Chapter 4
1197words
It was morning on the fourth day since I made my choice.
I examined my arms in the mirror, and my last shred of hope died. The light purple bruises from last night had darkened to black patches spreading from wrists to elbows. Worse were the scratch marks—no longer normal wounds but necrotic black lines with festering edges that gave off a sickly sweet stench.
I touched the black marks and felt nothing. The skin had gone completely numb, cold and stiff like a corpse.
The curse had breached the barrier between spirit and flesh. I could feel that dark power crawling through my veins, eating away at my life like acid. Without action, I'd soon join those twisted figures in the photograph.
I knew what I had to do.
Through endless sleepless nights, I'd considered every possible escape. Though I had no guidebook, something told me this curse needed a host, an observer, and the fuel of fear. If I weren't the only bearer, if someone else could shoulder this burden...
I told myself this wasn't harm but sharing. I convinced myself the next person might be stronger, better equipped to battle this supernatural force. I repeated that this was my only chance to survive, an unavoidable choice.
But these were all bullshit excuses. Deep down, I knew exactly what I was doing—transferring a death sentence to some innocent stranger.
That morning, I repackaged "The Midnight Bell," sliding the cursed photograph back inside and placing everything in a clean plastic bag.
When my fingers touched the photograph, a sharp sting shot through them, as if the yellowed paper had turned to ice. The scene had transformed completely: the couple now gray and corpse-like, their eyes black holes, mouths frozen in silent screams.
The woman in the background stood out clearly now, her face twisted with terror and despair as she pointed frantically toward the ceiling.
This wasn't a photograph anymore—it was a window into hell.
I scrawled three words on the book's title page: "Pass it on."
My handwriting came out shaky, ink bleeding into the paper like dark blood. But I had to leave some hint, some guidance. I couldn't let the next person face this blindly as I had.
After writing those words, a strange relief washed over me. Like heavy chains sliding from my shoulders, though I knew it was just an illusion. The curse still had me, for now. But I'd set my liberation in motion.
I tucked the book under my arm and left my apartment.
Outside was just another Wednesday morning—mild sunshine, gentle breeze. People rushed to work, kids trudged to school with backpacks. Everything so damn normal, so alive. No one knew what I carried, what evil lurked inside this ordinary-looking novel.
A profound loneliness hit me. In this bustling world, only I knew about the supernatural horror quietly spreading. I was like a plague carrier—looking normal outside, but rotting with guilt and fear inside.
The community bookshelf at the corner was my target. A small green metal cabinet next to the bus stop with "Share Knowledge, Spread Love" painted on the side. How fucking ironic. I wasn't sharing knowledge but a curse, not spreading love but death.
The shelf already held a dozen books: children's stories, romance novels, health guides, financial advice. Normal books for normal people living normal lives. My "Midnight Bell" would be the wolf among sheep, the poison in the well.
I opened the glass door, inhaling that familiar paper scent. Finding a spot in the middle, I slid "Midnight Bell" inside, positioning the cover outward where sunlight made the title gleam ominously.
As I moved to close the door, I noticed something disturbing. The books surrounding "Midnight Bell" seemed to dull in color, as if an invisible shadow had fallen over them. Was I imagining it? Or had the curse already begun to spread?
I slammed the door shut and hurried away.
Walking home, I wrestled with conflicting emotions. Relief at my coming freedom battled with crushing guilt over what I'd just done.
I pictured some innocent person opening that book, finding that photograph, then experiencing the same horrors I had. I saw them slowly realizing they were cursed, their mounting terror and despair.
But whenever guilt threatened to drown me, I looked at the rotting black spots on my arms, reminding myself that survival trumps all. I repeated that in life-or-death situations, morality is a luxury. I convinced myself anyone would have done the same.
Back home, an unfamiliar emptiness greeted me. The apartment seemed eerily quiet—no longer oppressive, but missing some subtle "presence." I realized I'd grown used to coexisting with that supernatural force, accustomed to constant fear and tension. Their sudden absence left me adrift.
I sat on the couch all afternoon doing nothing, just waiting. Waiting for the curse to transfer, for release to come, for some sign my plan had worked.
At dusk, the pain in my arm lessened. The black patches stopped spreading, and the festering edges began to scab. A good sign—the curse was leaving me, hunting for fresh prey.
As night fell, I finally slept peacefully. For the first time in ages, no nightmares jolted me awake, no whimpers echoed from the walls, no presence lurked beneath my bed. The curse had truly gone.
But this peace lasted just one night.
The next morning, scrolling through news on my phone, I saw it: "Bizarre suicide in the city—middle-aged man found hanged in his home, horror novel discovered at scene..."
My heart nearly stopped.
A new host had been found. The curse had begun its next cycle. And I had become one of the perpetuators of this evil cycle.
I realized that though I'd escaped the curse, I could never escape the guilt. An innocent life was snuffed out because of my selfishness, and his blood would forever stain my hands. I'd saved myself by destroying someone else.
What's more terrifying is knowing this cycle won't stop. The next victim will also desperately try to escape, passing it on to another innocent person. On and on it will go, an endless chain of death.
And all because I bought a fifteen-dollar book at a secondhand store.
Now, as I write these words, I know this isn't the end but another beginning. Because I realize that by writing this story, by having someone read these words, some kind of transfer might happen again.
Maybe you think this is just fiction. Maybe you believe these words are merely some author's imagination. But when you close this book, when you're about to forget this story, you might notice a photograph sliding out from between the pages.
That photograph taken in the summer of 1989.
It now lies quietly on your lap, waiting for your gaze.
When you turn to the middle page, the photograph will be looking back at you.
