The rain came in sheets, slapping against the windows of the old Victorian house like waves pounding a ship. Ava Bennett stood at the edge of the living room, watching the sky flash with lightning behind the swaying trees. Her grandmother's house always felt like it belonged to another time, with its dark wood paneling, antique furniture, and musty scent of lavender and dust. But during a thunderstorm, it felt haunted.


She was supposed to stay for just two weeks while her mom dealt with a legal dispute back home in Chicago. Ava hadn’t protested. The idea of a break from school, from her distant stepfather, and from Maddie James, her daily tormentor, sounded like heaven. But that was before the power went out.


With her phone on two percent and no Wi-Fi to distract her, Ava wandered through the creaky halls, flashlight in hand. A flash of lightning illuminated the staircase leading up to the attic. A wave of unease passed through her—Grandma had always said not to go up there.


But curiosity was louder than fear.


Ava climbed the narrow stairs, the wooden steps groaning under her weight. The attic door stuck for a moment, then creaked open. Dust swirled in the beam of her flashlight as she stepped inside. The room smelled of mothballs, mildew, and age.


She wasn’t sure what she was looking for. Maybe old photo albums, weird trinkets, anything to pass the time. She picked through boxes and cracked-open trunks until she found a wooden chest pushed against the far wall. Unlike everything else in the attic, it wasn’t covered in dust.


The lock, a rusted brass clasp, popped open with a soft click.


Inside, wrapped in a strip of moth-eaten velvet, was a book.


It was leather-bound and heavy, with dark, smooth skin and strange symbols etched into the cover. They shimmered faintly under the beam of her flashlight, like ink suspended in oil. No title. No author.


She opened it.


The pages were thick and creamy, all blank. She ran her fingers along one page, and her skin tingled. Goosebumps erupted on her arms.


She brought it downstairs to her room, sat at the small desk beneath the curtained window, and stared at it.


With nothing better to do and a heart full of boredom and mischief, she grabbed a pen and wrote: I wish I didn’t have to take my algebra test tomorrow.


She stared at the sentence. Nothing happened. The words didn’t glow or shift. There was no flash of light, no earthquake. Just the scribbled ink drying slowly on the creamy paper.


Ava shut the book with a little laugh. “Nice try, Ava,” she said aloud. She left it on her desk and climbed into bed, not expecting anything at all.


She didn’t see the way the ink shimmered.


Or how the words began to sink into the page like water down a drain.