I am writing this letter to no one in particular. I need to write about what has occurred in the last few days. I’m too ashamed to even show myself to anyone, which will make more sense by the end of this letter. Hopefully, whoever finds this will be empathetic and find a way to help me, wherever I may end up.

This happened a few days ago when I visited an old used bookstore. I had just run out of books to read and was looking for a new one to consume my nights. I’ve been binging a lot of fiction lately, and for some reason, walking down the aisles, nothing appealed to me. Then, I thought to look through the historical non-fiction, since it was my favorite genre. Yet, nothing appealed to me. I was gripped by ennui.

I found myself in the collectibles section, full of archaic, decrepit books. As I was slowly looking through the books, one in particular, with fantastic designs in a symbolic language, caught my eye. Thinking back to that moment, I would say it was like it was calling for me. I grabbed the book, and it was in a strange language, if you can call it that. I’ve never seen anything like it before. I decided to flip through the pages and it was one of the most beautiful books I’ve ever seen. Everything was handwritten and the drawings were so detailed and elegant. My excitement began to fade as I couldn’t understand any of it.

But then, I reached a page with loose pages tucked in the seam. I unfolded the loose pages and it was an English translation and commentary of, what seemed, to be the current page. It was fascinating at first glance; whoever wrote the notes seemed well-educated. Not only would they translate the book, but they would add historical context and detailed definitions and descriptions. I couldn’t quite understand what the book was about right away, but I felt intrigued to do so. As I flipped through the pages, I found more and more loose notes.

It didn’t take long for me to close the book, make my way to the cash register and purchase it. That night, I laid in bed and began to read chronologically, only skipping the pages that didn’t have the associated loose notes. At one point, I tried to search online for the language, but with no success. It seemed like it was an invented language, completely alien to the world. I had to rely solely on the notes.

The content of the book, at least according to the notes, was intriguing. It contained a vast amount of topics, such as medieval history, alchemical practices, gods and demons, spiritual philosophies, and much more. When I finally put the book down to fall asleep, I was still thinking about the purpose of the book. The content dug its way deep into my brain, but I didn’t understand the overall theme.

The following day, as I was at work, I found myself daydreaming about the book and its content. Other than the purpose of the book, another question was bothering me: why were some pages missing translations? Was it purposeful, accidental, or were some pages untranslatable? A fear of missing out began to linger.

When I got home that day, I quickly ate and began reading at once. After a couple of hours, I had an epiphany. It was a little cryptic but I realized that each page was an instruction. To what? I wasn’t sure yet, but patterns began to emerge and it was becoming obvious. I went back to the beginning, and as I reread the notes, I found the instructions.

After a couple of hours, it finally made sense to me: they were rituals for summoning either events, like luck, or strange, mythical entities. Based on the notes and the context around each instruction, the author of the notes made it sound so real. When in fact, to my disappointment, it was all fictional. Not feeling the urge any longer, I closed the book, and went to bed. I was done with that book.

However, the next day at work, I felt myself continuously thinking of the book. Something was bothering me about the book and its content. I found myself attached to the author of the notes, even admiring him for his profound knowledge of the world, and his writing. Yet, it surprised me that someone of that caliber could believe in such nonsense as rituals and summoning entities. I couldn’t shake that thought all day.

After work, I planned to go to the bookstore to pick up some other books to read that night. However, when I entered my home, I had completely forgotten to go to the store, as if subconsciously, I didn’t want to. I made dinner, ate, and sat in the living room in silence, not too sure what to do with myself. There was this urge to continue reading the book, but my ego resisted it. I don’t know how long I sat there in silence.

Then, something filled me with determination. I told myself to keep an open mind, and I had to try one of the rituals. If it didn’t work, I would abandon the book once and for all. But if it did, well, the author was on to something and I would open my mind to a new perspective of the world.

I grabbed the book and went to a page that described how to conjure an entity. I avoided any event, like summoning luck, since there’d be no way to separate causation from chance. I proceeded to set up the ritual.

I will omit the details for your own good, but to give you an idea, it involved a prick of a finger, a vanishing sun, and salt. I had all the necessary ingredients.

After the setup was complete, I performed the ritual in my living room while murmuring some Latin, I believe. At the time, I was a little embarrassed, but I couldn’t lie about how fast my heart was racing. It was definitely out of my comfort zone. When I had completed it, according to the instructions, I waited for this “entity.” Yet, nothing happened. After a while, I concluded that it was foolish and was done with the book. But, then I was overcome with the desire once again. I thought, maybe I had done the ritual wrong. I opened the book and found another simple ritual to summon a different entity.

It wouldn’t hurt to try again, just in case.

I collected the ingredients once again, which differed from the first ritual, and set up once more. This time, I did it in my room, and once again, after a while, nothing. I remember laughing it off, feeling ridiculous while I cleaned up, and deciding I was officially done with the book. It was getting late, so I readied for bed and fell asleep.

Then, around 2am, there was knocking on my front door. Startled out of my deep sleep, when I came to, the knocking stopped. I was wondering if it was a dream. Then, I heard it again—my stomach dropped. Who would be knocking at this time of night?

I got out of bed and cautiously made my way downstairs to the foyer, making sure no one was peering in through the windows. I made it to the front of the door and just stared at it—what should I do? I asked myself. And then, another knock, this time louder and more aggressive. I jumped back, and ran to the door to look through the peephole to see who was there.

But there was no one…

I went to the windows to look out and with my front yard illuminated by the streetlights, I saw no one. Taken aback, I didn’t know how to process what was happening. I sat down on the steps going upstairs, with my head in my palms—exhausted and confused.

Then, there was the aggressive knock once again.

I ran to the door and looked—there was no one. Then, I don’t know why, but I opened the door to look outside, and once again, I saw no one. But then, I felt something go through me. It’s hard to explain, but whatever it was, it felt horrible, like terror literally passing through my entire body. I remember tears running down my cheeks. I’ve never felt anything like it. I closed the door and ensured it was locked. I made my way to the living room, waiting for another knock. But another knock never came. Sitting on the couch, I was wide awake and decided to turn the TV on to watch some funny videos to calm down.

It wasn’t long after that I heard something upstairs—tapping on the walls. I thought it was my mind playing tricks, but it was too real and too vivid. I turned off the TV and carefully walked to the stairs. I peered up and all I saw was darkness. I took each step delicately to not make a noise. When I reached the top, the tapping had stopped. I went to my room and heard nothing. I checked the other rooms, leaving the lights on and saw or heard nothing. At this point, I thought I was losing my mind. I decided to go back downstairs to watch a bit more TV.

But, as I got to the staircase, I could see a dark silhouette of a man at the bottom, just staring at me. I leaped back and ran into my room. I locked the door and ran to the other side, opposite from the door, panicked. Breathing heavily, I heard footsteps approaching the door. And when they stopped right in front of the door, I saw the doorknob turning.

They were trying to get in.

I went to grab my phone to call the police, but I had left my phone on the couch, downstairs. The knob started turning aggressively and my only escape was the window, which was not an option since it was high up and there was concrete beneath. I backed further into the corner of the room, then I heard something else. Startled, I heard faint whispers in the closet.

I remember being so confused, I put my ear closer to the door of the closet to hear better, and when I did, the tapping began, right at my ear. I don’t know what came over me, frustration, anger, or both, but I swung the closet door open to look inside. Surprisingly, once again, there was nothing. But, the whispers were much louder, and they were definitely coming from the closet.

I took a few steps back, and my attention shifted back to the bedroom door, where now there was loud banging, as if whoever was there was trying to break down the door.

I honestly felt insane, still do, even as I write this.

As I was looking at the door, something touched my shoulder. I automatically shifted away and looked around me, but there was nothing there, other than the whispers.

I remember jumping on my bed, which was between the closet and the door, and just kept looking back and forth, from the door to the closet.

As the door pounding got louder and angrier, my arms started to hurt… I looked down and scratches began to appear on my arms. They were painful and stinging. Then I started to feel the same sensation on my back.

I had no idea what was happening, but I knew I had to get out of there.

I did the only thing I could think of: I got off my bed, unlocked the door, turned the knob, and slammed the door open, hoping to knock back whoever was on the other side. To my surprise, the door hit no one, and I saw no one. Regardless, I ran down the stairs and out the front door.

I burst out of the house and my legs gave out beneath me before I’d taken three steps. On the ground, I crawled over to see if I was being chased, and luckily, I wasn’t. Then, I looked up at my bedroom’s window, and through the faint light coming from the hallway, I saw silhouettes of hands appearing on the window. They pressed against the glass, then pulled away, then pressed again—slow and deliberate. I had no idea who or what was in my room. Then, my attention went back to the front door because what I saw was truly frightening—a shadow outline of a man walking towards me from within the house.

I started crawling backwards in a panic, but I was too scared to get back on my feet. I just watched the man approach me. But then, it stopped at the door, just staring at me. It wasn’t leaving the house.

I sat there a while looking at both the shadow of a man and the hands up above, hearing faintly the whispers emanating from my bedroom. I eventually collected myself and got up. But, I didn’t know where to go, both my car keys and phone were in the house, and there was no way I was going back in there. I decided to walk to my backyard, while keeping my eyes on these things. I noticed, as I was walking, that they were following me. When I was in the backyard, the man was standing in front of the glass sliding door, and the hands were now in the spare bedroom.

They were watching me, and I was watching them.

I sat down on one of my patio chairs and just watched through the night. As the sun began to rise after the most terrifying night of my life, the hands from the window receded, and so did the man. I got out of my chair to peer inside, and I couldn’t see any of them.

This was my opportunity.

I ran to the front, barged into the house, grabbed my keys on the way in, and ripped my phone from the couch. I immediately ran back outside. Panicking, I slammed the front door shut and fumbled with the keys to lock it. I ran to my car and decided to make my way to my parents, who lived a couple of hours out of town.

When I got to my parents, surprised as they were, they welcomed me to stay the weekend. I was nervous; there was no sign of the man or the whispers. As the day progressed, I was starting to feel relieved that these entities were gone. Fatigue sank in heavily. When night approached, I told my parents I needed to get some sleep and went to bed. As I was falling asleep, I wondered where the entities had gone: were they nocturnal? Were they bound to the house or book? Should I return to the house? With all these unanswered questions, I fell asleep.

I was safe. At least that’s what I thought.

When I woke up, early in the morning, I recalled a terrifying dream involving those whispers. But that thought vanished when I realized I was overcome with pain. I looked at my chest, stomach, arms, and legs, and all were scratched so deeply. So deep, I was bleeding all over. I panicked and ran to the bathroom, and my face was also covered in these deep scratches. The pain was unbearable, but what would I tell my parents? How could I explain this to them? Or anyone for that matter?

Now, here I am, stuck in this room, writing this letter, trying to make sense of all this. What did I do? What is that book? What do those things want from me? How do I stop it? What do I do now?