Isaac lay sprawled on his creaky bed. The musty air of his room was thick with the fading tang of weed and air freshener. His bruised cheek pulsed with a dull ache but he'd already applied the balm after his shower so the pain wasn't as bad as before. He wore a simple vest and shorts that clung to his skinny frame and the weight of the day pressed down on him like a stone. The Wilson Estate with its polished marble and hollow wealth felt like a cage. He stared at the cracked ceiling, his mind sluggish from the joint, until his gaze drifted to the new backpack on the bed. The one Emma had left him.
"I feel like I'm forgetting something," he muttered, rolling onto his side and fumbling around the bag. Then it hit him.
The book.
He scrambled to his torn bag on the chair, wincing as his body protested. He reached in and pulled out the thing he'd found in the rain soaked crater. It was impossibly heavy, like lifting a slab of iron. He still couldn't believe this was a book given how much it weighed. He set it down on the bed and got a clear look at it for the first time. Black leather gleaming under the dim room light. Gold metal reinforcements framed its edges, etched with runes that seemed to writhe, catching the light in a way that made his eyes ache. The title blazed in bold crimson letters across the front.
- THE BOOK OF SINS -
Each word was somehow sharp and pulsing, as if carved in blood.
Isaac cringed. His lips twitched. "What kind of creepy ass name is that?" he said aloud, his voice caught somewhere between unease and curiosity. "Is this some weird gothic novel or what?"
He turned the book over, expecting something on the back. A name, a title, anything that might tell him what this thing was. A novel, someone's diary, a journal, he had no idea. But there was nothing. The back cover was the same as the front. Blank. A void of black leather that seemed to drink the light..
That's when he noticed it. A strange quill clamped tight along the book's side, as if magnetized to the edge. He pried it free for a closer look. The feather was jet black like the book, only it shone brighter with a slick, impossible luster. He couldn't tell what bird it came from. The nib was a dim reddish metal that glowed slightly, and from the quill's crown trailed a writhing tendril that pulsed like a living vein.
Isaac's stomach churned just from looking at it. "This shit ain't normal," he muttered, leaning closer. He hadn't noticed the details in the rain but here in the quiet of his room it looked ancient. Regal. The kind of pen a king might have used to sign a death warrant centuries ago. He wondered if this book with its impossible weight had caused the lightning strike. The mini earthquake that shook the road.
The thought made his skin prickle.
He gripped the book. The cold metal edges bit into his palms. He tried to open it but the cover wouldn't budge. It felt like some kind of metal clasp was holding it shut, fused deep into the leather like it had been there for centuries. He tugged harder, forearms straining, but it was like trying to pry open a vault.
"Come on, you piece of…" he growled. No matter what he did it wouldn't budge. After a day of everyone giving him a hard time, even the book wanted in on the fun. Fine. If he couldn't open it he might as well destroy it. What use was it like this anyway?
He held the quill in his right hand and the book in his left. His eyes dropped to the tendril. He plucked it like a thick strand of hair and the thing sprang back like a snake. He held it up and examined it closer. The feather was sleek and too soft, almost perfect, and the tendril twitched as if it were alive. Isaac's heart skipped.
"The fuck," he whispered. He blinked hard and looked again. "Am I seeing things or did this thing just move?"
Before he could react, the tendril lashed out, wrapping around his index finger like a vine. Its sharp tip stabbed into his skin, almost like a needle of fire piercing his flesh. Isaac yelped, "Fuck! Fuck, what is this thing?" Pain shot up his arm, sharp as an injection; he thrashed, his other hand flailing. In a panic, he hurled the book to the floor. It landed with a heavy thud, skidding and turning onto its back. The quill tore free by itself, dropping neatly beside it, the tendril curling innocently as if it hadn't done a thing.
Isaac stumbled back, heart pounding like a drum, breath coming in ragged gasps. He clutched his finger, expecting blood, but the skin was unmarked, smooth as if nothing had happened. "...the fuck was that just now..." he panted, voice trembling. Fear pinned him to the wall; his legs were jelly, refusing to move closer.
After a long minute, he forced himself to calm down, his breath slowing. He crept toward the book, his legs still shaking as he crawled toward it. The back, once blank, now bore visible words, etched in the same crimson as the title, glowing faintly:
"The Bearer shall bind with blood, for sin is etched in the soul. Write thy full name, and claim the power, or perish in obscurity."
Isaac's brows furrowed. "Bind with blood? What, like some cult shit?" he muttered, half-laughing, half-shaking. "And why is it written in Early Modern English?"
Seeing nothing else besides that inscription, he turned the book over, careful not to touch the quill. Below the crimson - THE BOOK OF SINS -, a white rectangular strip had appeared, blank and smooth, like a nameplate waiting for ink. The title's letters seemed to glow brighter than before, or the weed was making him see things; he wasn't sure.
He eyed the rectangle. "Is that where I write my name?" He looked at the quill. "There's no way in hell I'm touching that thing again."
He stood up and rummaged through his bag, finding a pencil. Its tip was worn blunt, but it would still be able to write a few things. He bent down and scribbled on the white strip.
Expecting it to show, but it did not. The pencil left no mark, gliding uselessly over the surface. He tried again, pressing harder, but the strip remained pristine.
He glanced at the quill again, then at the words on the back cover: "The Bearer shall bind with blood..." His gut twisted.
"No way," he said, shaking his head. "This is crazy."
Maybe it was the weed, a haze dulling the edges of fear, because he knew himself: on a normal day, with his brain working right, this would have scared him shitless. He wouldn't be in the same room with it, much less reaching for it. But now, for some reason, his curiosity was piqued about what the book really was. He wasn't sure what to expect from it, and if it really could harm him, it didn't really matter. Not like anyone'll be sad if I die, he thought. What do I have to lose anyway? It was just another day of a cruel life; nothing was going to change. He was already at the bottom, how much lower could he go?
"Well, fuck it," he muttered, grabbing the quill.
The tendril reacted instantly, coiling around his finger again, faster this time. It stabbed deeper, a searing pain that made him gasp. His vision swam; his body went suddenly heavy, like he hadn't eaten in days. The quill's tip glowed red, brighter than before, matching the crimson title. Isaac's hand shook, but he forced it to the white strip. The tendril pulsed, drawing blood from his finger and using it as ink.
He scrawled his name in capital letters, just like the title itself. - ISAAC WILSON - His handwriting stayed neat despite the tremor running through his right hand. The blood ink shimmered for a moment, then sank into the strip like water into sand.
For a long moment nothing happened. The room was silent except for the rain drumming steady against the window and Isaac's ragged breathing. He stared at the strip, waiting to see what would happen. His heart hammered against his ribs like crazy but he kept himself still.
Then slowly the white space began to darken, swallowing his name until the cover was solid black again. Seamless and unblemished. A sharp click echoed through the room like a lock snapping open. The book's weight shifted in his hands. no longer crushing. Suddenly light, almost airy, like any ordinary book. The runes along the gold edges flared once then dimmed, as if satisfied.
Isaac froze as his breath caught in his throat. The air around him felt thicker, charged, like the moment before a storm breaks. He gripped the cover, hesitated for a second, then slowly opened it.