Estimated reading time — 28 minutes

It was a rainy Saturday morning, and I could hear the rain tapping against my window. I looked up from my laptop and let out a soft sigh.

The sound was somewhat annoying, yet also oddly soothing, and I thought it might help me focus on the history essay I needed to finish for school.

As I kept typing away on my laptop, I suddenly heard yelling and shouting. I paused, my fingers hovering over the keyboard, and groaned quietly to myself.

“Not again.”

I got up from my bed and walked out of my room, heading down the hall and downstairs, where the yelling grew louder.

As I turned the corner, I spotted my Mom and older brother Mark in the living room, arguing about something.

“Mom, I already told you I’m sorry! I should have called to let you know I’d be home late. I didn’t realize that party would go on until one in the morning!”

“And I’ve already told you that I don’t like you or your brother being out that late! Something terrible could have happened to you! For heaven’s sake, you could have been killed or kidnapped, Marcus!”

Mom and Mark continued their argument, clearly oblivious to my presence. I sighed softly, contemplating whether to just turn around and let them sort it out.

Even though I was twenty-five and Mark was twenty-seven, Mom still treated us like children. She insisted we stay with her until we were both thirty, which infuriated us.

I felt a surge of frustration rising within me, and I cleared my throat as loudly as I could, causing Mom and Mark to stop arguing. They both turned to look at me.

“Oh my goodness, Daniel! I’m so sorry! Did we interrupt your studying?” Mom asked, sounding genuinely concerned.

“I’ve been attempting to study for more than an hour, but I can’t concentrate with you two bickering like children!”

Mark’s face flushed a deep red; I could tell he was embarrassed about the situation, yet he was still angry with Mom and wouldn’t cease his argument until he had expressed everything he wanted to say.

“We’re sorry, sweetheart. I’m just trying to explain to your brother that staying out late isn’t wise,” Mom said.

I’ve always disliked that particular trait of Mom’s—she’s such a worrywart, if that’s the right term, because she frets over everything, even the most trivial matters.

“You know what? I’ll just head to the library. Maybe I can finish my essay there, and hopefully, there won’t be anyone trying to tear each other apart!”

I nearly yelled the last part out of frustration as I turned and stormed back upstairs to my room to grab my things.

As I shoved my laptop and notebook into my bag, I muttered under my breath about the constant fighting and how I felt treated like a child.

Just as I was about to leave, I heard a knock on my bedroom door. I turned to see Mark leaning against the doorframe; I hadn’t even noticed him come up behind me.

“Let me guess, Mom sent you up here to stop me from heading to the library,” I remarked, glancing at him.

“Yep, she believes it’s a terrible idea for you to go outside in this rainstorm because you might get sick or even struck by lightning, which is ridiculous, but she wouldn’t listen when I told her that.”

I rolled my eyes and plopped down on my bed, slipping on my shoes and ensuring the straps were snug but not so tight that they were cutting into my feet.

“Honestly, I don’t care what the worrywart or you think. I’m going to the library to finish my darn history essay without having to listen to another argument from either of you. Now, if you could do me a favor and tell Mom I’ll be back before dinner, that would be great,” I retorted.

Before my brother could respond, I got up, tossed my bag over my shoulder, and pushed past him, making my way downstairs to the main part of the house.

Mom was there, clearly waiting for me. I raised my hand to signal that I didn’t want to hear her lecture and assured her I’d be home by dinner before stepping out onto the porch.

The only sounds I could hear were the rain and the rumbling thunder. I let out a soft sigh, double-checking that my bag was securely closed, then pulled up my hoodie and set off toward the city library.

“Who would have thought a library would be open on a weekend?”

After a few minutes of walking along the rain-soaked street, feeling the droplets on my head and back, I found myself in front of the library, a smile creeping onto my face.

The library always brought me joy; there was something magical about the aroma of aged paper and the soft murmurs of books that captivated me.

As I entered the library, I greeted the woman at the front desk. She returned my greeting with a smile, though I could sense she wasn’t thrilled to see me looking so drenched.

I located a spot to settle down, and a few minutes later, my belongings were spread out on the desk as I began working on my essay.

In fact, my laptop remained tucked away in my bag while I attempted to proofread my notes before transferring them. I sighed quietly, frustrated that nothing seemed to make sense, and realized I needed some assistance.

I got up and approached the front desk, inquiring if there were any history encyclopedias available that could aid me with my school essay.

She informed me that all the history encyclopedias were located in the back corner of the library and advised me to be cautious while I was there since some of those books were quite ancient.

I nodded in agreement and made my way to the back corner. Upon arrival, I began to sift through the aisles, but all the books appeared either dull or I was certain they wouldn’t be of any assistance to me.

Before long, I turned a corner and stumbled upon a section I had never seen before. It looked rather intimidating, as the overhead light was flickering and swaying back and forth.

I noticed a layer of dust on the shelf, and a few bugs scurried out from the shadows, rushing past me. I glanced at all the encyclopedias and couldn’t help but smile.

“Perhaps one of these could be useful to me,” I thought, grinning.

I began to pull encyclopedias off the shelf, examining their covers. Some I had read previously, while others were quite old, likely published when my mom was my age.

As I pushed one encyclopedia aside, something heavy tumbled down onto my foot, causing me to cry out in pain. I quickly slapped a hand over my mouth, not wanting to disrupt the tranquility.

I looked down and saw a thick, brown book lying on the ground. I bent down to pick it up and noticed it lacked any library codes or markings indicating ownership.

However, I soon realized how worn and tattered it was; the spine was cracked. I dusted off the cover and read the title, which sent a shiver down my spine.

“Prophetic Pages”

I opened the book and began flipping through the pages, each one yellowed with age and filled with handwritten notes and strange symbols that seemed to dance before my eyes.

As I continued to flip through the pages, I discovered that each one contained a detailed entry about the life and death of an individual. It struck me that the names were eerily familiar.

They were all people I knew—friends, family, acquaintances. I was in disbelief over what I was holding. When I turned to the next page, I nearly dropped the book on my feet once more.

“Timothy Green – Age 23 – Dies in a car accident on April 15th, 2023”

This page was dedicated to my childhood best friend, Timothy, or Tim, as I called him.

April 15th was tomorrow, and I could feel my heart pounding like a drum in my chest. I closed the book, trying to convince myself that this was just a cruel joke.

I glanced around the library, half-expecting someone to jump out and shout, “Got you!” But the aisles were empty. The only sounds were the rain tapping against the nearby window and my heavy breathing.

I came to the realization that I had to hurry home to call Tim and alert him about what was going to happen. I tucked the strange book under my arm and dashed back to the desk where my belongings were.

A few minutes later, I found myself sprinting down the street as fast as a guy who mainly plays video games and practices the trumpet can manage.

I began to ponder a multitude of thoughts: was any of this real? Was the book some sort of cursed object that the library had been concealing?

Upon arriving home, I rushed past Mark and Mom, who were in the kitchen preparing dinner. Thankfully, I didn’t hear them arguing, but I didn’t have the luxury of time to deal with that right now.

Once I reached my room, I tossed my bag and the Prophetic Pages book onto my desk, then grabbed my phone from the nightstand.

Without delay, I dialed Tim’s number, my fingers trembling as the phone rang and rang. Just when I thought he wouldn’t pick up, I heard his voice on the other end.

“Dude, you need to listen to me; this is really important. Are you planning to go out tonight?” I asked him.

Timothy excitedly explained that he was actually going to see a new horror movie that had just been released and suggested I join him if I was done being Mr. History.

I took a deep breath and pleaded with him to stay home, urging him not to drive anywhere and to just remain safe at home. Tim immediately laughed, teasing me about turning into my mother.

I was on the verge of telling him about the peculiar book I discovered at the library, but I knew he wouldn’t believe me. Just then, I heard Mom calling my name, so I told Tim I had to go, and he hung up.

I let out a soft sigh before glancing down at the Prophetic Pages book. Deep down, I feared it might already be too late for my childhood best friend.

I heard Mom calling my name again, so I set my phone back on the nightstand. I then walked out of my room and saw Mom standing at the foot of the stairs.

She informed me that dinner was ready and that she had been calling for me for two minutes, urging me to come downstairs before my food got cold.

At the table, I sat there pushing my peas around my plate with a fork while Mom and Mark were engaged in conversation, but I was focused on them.

My mind was occupied with thoughts of the dangerous book from the library, Tim’s disbelief, and the looming possibility of losing my best friend, either tomorrow or maybe even tonight.

“Hey little bro, what’s up with you?” Mark inquired.

I jumped in my seat, nearly falling out, but I managed to keep my composure because I knew if I hit the ground, Mom would treat me like a little baby.

“Oh, I’m just pondering my history essay. I found some intriguing information at the library, and I think it will help me score a good grade,”

I couldn’t share the details about the so-called death book because neither of them would believe me, especially since Tim never believed me when I warned him about his fate.

After dinner, I headed back to my room, sat on the bed, grabbed the book, and flipped to the page detailing Tim’s death.

I kept staring at it, wondering if it was real or if I could tear the page out and somehow prevent it from happening, like some sort of paradox.

But then I remembered that this book was indeed from the library, and I had borrowed it, yet it lacked any library barcodes or scanning tags, so perhaps it didn’t actually belong to the library.

I let out a soft sigh before placing the book on my nightstand, getting ready for bed, and soon I was lying in the dark bedroom, thinking about Tim and the terrible car accident that awaited him on April 15th.

The next morning, as I woke up, sunlight streamed through my window. I sat up, rubbed my eyes, and yawned. Instantly, I turned around, glancing at my phone, my thoughts immediately drifting to Tim.

I could hear my heartbeat pounding in my ears. I quickly grabbed my phone and texted Tim, checking if he was alright and if he had enjoyed the movie. I anticipated a swift response, but there was nothing.

Throughout the day, I kept waiting for Tim to either call or text me, but still, no reply came. Panic began to creep in, and I muttered in frustration under my breath.

I made the decision to call Tim’s home phone. However, instead of him picking up, it was his mother. When I inquired about Timothy’s whereabouts, I heard her gasp in horror.

She informed me that Tim had been involved in a car accident while driving to the grocery store, and the paramedics said he didn’t survive.

In that moment, I felt my legs buckle beneath me. I leaned against the wall, sliding down until I collapsed onto the floor.

The Prophetic Pages had spoken the truth, and it had come to pass. The book had foretold his death, and despite my efforts, I couldn’t save my best friend from dying.

The very next day, I found myself back at the library, enveloped in a fog of sorrow and disbelief, desperate to comprehend what had just transpired.

I settled into the same desk as before, retrieving the book from my bag, gazing at it before I began to leaf through the yellowed pages once more.

Each page contained a meticulous account of the life and death of various individuals; some were familiar to me, while others were not. Yet, each entry represented a friend or family member who would meet their end in unique circumstances, all described in vivid detail.

As I continued to turn the pages, I suddenly halted on one that sent a chill through my hands, almost compelling me to hurl the book across the room.

“Jessica Carter – Age 25 – Dies from an aneurysm on April 16th, 2023”

In that moment, I understood that this page detailed the death of my girlfriend, Jessica.

A shiver coursed through me as I recalled the last time I saw Jessica; we were at the coffee shop, sharing laughter over something silly.

Without hesitation, I jumped up, stuffed the book into my bag, and fished my phone out of my pocket to dial Jessica’s number.

“Hey Daniel, what’s up? I’m at work right now,” her voice came through.

“Listen, whatever you’re doing, you need to stop or head home. You’re in danger!”

I rushed to explain about the book I discovered in the library, detailing how it revealed the deaths of all my friends and family, including her.

I then told her I found Tim’s name in the book, and that he died in a car accident yesterday, just as the book predicted for that exact date.

“Whoa, Daniel, I think you’ve been watching too many horror movies. But when you get to the restaurant, at least bring me that so-called mystical book you have,” Jessica said before hanging up.

I felt an urge to scream into the emptiness. I urged my feet to run, wishing I had brought my car or something quicker than my clumsy feet. When I finally reached the restaurant, I doubled over, gasping for breath.

As I looked up, I saw a crowd gathered around the entrance, and confusion washed over me. Were they having a sale, or was there a fight going on?

I was indifferent to the commotion; my only focus was finding Jessica to show her the book. I squeezed through the throng and entered the restaurant, where I noticed paramedics and medical personnel, along with an area cordoned off by barriers.

I couldn’t see what was happening due to another crowd blocking my view, so I tapped an older man on the shoulder. He turned to me, concern etched on his face.

“Sir, what’s going on?”

“One of the workers just collapsed, and the paramedics think she’s dead,” he replied.

The moment he mentioned ‘she,’ my heart plummeted. I pushed through the crowd, and there on the ground, eyes closed and lifeless, lay Jessica.

“No, Jessica!” I yelled, my voice echoing in the chaos.

Instantly, the paramedics and medical staff turned to me. One approached and asked if I knew her.

I told her I was Jessica’s boyfriend, that I had just spoken to her on the phone moments ago, urging her to leave work because it wasn’t safe. I was rambling, overwhelmed, and I stopped when the paramedic placed her hands on my shoulders.

“Young man, it’s okay. You should know what happened. Your girlfriend has died from an aneurysm, and there was nothing we could do to save her. I’m so sorry,” the paramedic said.

The book felt like a dark oracle, revealing its grim secrets, and I thought about showing it to this woman. But if I did, she would likely bombard me with questions I couldn’t answer.

So, I thanked her and, without another word, pushed past everyone and exited the restaurant, furious that this cursed book had claimed yet another person I loved.

Weeks later, the unsettling pattern persisted; each page revealed the demise of a victim who was more familiar to me than Jessica.

I had become a captive of the book, unable to resist the allure of its sinister knowledge. It felt as if it understood my sorrow, with the ink appearing darker on every page.

Then, I stumbled upon a page that shattered my heart into countless fragments upon seeing the name of the individual.

“Marcus Roberts – Age 27 – Died of a heart attack on April 30th 2023”

I realized that was tonight once again, and I leaped out of bed, rushing to brother’s room, where I found him lacing up his shoes.

“Dude, where are you going? It’s almost nine o’clock at night?”

“Can’t sleep. Thinking about going for a late-night run. Be back soon.”

I pleaded with him not to venture outside tonight, insisting it was too perilous. Mark chuckled, saying I was becoming like Mom, but I was just terrified of losing my brother.

After an hour had passed, I found myself in the kitchen assisting Mom in preparing her renowned double chocolate chip cookies, and I could see that she appeared anxious about something.

I inquired about what was troubling her, and she revealed that Mark had not returned from his walk nor had he sent her a message as he had promised to do when he was on his way back home.

I sensed what was about to unfold, and I knew I had to intervene. I looked at Mom and told her I needed to take care of something urgent, to which she simply nodded in agreement.

Without another word, I quickly put on my jacket and shoes, then dashed out of the house. My breath came in quick, uneven gasps as I sprinted toward the park, Mark’s favorite place to walk.

As I neared the park, I spotted a figure lurking in the shadows, and my heart raced in my chest. When I turned the corner, I found him lying on the ground, clutching his chest.

“MARK!” I yelled.

I hurried to my brother, but deep down, I already knew it was too late for him. That dreadful book had taken yet another victim, and this time, it was my brother.

I was descending into madness; first, my two friends were taken from me, and then my brother. The loss of my loved ones was a heavy burden on my emotions.

That’s when an idea struck me. I seized the book and made my way back to the library one last time, desperate for answers. The main librarian, an elderly woman, looked up at me with her piercing green eyes.

“What is this book? Why is it causing all of this?” 

I slammed the Prophetic Pages onto the desk. Initially, the lady remained silent, but as she took the book and examined it, her expression shifted, and she regarded me with a serious look.

“Young man, where did you come across this book?” 

“I was here last time searching for history encyclopedias when this book fell off the shelf and landed on my foot. But you still haven’t answered my question: what is this book?!” 

“That’s the Prophetic Pages. It has always existed, young man. It chronicles the lives that are intertwined with yours and predicts not only death but also the weight of the choices and paths we take,” the librarian clarified.

“This isn’t a choice; it’s a curse!” I shouted in frustration.

“Perhaps it is, or perhaps it isn’t. But understand this: that book only reveals what is already destined. It’s not the cause but a reflection of the choices you’ve made and the connections you’ve established,” she replied.

I took a step back, my mind racing. Had I somehow cursed all those deaths of my loved ones without realizing it? 

Was I in some way accountable for the choices they made or the paths they chose? 

“Can I change this? Is there any way to stop it” I inquired.

The only way to put an end to this situation is to cut off the connections, but it comes at a cost, young man.

Her words seemed to penetrate deep within me, and without uttering a single word, I turned away from the desk, leaving my book behind in the library.

I came to the realization that I had to create distance from everyone I cared about. I needed to sever ties with them, even though it felt like a betrayal; it was the only way to protect them all.

In the following weeks, I dedicated my days and nights to solitude. Whenever I encountered someone I recognized, I would steer clear of them, and I ignored their calls and messages.

This was torturous, yet it brought a sense of relief as I observed that no one around me was perishing, and I felt assured that my loved ones were safe.

Then one day, as I went to my bedroom to indulge in some video games, I discovered the Prophetic Pages book lying on my bed, and I felt as if I could melt into a puddle.

I hurried over to it, picked it up, and as I examined the cover, my hands trembled while I opened the book and flipped straight to the last page.

To my surprise, it was entirely blank, leaving me puzzled. Recalling what the librarian had said, I touched the paper and watched in amazement as the information began to materialize before my eyes.

When I saw the name of the next person destined to die, my jaw dropped in disbelief.

Daniel Roberts – 25 years old – Passed away from loneliness on May 15, 2023

The book slipped from my grasp; that date was tomorrow. I couldn’t fathom it. I felt as if I might either vomit or weep like a child.

The realization hit me like a massive wave. I had been so focused on saving my friends and loved ones that I had unwittingly sealed my own doom.

I needed to cut myself off entirely from everyone, even my mother, who was thankfully still alive. But I was destined to become a mere ghost.

A mere shadow of who I used to be. This book had twisted my intentions, transforming my wish to protect into a sentence of death.

The following day, I found myself sitting alone on the floor of my bedroom, feeling the darkness creeping in, coiling around me like a serpent.

I reminisced about my friends and brothers, recalling the laughter and memories we had created together. It dawned on me that I had forsaken them all, and in doing so, I had condemned myself.

Mom attempted to coax me out of my room, but nothing she said had any effect. As night descended, I sensed the air becoming thick and oppressive.

Suddenly, I heard whispers—likely from that dreadful book—echoing in my mind, the pages shifting as if they were alive.

I let out a soft sigh, rising to my feet and moving to my nightstand where the Prophetic Pages lay. I began flipping through the book, only to find it completely blank, and I realized I was about to join them.

I shut the book and hurled it to the ground, confronting the horrifying truth: I had become a prisoner of my own decisions, a victim of fate. As the sudden darkness enveloped me, I grasped the meaning of it all.

The real terror did not stem from the foretold deaths but from the isolation I had chosen to accept.

But now it was too late. I had become a new edition of the Prophetic Pages, destined for a solitary conclusion. As I sank into the shadows, I finally understood how to escape the curse of the Prophetic Pages.

Prophetic Pages Chapter 2
Typically, my weekends tend to be quite dull, but now my life feels like a thrilling mystery or perhaps something even more perilous, all thanks to a silly book. I suppose I should start from the beginning and explain how it all began.

On a Saturday morning, the sun was shining brilliantly, and I was feeling a bit restless, so I decided to take a bike ride around my neighborhood.

As I pedaled through the area, lost in thoughts about my belongings and life in general, I felt an inexplicable pull guiding me toward a specific house. I stopped in front of it and noticed a handwritten sign announcing a yard sale.

I never really cared for yard sales; I wasn’t like those older folks who spent their free time rummaging through other people’s discarded items.

To me, yard sales were merely the leftovers of others’ lives, people trying to offload dusty relics that had long lost their appeal.

Yet, something about this particular yard sale caught my attention, prompting me to dismount my bike and venture into the yard to take a look around.

The yard was cluttered with old furniture and tables brimming with various knick-knacks and toys, but I halted when I spotted a box labeled ‘books.’

A smile instantly spread across my face; I adored books. Whenever I was without my phone or needed something to occupy my time, I would dive into a book on any subject.

I hurried over to the box, knelt down, and began sifting through it, pulling out faded paperbacks and yellowed hardcovers.

My fingers glided over the spines of the books until one particular volume caught my eye, standing out from the rest.

I picked up the unusual book, feeling its weight in my hands, and quickly noticed how worn and tattered it was; the spine was cracked.

As I opened the book, I saw that the pages were yellowed and brittle with age, filled with handwritten notes and peculiar symbols that seemed to dance before my eyes.

I opened the book and saw that the pages were yellowed and fragile due to age, filled with handwritten notes and peculiar symbols that appeared to dance in front of me.

It seemed that the person who wrote this book took great care to record something significant. At the moment, I didn’t think much of it, but I could sense a strange energy radiating from the book, a kind of chilling pulse that made me shiver.

I closed the book, brushed off the cover, and read the title, which sent another shiver down my spine.

“Prophetic Pages”

I considered tossing the book back into the box and simply walking away, but it was too captivating to abandon. I couldn’t just leave it there, tucked away in a box in someone’s yard.

So, with the Prophetic Pages book tucked under my arm, I stood up and approached an older woman who seemed to be managing the yard sale.

I extended the book towards her, and she nodded in acknowledgment before informing me in a raspy voice that it would cost five dollars. Without a second thought, I handed her the cash.

“Be cautious with that book, young man; it’s not ordinary,” the woman warned.

I merely nodded and made my way back to my bike, placing the enigmatic book in the basket before setting off towards home.

Upon arriving home, I parked my bike beside the house, took the Prophetic Pages book, and entered the house.

I went upstairs, not particularly concerned about my family, and shut myself in my room, settling into my reading chair, eager to delve deeper into my discovery.

This intriguing Prophetic Pages had piqued my interest, and I was ready to immerse myself in its narrative and pages filled with wonder.

As I began to flip through the pages, I quickly noticed that each one contained a detailed entry about an individual’s life and death, and their names struck me as oddly familiar.

I suddenly realized that the names in this book belonged to people I knew—friends, family, even acquaintances. My hands turned icy, and when I turned to the next page, I nearly hurled the book across the room.

I had stumbled upon a page that appeared different from the rest; its ink was darker, and the writing seemed more urgent. The names and dates listed alongside each entry were accompanied by descriptions.

The first entry appeared to belong to my neighbor, Mr. Thompson.

Mr. Scott Thompson – 63 years old – Passed away from a heart attack on April 12, 2023.

I grimaced, unable to believe what I was seeing. It was far too specific to be mere coincidence.

Then I suddenly remembered that tonight was the night, and I tossed the book aside, pondering its implications. Was Mr. Thompson truly going to die, or was this merely a cruel joke?

In a flash, I understood that I had to warn him about the danger he was in, so I stood up from my reading chair, leaving the book behind. As I reached the threshold of my bedroom, I hesitated.

“Hold on, there’s no way he’ll believe me; he’ll probably think I’m crazy or something along those lines,” I thought, my breath quickening.

Yet, the thought wouldn’t leave my mind, so I hurried downstairs into the main area, standing by the front door, lost in thoughts of Mr. Thompson.

“William, what are you up to?” a voice inquired.

I turned around quickly to see my parents in the kitchen, both busy preparing dinner, their expressions showing concern for my unusual behavior.

“I need to go see Mr. Thompson,” I replied.

“Why? It’s nearly dinner time,” Dad responded.

A huge lump formed in my throat. What was I supposed to say? That our neighbor was going to have a heart attack tonight, and I discovered this from a book?

“Uh – I need to return something I borrowed from him, and I thought I would give it back tonight,” I said, grinning nervously.

“You can do it tomorrow because it’s too late now, and I’m pretty sure Mr. Thompson doesn’t want to be disturbed at this hour,” Mom replied.

I growled quietly and clenched my fists, but I couldn’t voice my frustration because I knew I couldn’t argue with my parents about what was supposed to happen.

A few hours later, I lay in bed staring at the ceiling. It was dark in my room, and I couldn’t take it anymore. I got out of bed, still in my pajamas, but I slipped on my shoes and dashed out of my bedroom, then out of the house, heading towards Mr. Thompson’s place.

I raced down the front steps in the darkness but skidded to a halt when I saw the scene unfolding there.

Bright ambulance lights illuminated the area, and emergency workers were loading a body into the back of the ambulance. I then noticed Mr. Thompson’s wife sitting on the porch, crying.

I hurried over to her, bent over with my hands on my knees, breathing heavily. When I looked up, she was staring at me, and despite the darkness, the ambulance lights revealed the tears streaming down her face.

“Mrs. Thompson, what happened?” I asked.

“It’s terrible, William. I got up to use the bathroom, but I couldn’t open the door. I tried to wake Scott, but he wouldn’t wake up, so I called for help, and they told me he had a heart attack in bed. I can’t believe it; he was the healthiest man I ever knew,” Mrs. Thompson explained.

I instinctively took a step back, realizing that this was exactly what was foretold in the Prophetic Pages. It said Mr. Thompson would die tonight, and it happened just as the book described.

“William, are you okay?” Mrs. Thompson asked me.

I took another step back, my head pounding, then turned and sprinted back home. I burst through the door to find Mom and Dad standing there, and they didn’t look pleased.

“William Johnson, what on earth are you doing up?!” Mom yelled at me.

I glanced at the front door, recalling what had just occurred, then turned back to my parents. I needed to tell them; I had to let them know.

“Mr. Thompson passed away from a heart attack!” I exclaimed, gesturing towards the front door.

“Oh my God!” Dad gasped in disbelief.

I wanted to share the details about the Prophetic Pages book and its contents, but I knew my parents would likely dismiss it as nonsense.

Without uttering another word, Mom and Dad hurried past me and dashed out of the house, seemingly on their way to see Mrs. Thompson.

I simply returned to my room, surveying the dim space and pondering where I had placed that ridiculous book, contemplating whether to burn it or toss it away.

But I decided to postpone that until tomorrow when I had the chance and when Mom and Dad weren’t around to catch me in the act. So, I crawled into bed, wondering what would unfold next.

The following morning, I awoke to find the Prophetic Pages resting at the foot of my bed, which left me puzzled. Without saying a word, I picked up the book.

As I began to flip through its pages, my heart raced as I recognized the names of friends from high school, family members, and even acquaintances like Mr. Thompson.

Each page contained a detailed account of a person’s death, with dates approaching rapidly. Goosebumps prickled my arms; was this all just a cruel joke?

I attempted to dismiss it as a product of someone’s dark imagination, but the more pages I turned, the more dread coiled in my stomach.

Eventually, I became consumed by the book, searching for any means to avert the impending deaths, knowing that if I didn’t take action, I would lose everyone I cared about.

I was attempting to reach out to several people to inform them about what might happen to them, but they either ignored me or claimed to be too busy.

Just then, my phone rang, and I glanced down to see it was Ryan, my best friend since elementary school.

“Hey Willy, are you busy?” he greeted me with a cheerful and carefree tone.

“Uh – not really, but I need to discuss something very important with you,” I replied, feeling a knot of panic in my throat.

Should I really share the details about the Prophetic Pages book and what occurred with Mr. Thompson? He would probably just laugh or hang up on me immediately.

“Sure, what’s going on, dude?” he inquired.

I fell silent, hesitating as I struggled to find the right words to explain the book that was essentially about death to my best friend.

“Um, just… be cautious, alright? I came across something online that made me worry we might be in danger,” I said.

“Are you referring to that illness happening in Russia?” he chuckled, though I could sense the worry seeping into his voice.

“Just promise me you’ll take it easy, okay? Don’t do anything reckless,” I snapped back.

“Yeah, alright. I promise,” he assured me, and I felt a slight sense of relief, though it was short-lived.

I was about to end the call when Ryan mentioned he had a question for me, and since I was already on the line, I figured I might as well hear him out.

“Dude, I’m going to a horror movie showing today and was wondering if you wanted to come along. You probably need a break from whatever’s going on in that head of yours,” Ryan suggested.

“Um – okay, I guess I’ll see you there,” I replied.

After hanging up, I let out a soft sigh and looked down to see the Prophetic Pages book still resting on my lap, now opened to a different page.

Ryan Orangewood – 26 years old – shot in the forehead and robbed on April 15th, 2023.

As soon as I noticed my phone slip from my grasp, I shut the book and picked it up, tossing it across my room and watching it land with a loud thud.

“Oh God no,” I thought as I rose from the bed.

Without uttering another word, I gathered everything I needed, leaving the book on the floor, and dashed downstairs to tell Mom and Dad everything that had happened.

However, when I reached the lower level of the house, I found it eerily quiet; no one was around. The only thing that caught my eye was a note taped to the front door. I approached it silently, took it down, and read it.

Dear William, I’m sorry, but your father and I had to leave for work early due to an important meeting. We’ll be back by lunchtime. If you decide to go out with a friend or by yourself, please call us. See you later, love Mom.

I didn’t care much for the note, crumpling it up before sprinting out of the house. I hopped on my bike and pedaled away as fast as I could.

A few minutes later, I arrived at the town square, parked my bike in the rack, locked it up, and hurried to the movie theater, hoping Ryan wouldn’t actually be there.

But there he was, leaning against the side of the building, engrossed in his phone. When he noticed me, a smile broke across his face.

“There you are! I was just about to call you and ask what on earth happened to you,” Ryan remarked.

“I got caught up with something else. Let’s just finish this movie so I can head home and wrap up my work,” I replied, raising my hands in a gesture of exasperation.

I resolved to share everything with Ryan after the movie, once we left the theater. I hoped he would understand, given his love for horror films, and that he wouldn’t think I was insane.

A couple of hours later, the movie concluded, and we stood outside the theater. I opened my mouth, ready to explain everything to Ryan, but he quickly silenced me.

“I know you rode your bike here, but let’s head to that smoothie shop just a few minutes away. Your bike will be fine, and if it gets stolen, you can hold me responsible,” Ryan suggested.

Before long, we were strolling down the street in silence, and I let out a soft sigh before clearing my throat.

“Ryan, remember how much I enjoy yard sales and how I love buying things from them?” I said.

Ryan nodded silently, as he often did when I had something to share, knowing that my words were usually significant.

“At this yard sale, I stumbled upon a box filled with books, and one caught my eye called Prophetic Pages. Initially, I assumed it was just an old, dull read, but it turns out it contains a page that predicts when everyone I care about will die. Just a few days ago, my neighbor, Mr. Thompson, passed away from a heart attack, and his name was listed in the book, along with the exact date of his death, as if it had foreseen it,” I explained.

“So, is it like a death book or something?” Ryan inquired.

“I have no idea what it is. There was even a page for you that stated you would get shot in the head and robbed today,” I replied, my voice tinged with worry.

I anticipated Ryan’s reaction, hoping he would show concern or suggest we head home right away, but instead, he burst into laughter as if I had just shared a hilarious joke.

“Dude, that’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard from you in all our years of friendship,” Ryan chuckled.

There it was; I knew he wouldn’t take me seriously. He was going to mock me and label me as crazy. I regretted mentioning the Prophetic Pages book at all.

As we walked past an alley, a man who appeared older than us suddenly emerged. He wore a white shirt beneath blue overalls and black boots, but what caught my attention was the white mask with black eyeholes and the object he was gripping tightly.

It was a gun, and in that instant, I realized I had to intervene before things escalated.

Before either Ryan or I could react, the man raised the gun and shot Ryan directly in the forehead. I stood frozen, watching in horror as my friend collapsed to the ground, lifeless.

Bystanders nearby gasped in shock and screamed at the unfolding scene, but the man discarded the gun and pounced on Ryan like a wild animal, rifling through his pockets with frantic urgency.

I was astonished that the Prophetic Pages had claimed yet another life; it appeared to have knowledge of all my friends and acquaintances, predicting who would be next.

Before long, days turned into weeks, and I had almost forgotten what had happened to Ryan. However, the Prophetic Pages remained etched in my mind, and I was determined to protect my friends and family.

It wasn’t until I stumbled upon a page for my father that I felt an overwhelming urge to scream and tear the Prophetic Pages apart.

Samuel Johnson – 53 years old – dies in car accident on April 30th, 2023

Realizing that this date was less than a week away, I became frantic and desperate to find a way to prevent my Dad’s death.

I needed answers, so I began flipping through the book, hoping the Prophetic Pages might offer a solution. That’s when I discovered a name tucked away in the back of the book.

Daniel Roberts – 25 years old – Passed away from loneliness on May 15, 2023 
(Still Alive Owned Book Before)

I was astounded; this guy had owned the Prophetic Pages before me, yet he was somehow still alive. I knew I had to find him.

I took out my phone and began searching online, eventually finding an old news forum where Daniel had shared his experiences with the Prophetic Pages. I felt compelled to reach out to him, so I sent Daniel an email, pouring out my heart and hoping against all odds that he would respond.

To my surprise, Daniel replied. He seemed somewhat withdrawn, yet he agreed to meet me at a downtown coffee shop to discuss things.

Gathering all the essentials, I made my way to the coffee shop, arriving early to secure a seat. Anxiety washed over me, and my stomach twisted into knots.

When Daniel Roberts entered the coffee shop, I instantly recognized him from the photo he had sent. He appeared older, with graying hair and a weary expression. However, his eyes were sharp, as if he had witnessed too much in his life.

“I received your email. You’re in trouble, aren’t you?” he asked, taking a seat across from me.

I simply nodded my head, then retrieved the Prophetic Pages from my bag, sliding it across the table.

“I discovered this book at a yard sale and… realized it foretold the deaths of my neighbor and friend – both are gone – and all the names I know are listed in there. Can I prevent it?” I said.

Daniel gazed at me for a long time without uttering a word; his brows were knitted together, and then he let out a soft sigh before meeting my gaze.

“You can’t alter what has been inscribed in the Prophetic Pages. I’ve attempted to do so, and it only worsened the situation. The book has its own will. It unveils the truth, but it doesn’t permit you to change it,” Daniel clarified.

“What should I do then?” I inquired, my voice filled with desperation, my hands shaking.

“Just accept it; you can’t battle fate, but you can treasure the time you have left with them,” Daniel replied gently.

I felt my heart plummet, but something in Daniel’s eyes indicated he comprehended my suffering.

“You must assist me. How did you survive the Prophetic Pages?” I implored.

“I learned to let go. The book is indeed a curse, but it also teaches you to value life. You must confront your fear of loss. If you don’t, it will engulf you,” Daniel’s voice remained calm.

His words struck a chord with me, yet they felt like a harsh reality to accept. I couldn’t merely sit back and witness my loved ones perish. I had to discover a way to resist.

We spent hours deliberating over the book, and with each moment that passed, I felt a spark of hope. Daniel recounted his own battles, the sorrow he had faced, and how he had learned to accept the losses he couldn’t avert.

He talked about finding comfort in the memories of those he had lost, and I began to realize that perhaps I had been so preoccupied with trying to alter the future that I had overlooked the present.

When I got home that night, I reopened The Prophetic Pages, my mind buzzing with renewed resolve. I needed to confront the entries, to face the certainty of death with bravery.

I picked up my phone, calling each of my friends and family, not to warn them but to tell them how much they meant to me.

I hung up, feeling a sense of relief washed over me. I reached out to my mother, my sister, and everyone else listed in the book. I expressed my love for them and how much I valued our shared moments.

As the days passed, I felt increasingly lighter, even though the entries still lingered in my mind. The anniversary of my father’s passing was drawing near, and I dedicated every possible moment to being with him.We went fishing, exchanged stories, and I made it a point to convey how much he meant to me.

On April 30th, I sat next to him in the car as we headed out for lunch. A wave of tranquility washed over me, and upon arriving at the restaurant, I took a deep breath.

The Prophetic Pages no longer held power over me; I had come to terms with the potential of loss.

As I stepped out of the car, a surge of panic hit me when I noticed a truck barreling towards us, but I was prepared.

I grabbed my father’s arm, pulling him back just in time. The truck veered off course, crashing into a lamppost instead.

My heart raced, but I realized I had finally made a decision. I chose to fight for those I loved, to face the darkness with light.

Later that evening, I revisited The Prophetic Pages, leafing through the pages one final time.

When I reached the last page, I was astonished to see the writing had disappeared, the names and dates vanishing before my eyes. The burden of the book felt lighter, and I recognized that I had altered my destiny.

I closed the book, enveloped in a sense of peace. Daniel had been correct; I couldn’t battle fate, but I could embrace the life I had and the people I cherished.

I was liberated from the chains of fear, and I had learned to value the prophetic essence of life, treasuring every moment as if it were my last.

As I returned the book to my shelf, I understood I would always remember the lessons it imparted. 

Life is unpredictable, yet within that uncertainty lies the beauty of existence. While death may be unavoidable, love will always prevail.

And with that realization, I felt prepared to confront whatever lay ahead.

Credit: Master Pea