Chapter 13

At home, Alice expected to see Mick in every room. The experience the night before had unsettled her. She was frightened. But mostly, she was determined to test her theory. At work, she was convinced she’d be escorted to one of the rooms as a patient at any moment. But she hadn’t been stopped so far. She knew they were watching her and had to act normal. She continued to work and kept out of the way as much as she could.

She’d prove the book was behind everything, it would show she wasn’t crazy. The bastard recounted real events, and she had to secure concrete evidence. She hunched over the pages, reading ahead. Her fingers gripped the cover, trembling as she scanned for proof, phone poised to photograph anything relevant. But two chapters in, she’d found nothing out of the ordinary.

 She knew the book had recorded recent events—deeply personal to her—and searched for undeniable proof to show her peers she wasn’t crazy. She’d crack it this time. Even if the story changed when reopened, she’d have evidence.

She wanted to prove she was telling the truth, but more than that, she needed to outwit the book. The urge was primal, harking back to the survival instinct. It had become a battle of wills and she felt strong enough to battle the supernatural. Her faith in herself was strong. Mick had appeared in her house. He’d spoken to her when he was somewhere else and incapable of leaving. She wouldn’t be beaten by evil.

She had her game plan mapped out: get the photographs, prove her innocence, and then destroy the damned thing forever. But first, she had questions. It wasn’t enough to defeat it. Part of her victory lay in uncovering why.

Why was this happening, and what was it? By understanding the evil behind the sentience, she could reveal the power driving it. And she’d have a better understanding of how to beat it. Djinn, spirit, genie? The thing had no name.

She would get rid of it—but not yet. She had to research and learn what she could about it first. She realised that this very thought pattern was the book’s manipulation. Common sense told her to burn it. She could dispose of it and do some research later, but her obsession ran too deep. She didn’t think it would be as easy as throwing it in a bin or even setting fire to it. But she’d test the theory later today, or tomorrow. Maybe she’d be better off waiting until bin day next week.

And then, when they were rid of it, she’d implement the last phase of her war. She’d waft sage around to cleanse her house and the unit of evil. Then she’d contact a priest to bring holy water and incantations. He’d rid the annexe of retained negative energy. It was the perfectly rational thing to do under the circumstances, and when she’d proved her point, everybody would agree. She wasn’t religious, but it wouldn’t hurt to be protected. She’d buy a little crucifix on a chain.

Alice checked her phone had charged, half expecting it to be dead—thwarted before she began—but it fired up, and she opened the camera. She was ready for it. The book thought it was clever and must have hidden the incriminating story further in the text, hidden within the mundane.

Three times people had to come looking for her when she should have been on the ward. Dr Calvert was losing patience and threatened disciplinary action if she didn’t buck her ideas. Alice stuck two fingers up behind her back. Even Calvert would thank her when she rid the unit of evil.

She read the book every second she could. She’d lost weight, looked gaunt, and had a tremor in her hands. In a month, she’d gone from being the most respected doctor on shift to becoming the department’s resident missing person case. Even the juniors were up in arms about her. When people knocked on her door, she snapped at them, irritated at being disturbed. She hid in the ladies’ toilets to read a few more pages, and later, in one of the utility cupboards. If the door opened, she’d say she was doing an inventory of the hospital’s riveting mop selection.

She skimmed every page rather than reading it properly, but the closer she got to the end, the further away it seemed. She finished it, rubbed her tired neck, and returned to page one. She was confused. Had she missed something even though her eyes had flashed over every paragraph looking for relevance? She read again.

 The book didn’t spit her past back at her. There was no eerie mirroring of her life. The story was a boring fictional account of a person’s failing marriage. It was a predictable story as old as time. The wife caught her man cheating with her best friend. Boring. A nurse and her unfaithful husband in a story spiralling into heartbreak and loneliness.

It described the escalating suspicion, the unanswered messages, and the lingering scent of somebody’s perfume on his clothes. Listen to your gut, lady. The moment of discovery was cruel and vivid—a phone left unlocked, a prying wife, and a text thread that confirmed the worst. The confrontation, the lies, and the breakdown of trust were all precursors to the story’s predictable ending. It was painful, the death of love, but standard and fictional.

It was a relief that nothing like that had happened around her. But there was an empty feeling of disappointment, too. Did this confirm it was in her head after all?

Alice couldn’t get it out of her mind. She must have missed something, otherwise what they said about her was true. She gnawed at it, like a dog chewing on a cut paw, and she couldn’t let it rest.

At break time, she did some prying—probing outside her immediate team to see if anybody’s relationship was on the rocks.

Alice leaned against the nurses’ station, chatting to colleagues under the guise of casual conversation.

‘How’s your husband?’ she asked one of the admin staff.

‘He’s fine. Same old. Is everything okay, Doctor?’ The woman gave her an odd look and after some reassurance, she returned to her filing.

‘Anyone going through a rough patch?’ she asked later, throwing it open to the staff room, and laughing as if it was a joke. Nobody’s life matched the story in the book and she felt like a televangelist shouting the truth on Speaker’s Corner.

Her stomach twisted. She was losing her grip on reality. Her desperation grew, sparking more uncharacteristic behaviour. She asked questions and took in their responses with an intensity that showed on her face, but she was too desperate and enflamed to be subtle. She felt her mania inside and stopped colleagues from doing their work to question them. One of the canteen staff said her friend in Spain had split up with a boy, but confirmed she was over it and already onto the next one. It was a reach.

Alice leaned over the counter, too close, and the cook stepped back. ‘Are you sure?’ Alice barked at her. The woman nodded and told her she could smell something burning.

Towards the end of the day, Lynda came in for shift handover. She was usually at the heart of every conversation and brightened the unit, but today she was withdrawn. Her face was pale, and she barely spoke as she moved through her tasks with robotic precision. Alarm bells jangled in Alice’s head.

She didn’t pounce. Calvert was on the warpath and had Alice in her sights. Alice watched from a distance, and unease bit her, snarling under white fangs.

At break time, Lynda sat alone. She was different—and different was suspicious. Alice noticed that she picked at her food without eating, staring at the table. Her posture was rigid and her eyes were red as if she’d been crying.

Alice sat across from her. ‘Hey, Lynda. You okay?’

Lynda didn’t respond until Alice opened her mouth to say something else. The other woman still didn’t speak, but her head dropped and her shoulders shook. She sucked in a breath to stop the flood, but it was no use. The dam broke, and she sobbed, burying her face in her hands.

Alice gripped her arm. ‘What’s wrong?’ Lynda had been happily married for years and Alice reined in her investigation for now. ‘Talk to me, lovely. What can I do to help?’ Tender, young Alice was still in there, somewhere.

Lynda lifted her face and tears poured from her eyes in a deluge. Her voice was hoarse. ‘I caught him, Alice. I’ve suspected for a while, but, this morning I caught my husband cheating.’

Alice’s breath caught in her throat. ‘With your best friend.’ It wasn’t a question.

‘How do you know? Is everyone talking about it?’

‘No. Of course not. I was just guessing, that’s all.’

Lynda was distraught and took the answer at face value. She wiped her face and gave a bitter laugh. ‘I had my suspicions. But I didn’t want to believe it. This morning I found the proof. I’m not ashamed to admit it, I went through his phone while he was in the shower.’ She sniffed and her tears slowed to a spatter rather than a torrent. ‘There were messages and pictures. He was in our bed with her.’ Her voice cracked on the last word. ‘They were taking selfies like happy newlyweds.’

Alice couldn’t hear the rest over the roaring in her ears. She already had the details.

The book was right. Again.

She struggled to keep her expression neutral and shoved down the surge of panic rising in her throat. It was mixed with glee that the book was right. Did that make her sane? She watched Lynda. The story had been written, betrayal inked into the pages long before it happened. She thought she might scream.

Lynda shook her head. ‘I don’t know what to do. He’s my rock, you know? We’ve been together for years. I don’t begin or end without him.’

Alice forced herself to nod, but her head was cracking, she could almost feel the eggshell effect spreading across her cranium and wondered if it was visible. ‘You don’t have to figure it out now. Just take one step at a time.’ She shut down and spouted more banal advice without thinking about the words. And then, through the empty drivel, some words came into her head. She swallowed them, but they came again and were out before she could trap them. Dark, venomous noises purged from her like projectile vomit, and she had no control over what she was saying. The book had invisible fingers manipulating her throat and forcing her to speak. ‘I’d cut the bastard’s dick off with pinking shears, and make him smoke the tattered end like a cigar.’

‘What?’

‘Sit back and watch him suffer like you’re suffering. Let him bleed to death and take a selfie.’
            The room stopped as her voice cut through the other conversations sharp and serrated. The silence was so intense, they could hear the plants growing. Alice covered her mouth to hold back the next torrent of words. She didn’t know what had come over her and figured she’d be suspended. But the voice came through her again. Her voice, uttering words she’d never say. Sod them, she was entitled to her opinion.  

She stood up, sticking her chest out. ‘That’s my opinion,’ she said. 

Lynda gave her an anxious smile. She wiped her face and looked at the clock. ‘I should get back to work.’

Alice nodded in horror, spiralling as she made her excuses and hurried back to her office.

The book had evolved.

It wasn’t recording events that had already happened. It was laying them out in advance. She wasn’t reading the book—it was reading her. It could predict events. But it couldn’t know what would happen tomorrow. Unless—What if it wasn’t a prediction? Alice didn’t know what terrified her more—the knowing fear that she was part of it. Or. The thought was too horrible to contemplate.

Or.

A sickening thought coiled around her intestines and squeezed. Maybe the book didn’t just record events—it created them.

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