Chapter 9

This Book May Kill You

Evan hung up with Darryl. Three minutes later, the bookshelf rearranged itself. The Chicago Manual of Style slid left. A Treasury of Taxidermy appeared between books he actually owned. Then it vanished. Then it reappeared one shelf down.

The changes were small. He could almost convince himself he was imagining them.

He looked at his desk. His coffee mug was gone. It sat on the windowsill behind him. Still steaming.

Evan stood up. He took the three steps to the window. Picked up the mug. Took a sip. The coffee was cold.

He set it back. Turned around to face the desk. The mug was already there, sitting next to his mouse.

Evan froze. He was standing in the narrow gap between his bed and the desk.

“Okay,” he said. His voice cracked. “Okay. This is fine. Objects finding their proper place. Fuck.”

The laptop screen brightened. The manuscript was open to Chapter 8. The words he and Darryl just spoke were already there. At the bottom of the page, a new sentence appeared.

The drywall groaned. The left wall slid six inches toward the center of the room. The ceiling dropped. The overhead light brushed the top of Evan’s head.

He was pinned between the edge of the desk and the encroaching wall.

“No,” he said. “No no no.”

He leaned over the desk. Highlighted the new sentence. Deleted it.

The laptop didn't wait. The keys rattled. It was a sharp, mechanical thud, like a heavy typewriter. Characters spilled across the screen in reverse. Strings of code and backward letters. Then they flipped. One by one, they turned over and locked into place.

The sentence was back. The cursor blinked at the end of the line. Steady. Rhythmic.

“Fuuuccckkk!” Evan howled. He gripped the edge of the desk until his knuckles turned white. “This is my file. My apartment. My—”

The lights flickered. Hard. Rhythmic. When they stabilized, the bookshelf was full of titles he’d never seen.

The Care and Keeping of Cats. Feline Mythology Through the Ages. When Cats Attack: A Survivor’s Guide. The Cat Who Wouldn’t Stay Dead. Evan reached for one. His hand passed through the spine. He pulled back. Tried again. This time the paper was solid and cold.

“It’s starting,” he whispered. His phone buzzed.

Text from Darryl: Anything happening?

Evan: EVERYTHING is happening.

The cat?

Not here yet. The apartment is changing.

Three dots. Then: Same here. The office is shifting. We may have fucked up.

We wanted chaos. We got it.

Evan set the phone down. The walls were beige. He remembered them white. Or gray. The memory slipped away. The floor was carpet. Then hardwood. Then a sticky, industrial linoleum that smelled like bleach. Then back to the carpet, but the pile was longer now. Shag.

His furniture cycled through different versions. A leather chair. A plastic stool. A velvet sofa. A folding chair.

He walked to the window. The street was empty. No cars. No people. Just gray pavement and a gray sky that didn’t move.

Evan pressed his hand against the glass. The heat stung his palm. He yanked it back.

He held his hand up to the light. He expected blisters. Redness. The skin was pale. Cool to the touch. It didn’t even throb.

He looked back at the glass. The mark on the pane wasn’t his handprint. It was a single, thick pad with five sharp points at the tips. It was twice the size of his own hand.

A meow.

It came from the bathroom. Low enough to feel in his ribs.

Evan stared at the door. He walked over and turned the knob.

The bathroom was empty. White tiles. Mirror. Shower curtain.

Steam rose from the sink. The faucet wasn’t running.

Letters appeared in the fog.

NAVE OLLEH

Each letter was sharp at the edges. The moisture dripped from the bottom of the V, leaving a clear streak down the glass.

"Backward text? Seriously?"

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THIS BOOK MAY KILL YOU