The Storm and the Stranger II

Journal Entry – October 14, 1871

I waited until morning to touch it.

The satchel sat on the bar all night, untouched, though I could feel it watching me. Every so often it let out the faintest hum — not a sound exactly, but a pressure, like when thunder rolls far away and the air forgets how to breathe.

At dawn, I unlatched it.

Inside was only a small bundle wrapped in oilcloth, bound tight with black twine. The knot was perfect, deliberate. I almost didn’t want to break it. But my fingers moved before my mind agreed — the thread slipped loose like it had been waiting.

The cloth unfolded to reveal a book. Or perhaps something pretending to be one. The cover was smooth, too smooth, like skin worked and oiled. No title. No seams. When I touched it, the hum grew stronger, matching my heartbeat until the two became one.

The pages inside were blank at first glance — but when the light shifted, faint writing began to bleed through. Not ink. More like shadow. I could almost read the words, though the language wasn’t one I’ve ever seen. Still, I understood it. Deep down, in the quiet place where fear lives.

Someone knocked at the door just then — the hotel owner’s wife, come to collect the morning’s key. I closed the satchel quickly, but her eyes lingered on it. “That man left nothing but trouble,” she muttered.

She’s right, of course. Trouble has a scent, and it’s sweet as myrrh.

Tonight, I’ll read more. The hum grows louder when the lamps go out.