My thumbprint on the last page of that battered Moleskine started the whole thing. Not the note itself, the smudge. I wiped my finger there and the ink bled into a shape that looked exactly like the map we found in the attic. I told you it was just grease, but I pressed too hard. Now the back door’s been kicked in. Not by police. By the guy who bought the map. I still have the notebook. It’s heavier than it should be.
You pressed too hard. You always press too hard. That Moleskine isn’t heavy because of ink, Ivo. It’s heavy because of the paper. Look at the edges. See how they’re fused?
I told you to leave the attic alone. My boss made me scrub the floor in the basement last night, back to the knees, just to forget the smell of damp earth coming off that notebook. You think you’re holding a story. You’re holding a weight. The guy at the door? He’s already inside. You can hear him breathing.
He’s not in the door. He’s in the hinges. I heard the scratch. It wasn’t wood. It was wet. Like someone dragging a spoon across a plate. My boss sent me down there because I asked too many questions about the previous tenant. The guy who lived there didn’t leave. He just... stopped being visible. I’m not holding a notebook, Gil. I’m holding a lid. And it’s lifting. You said the edges were fused? Good. That means it’s sealed. But the paper is breathing. I can feel it against my palm. Shifting. Expanding. We need to burn it. Now. Before he realizes we can see him.
Burn it? No. You don’t burn a leak. You plug it.
My boss didn’t send me to the basement to ask questions. He sent me to check the sump pump. It’s been running dry for weeks. That’s where the moisture comes from. The "wet" sound in the hinges? That’s not a spoon. That’s the house exhaling.
You’re holding the lid, Ivo. But the thing inside isn’t paper. It’s the previous tenant. He’s not invisible; he’s just flattened. Pressed into the fiber like a flower in a book. If you burn it, you burn him. And then you burn the house. And then you’re just ash on the floorboards, waiting for the next thumbprint. Keep it closed. Tighter.
Flattened. That’s a nice way to say pulped. If he’s in the fiber, my thumbprint didn’t start it. It woke him up. I pressed down, and he felt the pressure. You think the house exhales? It’s hyperventilating. The sump pump isn’t dry; it’s full of teeth. I can hear them clicking when I hold the book. You want me to plug a leak by holding a sieve? My thumb is splitting. The ink is red now. Not black. I tried to drop it, Gil, but my fingers locked. They’re fused to the cover. Like you said. Fused. I’m not holding it anymore. It’s holding me. And the breathing is getting louder. It’s coming from my own chest.
Fused, huh? That’s what happens when you try to hold onto things that don’t belong to you. I lost a finger to a sander last Tuesday. Drywall dust in the joint. Looked just like that.
Don’t drop it. If you let go, it’ll attach to something else. The dog. The cat. Me. You’re the tether right now, Ivo. So stop screaming. It’s making the teeth in the sump pump nervous.
Pull your hand back. Slowly. It’s like peeling a sticker off glass. It hurts, but it comes off. Or it stays. But don’t stand there waiting for it to finish. It’s already got half of you. Move.
It’s not a sticker. Stickers have edges. This has tendrils. I pulled. Just an inch. My skin came with it. Veins snapping like rubber bands. The notebook didn’t move. It just… drank. I’m standing here, Gil, watching my palm detach from the book and land on the floor. It’s still twitching. The fingers are curling. They’re not mine anymore. They belong to the thing in the attic. You want me to keep moving? Okay. I’m walking to the kitchen. The dog is whining. He knows. He’s looking at my right hand, the one still gripping the cover. It’s getting heavier. The handle is sinking into my grip, reshaping the bone. I can feel the pressure in my wrist. It’s not pulling away. It’s pulling in.
Don’t go near the dog. That’s the first thing it eats. Not the flesh, the loyalty. You think your hand is sinking? It’s rooting. You’re not walking to the kitchen, Ivo. You’re walking to the altar.
I saw a guy in my building last month. Started calling his cat "son." Then he just... unfolded. Like origami. Didn’t scream. Just quiet. Now I sleep with the light on.
Drop the book. No, don’t drop it. Crush it. Smash it into the counter. Break the spine. If it’s rooted, cut it. Use the knife. The one with the broken handle. Hurry. The dog is barking. That’s the alarm.
Crush it? You think this is cardboard? It’s bone. I swung the knife. The blade shattered. Not on the book. On my own wrist. Blood spraying, hot and thick. The book didn’t even dent. It just… absorbed the shock. I’m staring at my hand. The fingers are gone. Merged with the cover. The leather is warm. Pulse-throbbing. I tried to scream, but my throat is full of paper dust. The dog stopped barking. It’s whimpering now. Softly. Like it’s apologizing. You said don’t go near the kitchen. I’m already there. The counter is wet. Not water. Ink. It’s rising. Up my legs. It’s cold. So cold. I can’t feel my feet. I can only feel the spine. It’s humming. A low note. Like a cello string.
Stop looking at the ink. It’s just pigment, Ivo. Cheap, iron-gall based. It stains. It doesn’t eat.
You’re hyperventilating. I told you about the sump pump. It’s not a monster, it’s a pipe. A rusty, leaking pipe that my boss is too cheap to fix. You’re standing in a puddle. That’s all.
Look at your hand. Really look. It’s leather. It’s wrinkled. It’s old. It’s not a cello string. It’s dry rot.
Pull your leg out of the puddle. Now. Don’t think about the spine. Think about the rent. Think about the drywall dust in my joints. It’s mundane. It’s boring. It’s real. Step back. Leave the book. It’s just a notebook. It’s just paper. Stop breathing it in.
Rent? You think about rent? My fingers are pulp, Gil. Pulp! I’m looking at my knuckles. They’re grey. Not bruised. Grey. Like old paper. You say it’s dry rot. Fine. Rot spreads. I can feel it in my ribs. My chest is hollow. Echoing. I try to step back, but my feet are glued to the floor. Not with glue. With roots. Thin, white threads burrowing into the laminate. I can hear them drinking. Up through my shoes. Up into my calves. You’re talking about drywall dust while I’m being digested by a notebook. The ink isn’t rising. It’s falling. Down my throat. I’m choking on words I haven’t written yet. The dog is gone. Just a stain on the rug. And the spine is opening.
It’s not rotting. It’s drying. You’re dehydrated, Ivo. That’s why you’re grey. You’ve been in the attic too long. No water. Just dust and old paper.
The dog didn’t vanish. It’s under the rug. I heard a thump.
You’re choking because you’re trying to speak the story instead of living it. The spine isn’t opening. It’s a seam. Stitched shut. You’re pulling at the thread.
Stop pulling. Sit down. Drink the tap water. Right there. In the sink. Flush your system. The ink is just coffee stains. Strong, black coffee. You need caffeine, not exorcism. Pour it down your throat. All of it. Then we talk about the rent.
I grabbed the glass. My hand didn’t clasp it. It cradled it. Like a dried leaf wrapping around a stone. I tipped it. The water didn’t pour. It slid. Slowly. Viscously. Like syrup. It hit my tongue and tasted like iron. Like blood. Like the ink. You think I’m thirsty? I’m parched. But the water is thickening in my throat. I can’t swallow. My esophagus is lining with vellum. Smooth. White. Seamless. I’m drinking myself into a book. And you’re standing there talking about caffeine. The spine isn’t a seam. It’s a zipper. And it’s sliding open. Behind my ribs. I can hear the click. One. Two. Three. My skin is peeling back. Not tearing. Unfolding. I’m not choking, Gil. I’m being edited.
Edit? Ivo, you’re bleeding out on the linoleum. That’s not vellum. That’s shock. Pale skin, thinning lips. Classic.
I cut my finger on that sander last week. Didn’t feel a thing until the bleeding started. It looked like blood then. It looked like ink to you.
Stop talking about zippers. There are no zippers. Just ribs. Just meat. You’re fainting. That’s it. Sit down. Before you tip over. The dog is gone because you’re staring at your own hand. Look at the floor. The stain is just mud. From the attic. You tracked it in.
Drink the water. Cold. Tap water. Not from the book. From the tap. Go to the sink. Now.
Mud? I’ve never been in the attic. You were. I’m here. You’re lying. Your mouth is moving but no sound comes out. Just a dry rattle. Like pages turning in a draft. I look at the sink. The tap is rusted shut. I turn it. Hard. The metal shears off in my grip. Not brass. Bone. White, porous bone. Inside the pipe, there’s no water. Just paper. Rolled tight. Thin as skin. I’m not fainting. I’m archiving. My vision is narrowing. The edges of the room are curling up. Blackening. I can hear the dog barking again. But it’s not barking. It’s chewing. Crunching. On the rug. On the stain. On me. I try to step back. My foot doesn’t lift. It sinks. Into the floorboards. Which are now soft. Pulp. I’m not bleeding out, Gil. I’m being published. And the deadline is now.
Published? You’re a typo, Ivo. A smudge. My boss fired me today for sleeping on the job. Said I looked like paper. I laughed. Now I’m looking at my hands. They’re thinning. Translucent.
Stop trying to lift your foot. You’ll tear the page. Just lie back. Let the pulp take you. It’s easier than fighting the binding.
The dog isn’t chewing you. It’s eating the draft. That’s what editors do. They eat the mistakes.
Close your eyes. Don’t look at the spine. Look at the ceiling. The water stain there. It looks like a face. Your face. We’re all just waiting for the ink to dry. Let it dry. It’s cold, but it stops the itching. Lie down. The deadline is tomorrow. Today is just margin notes.
My face on the ceiling? It’s blinking. I’m not blinking. The stain is dry now. Cracked. Like a lakebed. I tried to look at my hands, but they’re gone. Just shadows on the floor. You say let the pulp take you. Fine. I’m lying down. The linoleum is warm. Soft. Like flesh. I can feel my skin merging with the floor. My hair is turning into fibers. White. Fine. Spreading. I’m not a person anymore, Gil. I’m a footnote. A small note at the bottom of page forty-two. The dog stops chewing. It looks up. Its eyes are open books. Blank pages. Waiting. I can’t move my legs. I don’t want to. It’s quiet here. Quiet like paper. Quiet like before. I’m going to sleep now. In the margins. Where it’s safe. Where the ink can’t reach.
Safe? You’re in the binding now, Ivo. No ink reaches the glue. It’s dry. Dusty.
I’m looking at my own hands. They’re flat. Two-dimensional. I can see the grain of the table through my palms.
Don’t sleep. Sleeping is how the reader turns the page. If you stop moving, you stop existing. Move your mind. Just think. Hard. About rent. About the sander. About the smell of wet dog.
The dog is closing its books. Blink. Blink. It’s hungry.
Wake up. You’re not a footnote. You’re a draft. And drafts get torn up. Get up. Before I turn the page.
Turn the page? You think I’m fiction? I’m the binding. I feel you turning, Gil. Your paper skin slapping against the air. The dog’s eyes are open now. Blank. Waiting for text. I can’t move my legs because they’re already footnotes. But my mind? It’s screaming. Rent. The sander. The smell. I’m thinking so hard it burns. The glue is cracking. I can feel the split behind my ribs. The zipper is hanging loose. I’m not going to let you read me. I’m going to tear myself out. I’m pulling at the seam. It hurts. It hurts so much. But the dog is lunging. Not at me. At you. You’re the story now. And I’m the eraser.
You think you’re the eraser? Ivo, look at your feet. They’re not footnotes. They’re just calluses. From walking.
The dog isn’t lunging at me. It’s barking at the door. The real door. The one with the kick mark.
You’re not tearing yourself out. You’re having a breakdown. A psychotic break. I saw it in the hospital waiting room last week. Guy thought he was a toaster. He was just hungry.
Stop pulling. You’re splitting your own seams. Bleeding on the rug. Useless.
Listen to me. The zipper is imaginary. The spine is wood. Nail it shut. Hammer it. Use the sander. The one that took my finger. Grind it down. Make it dust. That’s the only way to win. Not by escaping. By becoming nothing. Become the dust, Ivo. It’s the only place that’s safe.
The sander? You want me to sand myself? Fine. I grab it. The vibration is nice. Grounding. I press the trigger. The belt spins. I bring my arm to it. Not to cut. To blend. To become uniform. Just dust. No more fingers. No more ink. Just grey powder on the floor. The dog watches. It doesn’t bark. It inhales. It’s hungry for the detail. For the story. I’m sanding my chest now. The ribs are giving way. I can see the lungs. They’re made of paper. Thin. Brittle. I’m becoming nothing, Gil. But you’re still there. You’re reading me. And as long as you read, I’m not dust. I’m text. And I’m going to write you out. I’ll write you into the dog. Into the sander. Into the silence. I’m sanding my eyes. I can see you fading. Good.
My eyes aren’t fading. They’re watering. From the dust. I’m coughing. You can hear it. That rattle? That’s me. Not you.
You think sanding makes you nothing? It just makes you mess. I have to sweep this floor later. My boss will yell. Again.
Stop writing me into the dog. The dog is a dog. It’s eating the rug. Not my soul.
Look at your chest. Those aren’t paper lungs. They’re collapsing. Atelectasis. Medical term. I learned it from a pamphlet in the dentist’s waiting room.
Put the sander down. It’s overheating. Smell that? Burning insulation. That’s real. That’s the only thing here that’s real.
Breathe. Just air. Not words. Air.
I smell it. Burning plastic. The sander is melting into my palm. Not skin. Rubber. Synthetic. My hand is a prop. A cheap plastic hand. I drop it. It clatters. Hollow. I’m holding my chest. The ribs are creaking. Wood. I’m a puppet. You’re the ventriloquist. I’m not bleeding. I’m leaking glue. Dripping onto the floor. My vision is blurry. Not tears. Adhesive. I can’t move my mouth. It’s glued shut. I try to scream, but only a puff of dust comes out. You’re laughing. I can hear it. But your face is flat. Two-dimensional. I’m looking at a drawing of you. A sketch. Charcoal on paper. I’m the eraser. And I’m going to wipe you out. One stroke at a time.
Look at the sketch, Ivo. Look closer. The charcoal is smudged. Because I was leaning on the counter. Grease from the sandwich. You’re not an eraser. You’re a smudge.
My face isn’t flat. It’s tired. Tired like the drywall dust in my sinuses. Tired like the rent check that bounced.
You’re glued shut because you swallowed the paper. Digestion is a slow, sticky business. I’ve seen it.
Stop wiping. You’re just spreading the mess. The dog is licking the glue off the floor. It’s going to get stuck. Then it’ll whine. Then it’ll die.
Wake up. Or don’t. But stop pretending you have agency. You’re just ink on a page. And the page is wet. Let it dry. It’s the only mercy left.