THIS BOOK WILL KILL YOU

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Are you still there?

Are you still reading?

I know some of you won't be. Some of you will have put this book down, or given it away, or burned it, or deleted it, thinking that it's not true, or thinking that if you don't read to the end then she won't find you.

But not you, right? You know the truth, or you suspect it enough not to risk it. Maybe you've felt her, in the quiet of the night, sitting at the foot of your bed. Or maybe she's behind you right now, reaching.

Listen for a moment, listen past the noise of whatever is around you, listen past the murmur of the day or the deadsound of the night, listen into the quiet that lies just beyond everything else. It's always there, and she's in it right now, she's watching you through it. Look back, turn your head quick enough and you might catch a glimpse, but only if she wants you to. She'll reveal herself soon enough.

It doesn't matter if you read the whole of this book, or the first page. It doesn't even matter if somebody mentioned the title to you, or if you walked past it in the street. You only have to hear it, you only have to know it exists, for her to see you.

And then it's just a matter of time.

But I'm glad you're still here, I'm glad you're still with me. At least if you read to the end you'll have some idea of what to do. Don't get me wrong, this book will still kill you, it has already killed you, but there's always a chance you'll see something I didn't.

Maybe you already have.

Or maybe you're making the same mistakes I did.

Because what I did next was a big mistake.

What I did next changed everything.

Cara's address was right there in the folder that Cyrus gave me, stapled to the back of one of the stories along with a summary of her case. I read as much as I could bear about the way her short, sad life ended, then I started to walk. It took me close to four hours, in the end, even with Apple Maps to guide me. I think I would have found my way without it. Three times I decided to leave, to wait until the morning, three times I tried to walk away, to find the nearest subway and ride home, three times I ended up back on the same route, locked in and weeping.

Cara's apartment is in a block of twelve, a happy part of the city, trees on the sidewalks diffusing the streetlights. There's still a line of police tape hanging from one lamppost, flapping in a wind that I can't feel, beckoning me like a finger. I'm not sure how I'm going to get in, but I needn't have worried. The lobby door is wide open, the glass shattered, chunks of it covering the floor like spilled teeth.

The block doesn't look old from the outside but inside it might have been underwater for a century. The paper is peeling, the plasterwork wet and mushy underneath. The floor is filthy, stained with things it's too dark to identify. The elevator is out of order so I take the stairs, heading for the fourth floor. Teeth crunch beneath my sneakers, nails too, whole nails. Hair has been woven around the handrail like bunting. I have to keep pulling it from between my fingers.

The door to Cara's place is open as well, the lights are on inside. I don't think anyone is home but I knock anyway, whisper a "Hello?" Only silence meets me, the kind of silence that's utterly empty, utterly dead. I hover in the door, but the witch has shown me her hand, she's shown me what she's capable of, I don't think there will be anything new in here. So in I walk, clutching the bag to my chest, moving down a short hallway into an open plan kitchen and living room. It stinks, because there are dirty plates piled in the sink, the fridge wide open. There should be flies but the air is clear. Even insects know that some places are pure poison.