaned forward.

My lips parted.

And I read the first word aloud.

A cold burned through my chest—sharp and instant, like something had burrowed through my ribs and latched onto my lungs.

My voice caught on the second word. My heart pounded wildly.

The shadows stretched around me, warping the edges of the shop. The walls didn’t seem to be in the same place anymore. The shelves leaned. The counter curved. The air smelled like ink and rot.

I tried to stop speaking, but I couldn't.

My mouth moved on its own, trying to sound out another shape on the page—

And then—

A sharp thud. A hiss. A flash of motion.

The cat.

It leapt onto the counter from the hallway, landing with a solid, furious thump.

Its paws slammed down on the book, claws digging into the open page.

The whispering stopped.

The lights steadied.

The shadows shivered—then pulled inward and vanished into the corners like smoke.

The book slammed shut beneath the cat’s paws.

I gasped and stumbled backward, catching myself on the edge of the counter.

My whole body was shaking. My fingers tingled. My skin felt too tight.

The cat stared at me, unmoving, tail flicking once behind it.

It didn’t meow.

It just stayed there.

Guarding.

The next morning, everything felt... muted.

The bell above the shop door rang softer. The light through the windows looked paler, like it had filtered through ash.

Even sound moved differently—slower, somehow. Like it had to pass through something first.

I told myself I was just tired.

Deep down, I knew something had changed.

The book didn’t reappear that day.

Not on the counter. Not in the drawers.

But the air still carried something—an echo that hadn’t left with the shadows.

That night, I had my first nightmare.

I was standing behind the counter, alone.

But every book on the shelves was open—pages fluttering without wind, all of them whispering the same word.

My name.

Over and over. Faster. Louder. Rising into a wall of sound.

I woke up gasping, drenched in sweat.

The cat was curled against my chest.

Watching the window.

In the days that followed, the symptoms worsened.

Small things, at first.

Objects not where I left them.

Hearing footsteps from rooms I hadn’t entered.

A shift in the shadows that felt too slow to be natural.

Then came the reflection.

It started in the bathroom mirror. A blink out of sync.

Then, one evening, I looked up while brushing my teeth and saw myself… smiling.

But I wasn’t.

I hid all the mirrors.

Soon after, I heard my own voice whisper from inside the bookshelf.

Not just a whisper—a perfect imitation.

Repeating things I hadn’t said yet.

I pressed my hand to my chest one night and realized I couldn’t feel my heartbeat.

Not right away.

Like something was buffering it.

Like my body was out of sync with itself.

One morning, I noticed the first white strand in my hair.

Thick. Pale. Cold to the touch.

By the next day, there were three more.

I didn’t go near the book. I didn’t have to.

The damage had already started.

I don’t know how many days passed.

I stopped counting after the nightmares blurred into waking hours.

After I lost time for the first time—ten minutes, maybe more, vanished between one blink and the next.

The cat never left my side.

But even it was beginning to show signs of strain—ears back, tail low, eyes always watching corners I couldn’t bring myself to look at.

That morning, I felt something tightening inside me.

Not pain exactly, but pressure.

Fear compacted into something physical. Dense. Crushing.

I couldn’t eat.

Couldn’t breathe without feeling like the air had teeth.

I sat behind the counter, arms around my chest, rocking slightly.

The shop was empty. Too quiet. Like even the walls were holding their breath.

The book was back on the desk.

Still closed.

But I could feel it calling me.

My vision blurred. My lungs seized. My hands went numb.

I remember thinking: This is it. This is how it happens.

Just like her.

Seated. Silent. Hair turned white by the time they find me.

And then—

A voice.

Low. Calm.

“Don’t move.”

A figure stepped between me and the counter.

Wrapped in that same coat.

The stranger.

Their presence filled the room—not loud, not bright, but steady. Grounded.

The cat leapt down from the counter and sat by their boots.

The stranger set something on the book and the moment it touched the cover, the air cleared.

The pressure lifted.

The shadows curled inward and disappeared like smoke pulled through a keyhole.

My lungs expanded. My hands tingled back to life.

I could breathe.

The cat blinked once, then resumed its usual perch on the stool.

The stranger looked at me—not harshly, not gently.

I croaked, barely a whisper.

“Why?”

The question trembled out of me.

Why save me?

They didn’t hesitate.

“You hadn’t finished reading.”

Their gaze shifted briefly toward the door.

“She had. I was too late for her.”

I swallowed.

“Then… why me?”

The stranger’s voice softened.

“Because you’re not supposed to forget. You’re meant to remember.”

They looked down at the cat, then back at me.

“And your familiar did its part.”

They stepped back. The book vanished with them.

The bell above the door never rang.

But they were gone.

The cat rubbed against my leg and jumped onto the counter.

There, where the stranger had stood—

A single white feather.

The shop felt different after that.

Lighter in some ways.

Quieter in others.

But the silence no longer pressed inward—it receded.

Like the sea pulling away from the shore.

The book never reappeared.

But neither did the whispers.

The cat stayed, curled up on the windowsill most days, blinking slowly at customers and swatting at flyers.

I kept the shop open for a little while.

I told myself I could move past it, I couldn’t look at the crates the same way.

Or the spines of old books.

Or mirrors.

Or the shadows between shelves when the lights flickered.

And eventually, I stopped trying.

I sold the shop.

Gave away the remaining books.

I don’t miss it.

Not really.

Some nights, I still hear faint whispering when the house settles.

But I don’t listen.

The white streaks in my hair never faded.

Sometimes, when I wake in the middle of the night, I find the cat already watching me.

Its eyes soft.

Its tail tucked tight.

Its body curled around the white feather.

Some books speak louder than others. If you ever hear one whisper your name—don’t answer