The Book That Should Not Be

Elias Mercer never struggled with writer’s block. If anything, his stories seemed to pour out of him as if they had already been written somewhere, waiting to be transcribed. But his latest project was different. He had no idea where the idea had come from—one moment his screen was blank, the next, his fingers were typing the title: The Book That Should Not Be.

He blinked. The name sent a chill through him. He couldn’t remember thinking of it, yet there it was, stark against the empty document. He hesitated, but then the familiar rush of creativity took over, and he began to write.

It was the story of an author named Victor Halloway who stumbled upon an ancient manuscript. The more Victor read, the more reality around him began to shift. Landmarks disappeared. People forgot their own names. The stars in the sky rearranged into unfamiliar constellations. Elias had no plan for where the story was going, but every sentence came effortlessly, as if dictated to him by an unseen force.

That night, as Elias prepared for bed, something odd happened. His apartment keys weren’t where he always left them. The framed picture of his sister on his desk—gone. He scoured the apartment, but there was no trace of it. A strange unease settled over him, but he chalked it up to exhaustion.

The next day, his manuscript had grown by five pages. He hadn’t written them.

The paragraphs described Victor waking up in a world slightly altered, with tiny details missing or misplaced. Elias felt a prickle of unease. It was a coincidence, surely. Maybe he had written them in a half-asleep state. But the words didn’t feel like his own.

As he continued the book, the changes in his own life grew more pronounced. His favorite coffee shop was gone—vanished as if it had never existed. Friends hesitated when he greeted them, their faces knitting in confusion before they recognized him. Then, one morning, his neighbor—a woman he had known for five years—looked at him blankly and said, “I’m sorry, have we met?”

Elias slammed his laptop shut. He wasn’t easily rattled, but this was different. The more he wrote, the more his world rewrote itself. He needed to stop.

For three days, he refused to open the manuscript. He went about his life, trying to reassure himself that everything was fine. But the world around him continued to shift. Buildings he remembered walking past daily no longer existed. A coworker of ten years introduced himself as if they were strangers.

Finally, he opened the file again, heart pounding. The manuscript had continued without him.

Victor Halloway had reached the final pages of the cursed manuscript within the book, and the last passage sent ice through Elias’s veins:

“Victor realized, too late, that he was not the writer of his own fate. His story had already been written, and he was merely reading it.”

Elias’s hands trembled. He scrolled to the next paragraph, and his breath caught.

“And in another world, a writer named Elias Mercer finally understands. He is not creating this story—he is uncovering it. And he does not realize that the moment he reads these words, someone will knock at his door.”

A knock echoed through his apartment.

Elias shot up from his chair, blood roaring in his ears. He stared at the door. His breath came in shallow gasps. This was impossible.

The words on the screen shifted.

“He hesitates. He wonders if opening the door will change everything.”

His entire body was shaking now. He stepped forward, pulse hammering. He reached for the handle.

And then he turned it.

The hallway was empty—except for a single package on the floor. No return address. No markings. Just a plain, leather-bound book.

The title sent ice through his veins:
The Book That Should Not Be – By Elias Mercer.

He stumbled backward, the room spinning. He wanted to run, to throw the book away, to burn his laptop. But something compelled him to open it.

He flipped through the pages. Every word, every chapter, was his manuscript—down to the very moment he had read the last sentence. But the final page held something new.

A single, unfinished line:

“Elias Mercer turns the page, unaware that he has just written his own ending.”

His fingers trembled.

And then, as if trapped by fate itself, Elias turned the page.

The words appeared as he read them: “The ink fades, and so does he.”

Elias felt a strange tug in his chest. His breath shuddered. He looked down at his hands—his fingers were dissolving into ink, his skin peeling away into words that floated off the page.

His apartment blurred, becoming sentences, paragraphs, fragments of a story he no longer controlled.

The last thing he saw before the world vanished was the title of the next book appearing on his desk.

The Next Writer – By Unknown.

Then, an echoing silence, stretching beyond words, beyond stories, beyond the concept of self. Elias Mercer no longer existed, except within the book.

Far away, in another apartment, a different writer sat down, stretched his fingers, and stared at a blank screen.

He typed a title without knowing where it had come from.

The Book That Should Not Be.

And so, the cycle began again.



I've expanded the story by 100 words, enhancing the eerie cycle of fate and deepening the suspense. Let me know if you'd like any further refinements!