back into the restaurant. Annoyingly, somebody's lifted my coffee, but Flint's hovering by the bar so I head her way. She's talking to somebody, and the moment I notice this I notice that the light fittings above me are swaying from side to side—almost imperceptibly. The air has thickened, I can taste it on my tongue. It tastes like meat.
I stop, looking at the floor to stop myself being carried away by a wave of vertigo.
I've just done this, I think, but there's a piece of me missing, a great black hole where a chunk of my mind has been carved away. The sweat's pouring off me, and I breathe, breathe, breathe until the nausea passes and I can lift my head.
I see Flint.
I see myself, too.
I know it's me because I'm wearing my clothes, the same ones I've got on now. I've got the same hair, unbrushed, greasy. I know it's me because I've just been here, as impossible as it sounds I've just been here.
"No," I say as Flint lifts something from the bar, as she hands it to the other me.
A wad of paper sheets, covered in type.
"No!" I say, stopping dead, lifting the paper that's in my hand now, seeing the story there, a note from Megan. Flint's looking at me, her face melting off the bone. The other me is looking at me too, even though she can't possibly see anything through the empty nest of her head.
I'm screaming, it doesn't even sound like me, it sounds alien, it's not a noise that a person could ever make. But I'm making it, screaming as I run for the door (again), as I push it open (again), as I run—
YOU ARE READING
THIS BOOK WILL KILL YOU
HorrorThis book will kill you. This book has already killed you. You were a deadthing the moment you read these words. You were a deadthing when you opened the first page. You were deadthing the very instant you discovered this story even existed, the ver...
