The Mysterious Guest

The Mysterious Guest

It was a dark, chilly November evening. The kind of night where the wind howls through the trees, making the branches dance like eerie shadows. I was sitting in my study, the dim glow of my desk lamp flickering slightly as I leafed through an old, dusty book. The silence in my home was only interrupted by the occasional creak of the wooden floorboards and the distant hum of the wind outside.

Then, suddenly, the doorbell rang.

I froze for a moment, surprised. Who could be visiting at this hour? My house sat on the edge of the woods, isolated, far from the town center. Few visitors ever came by, especially not this late.

The bell rang again—this time, louder and more urgent.

I hesitated for a moment before getting up and heading to the door. As I approached, I felt a strange sense of unease wash over me. I reached for the doorknob, and as I pulled the door open, a gust of cold air rushed inside, making me shiver.

Standing in the doorway was a man, tall and imposing. He was dressed in a long, black overcoat, and his face was partially hidden beneath the brim of a wide, shadowy hat. For a moment, neither of us spoke. He simply stood there, motionless, his figure dark and menacing against the dim light.

“May I come in?” he finally asked, his voice low and rasping, almost like a whisper carried on the wind.

I didn’t know why, but something about him unnerved me. Yet, at the same time, there was something about him that piqued my curiosity. Without thinking too much, I nodded and stepped aside, allowing him to enter.

The moment he crossed the threshold, the air in the room seemed to grow colder. He moved slowly, deliberately, and sat in the armchair across from mine. I followed him, sitting back down, feeling a chill creeping into my bones. For a long while, he didn’t speak. He simply stared at me, his eyes glinting from beneath the shadow of his hat.

Finally, he broke the silence.

“You’ve been looking for answers,” he said. His voice was calm, but there was an edge to it, a sense of finality.

“What do you mean?” I asked, frowning. I had no idea what he was talking about.

He leaned forward, resting his hands on his knees. “You’ve been searching for the truth, haven’t you? The truth about the house, about the... disappearances.”

My heart skipped a beat. I had never told anyone about the strange occurrences in the neighborhood—the missing people, the unexplained events. I hadn’t even fully admitted to myself that something was wrong, but deep down, I had always suspected.

“How do you know about that?” I whispered.

The man didn’t answer. Instead, he reached inside his coat and pulled out a small, leather-bound book. It was old, the edges worn and frayed, the leather cracked from age. He placed it on the table between us and slid it toward me.

“Everything you want to know is in this book,” he said softly. “But be careful... once you open it, you cannot undo what you’ll learn.”

I stared at the book, my hand hovering over it. Something about it felt wrong—sinister, even. But at the same time, I couldn’t resist the pull of curiosity. My fingers brushed the leather cover, and a shiver ran down my spine.

The man watched me closely, his gaze never wavering. His presence filled the room, dark and foreboding.

“Go ahead,” he whispered. “Open it.”

I hesitated for only a moment longer before finally giving in. I opened the book.

As soon as the pages parted, the room seemed to grow darker. The faint hum of electricity from the lamp disappeared, and the air became heavy, almost suffocating. The temperature dropped further, and I could see my breath in front of me. The pages of the book were filled with names—hundreds, maybe thousands of them. Some of the names I recognized, others I didn’t. But one thing was clear: they were all people who had disappeared. Every last one of them.

And then, at the very bottom of the last page, I saw my own name.

My heart pounded in my chest, and my hands began to tremble. I looked up at the man, panic rising in my throat.

“What is this?” I asked, my voice barely more than a whisper.

The man stood up slowly, towering over me. “It’s a list,” he said, his voice cold and emotionless. “A list of those who have debts to pay.”

I shook my head, confused. “Debts? What do you mean?”

He took a step closer, and I could feel the weight of his presence pressing down on me. “You’ve lived your life without knowing, haven’t you? But your name was written in that book long ago. And now, it’s time to collect.”

I tried to speak, to protest, but the words caught in my throat. The air around me felt thick and oppressive, like it was closing in on me. I couldn’t breathe.

Before I could say another word, the lights flickered, and then everything went black.

When I opened my eyes, the man was gone. The room was empty, except for the book that still lay open on the table, my name staring back at me, haunting and inescapable.

For days, I tried to forget what had happened. I told myself it was a dream, a figment of my imagination. But then, the disappearances started again—people from the town, vanishing without a trace. And I knew, deep down, that it was all connected to the book.

The list was growing, and soon, my time would come.

---

The storyteller paused, letting the eerie silence hang in the air. The audience, who had been holding their breath, finally exhaled, a collective shiver running through the room.

The man on stage looked around, his voice dropping to a low whisper as he delivered the final warning.

“If you ever meet a man in a black coat, carrying a small, leather-bound book... don’t stop. Don’t talk to him. Just run. Run as fast as you can, and never look back.”

He stepped away from the microphone, leaving the room in a heavy, unsettling quiet. The clock on the wall ticked softly, the only sound in the now dark and silent space.