The Storm and the Stranger III

Journal Entry – October 17, 1871

The book no longer hums — it breathes.

When I touched it last night, the air in the room thickened, as though every shadow leaned closer to listen. The candlelight wavered, but not from any draft I could feel. I spoke aloud, softly at first, words that were not my own but came unbidden — syllables that curled and folded like smoke.

The room seemed to answer.

The flame stilled. The hum deepened, slower now, pulsing beneath my skin rather than through the air. I felt my pulse match it. And in that strange rhythm, I sensed meaning: the cadence of a name — or perhaps a warning.

When I opened my eyes again, a single word had appeared on the once-blank page. Faint, as if drawn in ash. It was gone by morning, but the shape of it lingers behind my eyelids when I blink.

Downstairs, the hotel is alive with gossip. The stranger’s horse was found dead at the edge of the property — eyes open, body untouched, as though the life had simply stepped out of it. The owner thinks it’s lightning. I know better. Lightning doesn’t hum.

The satchel remains on my table.

I’ve wrapped it again, but it still finds ways to call my name.