Chapter 1: The Cursed Bargain

Chapter 1: The Cursed Bargain

The blue light of the phone screen was Elara Vance’s only companion at one in the morning. It cast long, dancing shadows across her apartment, a carefully curated haven of other people’s histories. A mismatched sixties armchair, a set of art deco coasters, vintage band posters thumbtacked to the walls—each item had been hunted, bargained for, and won. Each was a small victory in the endless scroll.

Tonight, the scroll was yielding nothing. Vinted, her usual digital hunting ground, felt stale. The algorithm, usually so attuned to her desires for the obscure and forgotten, was serving up a steady diet of fast-fashion cast-offs and chipped ceramics. A sigh escaped her lips, fogging the screen for a moment. Her remote graphic design job paid the bills, but it was this—the thrill of the find—that truly made her feel alive. It was a quiet, solitary passion for a quiet, solitary life.

Just as she was about to give up, to surrender to the sleep that tugged at the corners of her vision, she saw it. The listing was stark, almost laughably amateur. The photo was poorly lit, showing a thick, dark book against a cluttered background. The title simply read: ‘Old handwritten book.’

Curiosity, that persistent itch, made her tap.

The description was what hooked her.

Item: Handwritten horror anthology. Approx. 200 pages. Bound in leather. No title or author visible. Appears to be from the late 1960s based on handwriting style.

So far, so good. It was the final two sentences that made her sit up straighter, her feet touching the cool wood of the floor.

Note: Seller believes this item to be cursed. Please purchase at your own risk. Not responsible for nightmares.

A low, amused laugh bubbled up in her chest. Cursed. What a brilliant marketing tactic. It was cheesy, a cheap ploy to add mystique to what was likely some student’s forgotten creative writing project. But it was working. Below the description, the price was a joke. Five pounds. Less than a fancy coffee. It was a steal, a bargain too good to ignore.

Desire. The familiar thrum of it pulsed in her veins. She had to have it.

The obstacle was purely imaginary—a fleeting thought of common sense, a whisper that buying a ‘cursed’ book in the dead of night was a cliche she should be above.

Action. She scoffed at the thought and tapped the ‘Buy Now’ button. Her payment details were saved, the transaction completed in seconds. A small, digital firework of confirmation popped up on her screen. It was done. The cursed bargain was hers.

Three days later, a thin, brown mailer was pushed through her letterbox. It was unnervingly light. Elara tore it open right there in the hallway, the day’s sunlight seeming to shrink away from the object in her hands.

It was exactly as the picture had shown, yet infinitely more real. The book was bound in dark, cracked leather, completely bare of any title or marking. It felt cold to the touch, a deep, cellar cold that had nothing to do with the ambient temperature of her apartment. The pages, thick and yellowed, were brittle at the edges. She flipped one open, and the smell hit her—the ‘memory point’ from her character bio. It wasn't just the pleasant, musty aroma of old paper. This was a scent of dry rot, forgotten attics, and something else… something vaguely metallic and sharp, like old pennies or dried blood.

She took it to her favourite armchair, the very heart of her sanctuary, and began to read.

The handwriting was a dense, slightly slanted cursive, penned in faded black ink. There were no titles for the stories, they simply bled one into the next, separated only by a small, hand-drawn flourish. The first tale was about a man who became convinced the faces he saw in the wood grain of his furniture were whispering his secrets. The second followed a woman haunted by her own reflection, which began to move fractions of a second slower than she did.

The writing was good. Frighteningly good. It wasn't about cheap scares or gratuitous gore; it was a masterclass in creeping dread, in the quiet horror of the mundane turning malevolent. The author had a talent for getting under the skin, for finding the tiny cracks in reality and prying them open.

Elara, a connoisseur of the genre, found herself completely captivated. She read for hours, the afternoon light fading to a dusky orange outside her window. The cozy comfort of her apartment began to feel… thin. The familiar groan of the building's pipes sounded like a low moan. The shadows pooling in the corners of the room seemed deeper, darker than usual. She caught herself glancing at the polished surface of her dark-wood coffee table, half-expecting her reflection to lag.

A shiver traced its way down her spine. This was ridiculous. It was just a book. A very effective one, but still just a book. Yet, the feeling of being watched settled over her, heavy and unwelcome.

By the time she finished the fifth story—a particularly gruesome piece about a sound that could only be heard on the edge of sleep—her nerves were shot. Her heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She slammed the book shut, the sound unnaturally loud in the silence. The metallic tang in its scent seemed stronger now, and she pushed it away, leaving it on the coffee table.

She needed to disconnect. She made dinner, watched some mindless comedy on her laptop, and tried to scrub the book’s chilling prose from her mind. But the images lingered: the shifting faces in the wood, the out-of-sync reflection, the whispers just beyond the veil of hearing.

Finally, exhausted, she decided to call it a night. She double-checked the locks on her door—a habit she hadn’t bothered with in months—and retreated to her bedroom. She left the book in the living room, a silent, dark rectangle on the table.

Lying in bed, staring up at the darkened ceiling, she couldn't switch her brain off. The stories churned in her mind, replaying themselves with vivid, unwanted clarity. Her cozy apartment no longer felt like a haven; it felt like a trap. Every creak of the floorboards from the apartment above was a footstep. The rustle of leaves against her window was the scratching of fingernails.

This was what the seller had meant. Not responsible for nightmares. It was just a powerful piece of writing, that’s all. It was suggestion.

She rolled onto her side, facing the window. The streetlights outside cast a faint, amber glow, turning the glass into a murky mirror. She could just make out the faint silhouette of her head and shoulders against the pillow.

She closed her eyes, praying for the release of sleep. Her thoughts began to drift, to soften at the edges. The tension in her shoulders finally started to ease. She was on the precipice, that sweet, liminal space between waking and dreaming.

That’s when she heard it.

A sound so faint it was almost nothing. A soft, wet scrape.

It was the sound from the last story she’d read.

Her eyes snapped open.

In the dim reflection of the window, her silhouette was no longer lying down. It was sitting bolt upright, facing her. And as raw, paralyzing terror flooded every cell in her body, her own reflection in the glass began to smile—a wide, silent, impossible smile.