I closed the book and stood there. Not a sound was to be heard. None at all. Even the clock had ceased to tick.

Silence ringed my ears; it had never been this loud before. But it was peaceful. A minute of solace after reading the contents of a book that described every minute detail of the incident, describing what I had felt at the time – the smell of gunpowder and the sound of horses – and, to the point, describing what had gone through my mind, felt serene. I needed it.

I placed the book open on the desk and tipped the chair from its position of balance and sat down on it, with my elbows on my knees and my hands curled and placed below my chin for support. My mind couldn't fathom what I had read. But I have to understand. It'll help put Harold's soul to rest if I get to the bottom of this.

The conversation that Harold had with the old lady and the postman proves that he had been active that day, when he thought he had slept. For two people to remember him doing something on a day and him not retaining any memories of it shows something. Some other party had interfered with Harold, be it by feeding him a drug.

Him losing his sanity is the easiest explanation. But the book that was on Harold's body cannot be explained by that. 

A voice then echoed across the room: "The policeman read the book, but its contents were unimaginable. The book described everything – the murder, the gunshot, and everything that happened, that is happening, in a strange 3rd-person narrative. He couldn't take it, and it was unfathomable, and yet Harold had written it; it was his handwriting." 

It was a raspy tone, like that of a man who spoke when afflicted by a cold.

I looked around, checking for its owner, but there wasn't anyone there. Where was it spoken from?

I rushed open the diary and checked it in desperation to prove that it was wrong. But it wasn't. It was right.

…

It couldn't be.

I was staring at it the whole time.

The indentation of the 'i's, the curve of the 's's – all of it matched. It was unbelievable. Harold had written it; it was his own handwriting.

My whole body was seized by shock. My fingers felt numb, and my body started heating up. I opened the window for some fresh air. A dog stood across the street, and its eyes looked at me. I stared back, waiting for it to look away. It didn't.

There had to be a rational explanation. But what?

"The policeman stood there before the window in confusion." The raspy tone returned.

It was referring to me. I looked outside the window, but there was not a soul on the street. Who was it?

I didn't know what to do. So I asked, "Who are you?"

Nothing happened.

"The policeman reached for the book and opened it, and new text appeared."

"I wasn't reaching for the—"

The book was already open in my hands before I finished speaking. I did not remember moving my hands. I must be losing my mind.

It was right. New text had appeared: ‘Who is a question for characters.’

What does it mean by that?

"The policeman is taken aback by the turn of events; it seems as if it were describing actions that occurred without his knowledge. That happened without his control." A pause. Then,

"He asked if this whole thing was but a story to it. New text appeared again, seemingly answering his question."

‘Is there anything that isn't one?’ Had been written. Harold's diary is affecting me. I must be hallucinating.

"Did you kill Harold?" I asked, hesitating. It didn't speak for a moment. Then it said,

"He looked at the book now, waiting for an answer. A strong wind blew through the window, and it turned a page."

Just as it had finished speaking, a strong gale blew through the window, causing the blinds to flutter and the book to flip a page.

"The policeman's body gave way to the newfound fear that was instilled in him and trembled. On the book were the words — ‘Characters die.'"

Fear. This was what Harold had felt then. I understand it now.

I confronted it. "Why did Harold die then?"

"The book displayed new words – ‘The painter's story ended. Yours has one page left.’ The policeman was stupefied at seeing this. He knew that it meant his death."

My body froze for a second. It isn't my death; it couldn't be. This book cannot take my life. It is just an inanimate object. I knew it, but my heart beat faster than before.

I waited for some time. One minute passed. Then two. Then five. Nothing else was spoken. No other sound came. 

I couldn't take it anymore, and I ran out of the room and onto the street in fear of losing my life. I felt that if I stayed there any longer, I would.

The dog that had stared at me then howled. My body stood there for a second, waiting, although I wanted to run as fast as possible. Another howled back.

Then out of nowhere, I heard the sound of a horn and people screaming out loud. I turned around to see what had happened. But it was too late.

The horses jumped atop me, crushing me under their weight, and I felt sharp pangs of pain throughout my body. Bones gave way to it, and blood splattered like paint onto the canvas of the ground. My body felt numb, and I couldn't move my limbs. I looked one last time into Harold's room through the window. I was stunned. The painting was no longer unfinished. It was a housefly. My mind went blank.

The carriage driver bent down and looked at the sorrowful sight. The man was crushed to his death by his horses that had gone mad all of a sudden and ran over the man who was in the way.

In the dead man's hand was a book. Only a few lines were written on it across the page.

"Edmund Hale knew it was his death. But he was at peace. One becomes what one condemns – that was what his mind had displayed last before giving up on him."

He picked it up and saw that blood slipped from the book and hadn't ruined it. Thinking it would sell for a fortune, he decided to keep it.

A light wind blew the hair off his forehead and turned a page of the book.

The carriage driver read the words on the new page. ‘Chapter one’ and the subsequent pages after were filled with “Human nature is something as complex…”.