Chapter 7 — Stories That Wriggle Like Worms

Some tales refuse to stay bound. This one's chewing through the > page.

The first page of my book was a birth announcement from the Pigeon Hollow Gazette.

I recognised my name. I recognised the date. I didn't recognise the photograph.

A newborn stared up at me with black eyes—entirely black, the pupils bled into the whites, forming tiny swirling letters too small to read. My parents stood beside the bassinet, smiling the smiles of people who have been told to smile. Their fingers were creased at the knuckles like folds in paper.

The next page: my third birthday party.

I remembered that day. The chocolate cake. The red balloons. The way the light came through the kitchen window in the afternoon.

But the photograph showed a backyard I'd never seen. A cake whose frosting kept spelling HAPPY BIRTHDAY over and over in looping cursive that began again as soon as it finished. And beside me, his arm around my shoulder as if we'd known each other forever—Ellis.

I was still staring when the pages began to turn themselves.

They went quickly, flickering through years I recognised and years I didn't:

First day of school, a teacher with Miss Wicker's face before the thread.

A funeral, the casket lined with newspaper instead of satin.

The day Mom disappeared—a full page, entirely blank, where her face should have been.

And then: today.

The ink was wet on this page, the paper slightly warm in my hands. It showed me standing exactly here in this mausoleum, holding this book. The next panel was blank except for two words in the centre of the page, and I knew before I finished reading them that something was behind me.

The Original filled the doorway.

Up close, I could see that its skin—Miss Wicker's skin—was made of layered obituaries, name after name printed in small type. The bookbinding thread at its mouth had torn free on one side, hanging down like a dark ribbon.

It reached into its own chest with one hand and withdrew a single sheet of paper. On it was an aerial view of Pigeon Hollow—every building, every tree, every person, drawn in perfect handwriting. I found myself, a small careful cursive 'M' on a familiar street.

"All of it," the Original said through its unfolding hands, "is just a first draft."

The book in my hands gave a violent shudder, as if trying to tell me something.

I held on.