MY ROOM MATE BY ITORO ISAAC

WHAT SHOULD NOT BE READ.

Chapter Four: What Should Not Be Read

I. The Waiting

Morning sunlight spilled weakly through the blinds, but it did nothing to warm the room. The air was thick, stale, like a place abandoned for years rather than just a night. And on Elias’s bed, waiting patiently, lay the notebook.

It looked smaller in the daylight, its cracked leather dulled to a bruised maroon. Yet the sight of it sent a tremor through me, because I knew it wasn’t just a book. Not anymore.

I should have walked out right then—grabbed my keys, left the apartment, never looked back. But I didn’t. Curiosity held me in place, the same way it had when I first pulled open that drawer.

The book was meant for me. I felt it.

I sat on the edge of my bed, staring at it across the room. Minutes passed. The tick of my wristwatch grew unbearably loud. Finally, almost against my will, I crossed the room and picked it up.

The leather was cold, unnaturally so, as if it had been left in snow. My fingers tingled where they touched it.

I opened to the first page.

It was blank.

Frowning, I flipped to another. Also blank. Page after page—empty, untouched, as though I’d imagined the scrawls and sketches from before.

But when I reached the center of the book, words bled into the page before my eyes. Black ink spreading like veins, forming letters that hadn’t been there seconds before.

WELCOME BACK, ALEX.

The book slipped from my hands and hit the floor with a thud.

My heart pounded. I backed away, shaking my head. “No. No, no, no—”

But when I dared to glance again, the words remained, stark and deliberate.

And beneath them, more letters began to crawl across the page, as though an invisible hand was writing them in real time:

WE KNOW YOUR NAME.

WE HAVE ALWAYS KNOWN.

YOU ARE ONE OF OURS.

My mouth went dry. “No,” I whispered. “I’m not… I’m not part of this.”

But the book didn’t care. The ink spread faster, words filling the page:

LOOK OUT THE WINDOW.

My skin prickled. I turned, almost against my will, to face the window.

The blinds were drawn, but the faintest light leaked through the cracks. Slowly, I reached out and lifted one slat with trembling fingers.

What I saw made my blood run cold.

Pressed against the glass from the outside were faces. Pale, hollow-eyed faces, distorted and silent. Dozens of them, their mouths opening and closing in unison though no sound reached me.

I stumbled back, slamming the blind shut. The notebook fell closed with a heavy snap.

The room was silent again.

But I knew what I had seen.

---

II. Elias Returns

By the time Elias returned, evening had fallen. I sat rigid on my bed, the notebook locked inside my suitcase, as far from me as possible.

He entered quietly, as always, and paused in the doorway. His eyes flicked once to my suitcase, then to me.

“You opened it.”

I stiffened. “How do you—”

“You look different,” he said softly. “You’ve seen them.”

My throat closed. “The… the faces?”

A shadow of something crossed his expression—not fear, not surprise, but something closer to satisfaction.

“They know you now,” he murmured. “It begins.”

I slammed my fist against the mattress. “What the hell is happening, Elias? What’s in that book? Why does it have my name?”

For a long time, he didn’t answer. He simply sat at his desk, folding his hands, staring at nothing. Finally, he whispered:

“It doesn’t matter who writes in the book. The book writes you. It always chooses one.”

My blood went cold. “One what?”

He turned his head slowly, gray eyes glinting in the dim light. “One to keep.”

---

III. The Night

That night, I didn’t even try to sleep. I sat upright in bed, lamp on, watching Elias. He lay with his eyes closed, breathing slow and even, but I didn’t trust him.

Around midnight, the lamp flickered. Once. Twice. Then it went out completely, leaving me in darkness.

My phone was in my hand instantly, flashlight on. The room looked normal—Elias still in bed, the blinds drawn.

Then the whispers started.

Not from Elias. Not from the notebook.

From everywhere.

The walls, the ceiling, the floor—layer upon layer of voices, overlapping, too many to count. Some hissed in languages I didn’t know. Others spoke English, fragmented phrases that froze my blood:

“He is ours.”

“Do not resist.”

“Open the window.”

The blinds rattled. I spun, light beam trembling, and saw the slats quivering violently as though struck by invisible hands.

“No,” I whispered. “No, no, no—”

The rattling grew louder, furious, until the blinds tore loose and crashed to the floor. And behind the glass—

The faces were back.

Hundreds this time, pale and writhing, pressed against the windowpane. Their mouths stretched open wider than human jaws should, black voids spilling whispers that filled the room.

I screamed.

Elias sat up calmly in bed. His eyes glowed faintly silver.

“They only want what is theirs,” he said. “Don’t fight them, Alex. It’s easier if you don’t fight.”

My chest heaved. “What are you talking about?!”

“They chose you,” he whispered, voice almost tender. “The moment you touched the book. You belong to them now.”

The glass began to crack. Thin fractures spiderwebbed across the pane as pale fingers clawed against it from the other side.

I bolted. I grabbed my phone, my wallet, and ran for the door. Elias didn’t move to stop me—he only watched, smiling faintly, as the whispers rose to a scream.

I tore down the hall, heart pounding, and slammed into the stairwell. I didn’t stop running until I was outside, gasping in the cool night air.

The street was empty. Silent.

When I looked back at the apartment window, the faces were gone. The glass unbroken.

Had I imagined it?

But then my phone buzzed. A notification—one I didn’t understand.

NEW MESSAGE: UNKNOWN.

With shaking hands, I opened it.

The text was only three words, written in stark black letters across the screen:

WE SEE YOU.

---

IV. The Truth in Ink

I didn’t sleep that night. I spent it wandering the streets, sitting in late-night diners, chain-drinking coffee. But no matter where I went, I felt watched. Every reflection in a window, every shadow behind me, seemed just a little too aware.

By dawn, exhausted and desperate, I returned to the apartment. Elias sat at the desk, waiting. The notebook lay open before him.

“They won’t stop,” he said, his tone almost gentle. “Not now.”

I slumped against the doorframe. “Why me?”

He met my gaze, and for the first time, I thought I saw something like pity in his eyes.

“Because the book doesn’t choose at random. It chooses the ones who can see.”

“See what?” I demanded.

He turned the notebook toward me. The page was filled with fresh writing—neat, deliberate script this time. Elias’s script.

But the words weren’t his.

They were mine.

Thoughts I had never spoken, memories I had never shared, written in my own voice. Childhood fears, private regrets, the nightmares I never told anyone about.

The book knew me.

And as I stared at the ink, more words began to form at the bottom of the page, written in real time by an invisible hand.

WELCOME, ALEX. YOUR RECORD BEGINS.