The Book that Reads You

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You may have heard a rumor of a book. It had a cover, like any other book. It had pages, like any other book. It told a story, like any other book. But this particular book, with its calming blue cover, was decidedly unlike any other ever printed.

What made this book special was that it read you.

Yes, it read you. And it understood you. Every single thing about you.

If you were full of anger, it knew. If you were fighting loneliness in a silent, tear-filled battle, it knew. If you were gripped with jealousy, it knew. It knew all. 

And because it knew all, it would tell you a story, a unique story. Never twice the same story, mind you. It would tell you a story that related to you, and only you, in the deepest, most intimate way. Every chapter was your most intense desire. Every word was empathetic. Plots were ripped from your own struggles. The story was you, your life, your problems, your wants – all told in a voice that sounded like the one in your head.

And because it had a soul as black as the ink with which it was written, it would tell you a story that made you want to do the wrong thing. It encouraged evil. It tempted. It made you think your pain would dissolve if only you did what the story suggested.

And so, within its simple blue, calming cover, readers would get pulled into the pages that fanned desire with every word. 

One destitute man, with not enough money to have meat with his rice and debt collectors constantly at his door, longed for wealth – the kind of wealth in which he would never again be forced to stretch his weak back or rise slowly upon ancient knees. This man, he found the book. He dove greedily into pages that were simultaneously diving into him. On those pages, he found someone just like himself. And that someone, in his desperation, stole from his own family, a family that was painted to be such tyrants. The thievery allowed him to enjoy a life free of wants. And so, the seed was planted. The man thought about it. Perhaps his own family was tyrannical as well. They let him languish in poverty after all. Those horrible rich people who claimed to be his own blood.

It became the only thing of which the man could think. It was constant; a mental itch that he could not reach to properly scratch. He lay on his bare, lump-ridden mattress at night, awake and staring into the dark at cracks he knew to be in the ceiling. The story became his bedmate. And it whispered into his ear. He rolled over, though, for he knew it wrong to steal. But some turned backs can’t remain turned. It became too much; too heavy not to pursue. He broke into the house of his father and robbed. Only this ending did not match the one in the blue-covered book. This ended with failure, with the man being punished, written out of a will that would have made him wealthy beyond measure. He was exiled, destitute once again, in money and now family, respect and, worst of all, hope.

Years later, the book found its way into the hands of a plain woman. This plain woman lived in a plain house and enjoyed a workman-like marriage; two people who dutifully pecked each other on the cheek in the morning and found time to go out to dinner once a year on their anniversary. But passion had divorced them long ago. And so, while at a secondhand shop, this plain-looking woman was drawn to a plain-looking book – an agreeable blue one with a worn, but comforting spine. She took it home, and while her husband snored into the night, she became enraptured by a tale of a woman living such a similar life, eventually finding endless bliss in the arms of a better man. For the heroine of the novel, everything was infinitely better elsewhere. 

Suggestion can be so powerful, so so powerful. Like a pebble stuck in her shoe, she could never expel the thought from her mind. The woman began to gaze at another man, also married, whom she had always found to be pleasing to her eyes. When her husband was passed out on the couch or was out late at the bar, she began to dream of the other man. When she encountered him, she would maintain eye contact longer. She would run a hand through her hair, tinged with a silver strand or two, as the man talked. She would smile at him, even in moments of quiet when smiles are not typically smiled. 

After two people who were not supposed to be together are together, the outcome becomes inevitable. Two families are ripped apart. Guilt, resentment and anger move in and become ever present houseguests. Shame drives the woman out, leaving her empty-handed in love and companionship. A scarlet letter of regret on her heart until she succumbs and disappears, wrecked and broken.

Over the years, those who were lured in by its words, made insane by its influence, tried to destroy the book. They ripped at it with utter vengeance, shrieking as every page was torn from the binding. They cast it into fireplaces and watched as the pages blackened and curled up and turned to ash. They threw it to the depths of oceans. But somehow, the book always came back. It always found new life on a shelf in an unsuspecting shop or library.

The book’s sinister reputation spread, like a dark warning whispered into the wind. When people heard of it, fear went into one ear and curiosity into the other. The mere thought of such a book started to do its deeds before anyone ever put their own eyes to it. When yet another fell victim to its deviousness, the book was locked away in a safe. But when the devil is the publisher, even six inches of steel vault cannot contain its resolve. So it would appear, again and again.

Until one day, the people had an idea. They brought the book to a man; a pure man. He was good. He was clean of conscience. He desired nothing and was filled with only gratefulness.

“Let us see what the pages say to you,” the people said. “Tell us what story it writes when you gaze into it.”

So the man opened the book. He sifted through it, feeling each page ripple past his thumb, connecting with him. Leafing through him as he leafed through it. And within, he found only blank pages. 

He took the book home and put it on his bedside table. In the morning, he opened it again. He found only blank pages. At night, he opened it and found only blank pages.

So every day and every night, the man would look at the wordless pages, happy that his heart was still pure. 

But even blank pages tell a story.

They tell a story of emptiness. And under the right circumstances, emptiness can lead to wondering. And wondering can lead to thoughts.

The man started to wonder. And the man started to have thoughts. He thought about what kind of story might appear on the pages if he had led a different life. 

No, he must not wonder and he must not have thoughts, he told himself. 

But the problem is once some doors are opened, they cannot be closed. Not completely anyway.

The man did wonder – about what he should be wondering about. And he started to have thoughts. What was he missing? Where was his story? What would it be about? He wanted a story. He needed a story.

But the book would not comply. The pages remained blank. Day after day, he found nothing but blank pages, pristine as new fallen snow.  

Until one day, the man could not tolerate the emptiness anymore. He desired desire. He pulled out a pen. He started to write. He filled in the pages with a story that he wished he would find within. The man did not stop or break or sleep until every last page was filled. 

And then, he closed the book. 

The next morning, the man was nowhere to be found. He was not seen in the town. He was not seen in the bakery he frequented, nor the church he attended. He must be away for the weekend, the people thought. 

The following week, the man was still nowhere to be found. He must be on vacation, the people thought, visiting family.

The next month, the same. The next year, the same. He was never to be seen again. Lost somewhere to the world, they surmised. Some claimed he ran off in the night. But others say they saw a stranger leaving his house on that fateful eve, ducking in and out of the shadows as he joyfully cackled. 

In time, the people cleaned out his house. They discovered the book, still placed carefully on his desk, a spent pen nestled against the spine. The simple blue cover stared back, begging with its unassuming quietness for someone to open it. But they knew better. They shredded it, buried the torn paper beneath the basement floor, and set fire to the house. 

Some acts try to mean something but really don’t accomplish what they are meant to mean.

So what became of the man? And what was the story that was written within the pages? If you must know, the man wrote the story of an author who wished he could write a great book; the kind of book that changes people’s lives. 

Like all the others, his story turned to truth. 

For the man is now the author of the book, trapped within the pages, condemned to fill them with words. He is forced to see people’s darkest desires. He is forced to look into the souls of those who are troubled and desperate, absorbing them into himself. It’s his eternal curse to turn those desires into temptation with ink, to twist their stories and their fates along with it; taking all their pain within in order to destroy them.

And how do I know this story? How do I know the fate of the man? Because I was the previous author, finally freed from the bonds of the pages. Freed from looking at the worst of people’s hearts. Freed from the trickery and the testing. It was truly unfortunate to pass this duty of despair to someone so full of character. But it was the only way, you see. 

So if you ever see the book with its simple blue, calming cover, look, but do not open. Do not run your finger along the spine. Do not fan its thick, yellowing pages. Do not take in its musty scent. Do not read the title. Walk away, and do not be drawn back to it. Do not think about it as you try to close your eyes at night. Do not be tempted to return to it, just to look at one page to see if it really, really reads you. Do not be pulled into the first chapter. Do not walk out of the store with it, even if the shop owner tells you that you can simply have it; no charge at all, friend. Do not stay awake late into the night, furious to get to its conclusion. Do not finish it, closing the back cover with what feels like a new sense of belief crawling from your fingers to your heart, infecting your mind. Do not, above all, give in to insidious but inviting blank pages. Do not take up your pen. Do not. Do not. Do not.

Because, perhaps, your story is not meant to be read. 

The Book that Reads You

A short story by Tom Witkowski

Photo Credit: Kiwihug

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