The Devil’s Gift

The house smelled of dust and candle wax, the scent of old books lingering like ghosts of forgotten words. Lucian sat on the floor, his fingers tracing the edges of the wooden box before him. The seal carved into its lid had been scratched, as if something inside had tried to claw its way out.

His grandfather had always been secretive about this box. "Not until I'm gone," he had said, his voice heavy, as if the words carried a weight Lucian wasn't meant to bear yet.

Now he was gone.

The wind outside howled against the wooden walls, making the candlelight flicker. Lucian's breath felt heavy as he pried the lid open.

Inside, wrapped in dark velvet, was a book.

The leather was blackened, old but unyielding, its cover branded with a sigil that seemed to shift under the dim light. There was no title—just the weight of something ancient pressing into his hands as he lifted it.

A whisper curled through the room. Soft, almost playful.

Lucian froze. His grip tightened on the book.

Then, a voice.

"Took you long enough."

The candlelight dimmed. Shadows stretched unnaturally. The air grew thick, and from the darkness, laughter spilled forth—mocking, amused.

Lucian swallowed, his throat dry. "Who's there?"

The voice chuckled. It wasn't loud. It didn't need to be. It slithered into his ears like a secret meant only for him.

"I am the one who's been waiting. The one bound to this book. The one who will make things... interesting."

Lucian could feel it now—something staring at him from within the book, its presence coiling around his thoughts like a serpent.

His fingers trembled as he flipped the first page.

And then, everything changed.