The Missing Page

It was a humid Sunday afternoon when Maya and I decided to grab a quick drink at the Rusty Anchor, a dimly lit bar near the university. We had just ordered our beers when Maya’s phone buzzed. It was her mother, frantic, asking if she could rush to her cousin Lila’s dormitory, only a few blocks away. Maya hung up, her face pale, and said we had to leave immediately. We canceled our order and hurried out.

The dormitory was an old, ivy-covered building that seemed to sag under its own weight. As we approached, a chill ran down my spine, and I felt goosebumps despite the heat. Maya showed her ID to the dorm mother, a stern woman who reluctantly let us in because it was an emergency. We climbed the creaking stairs to Lila’s room on the third floor. The hallway was eerily quiet, and the air smelled of stale incense.

When we entered, we found Lila sitting on her bed, surrounded by her dorm mates, all clutching rosaries and murmuring prayers. Lila was as white as a ghost, drenched in sweat, and her shoulders were lined with fresh, red scratches, as if something had clawed at her. Her eyes were wide and unfocused, staring at a spot in the corner of the room. One of the girls, a frightened sophomore named Jess, took us aside and told us what had happened.

The night before, Lila had been alone in her room, studying for her midterms. Her roommates were out at a party, and she had the place to herself. Around midnight, she heard a faint scratching sound from the wall behind her desk. She ignored it at first, focusing on her notes, but the scratching grew louder, more insistent. Then she noticed her textbook, a thick volume on organic chemistry, was open to a page she didn’t remember turning to. The page was blank, save for a single, handwritten sentence in red ink: ‘You left me here.’

Lila’s blood ran cold. She tried to call her friends, but her phone had no signal. The scratching intensified, and the light bulb above her flickered. She saw a shadow move under her bed, but when she looked, there was nothing. The words on the page seemed to bleed, spreading like ink, and she heard a voice, barely a whisper, from behind her: ‘Don’t turn around.’ She didn’t. She bolted for the door, but it wouldn’t budge. The scratching became frantic, and she felt a cold breath on her neck. Suddenly, the door swung open, and she tumbled into the hallway, her shoulders burning. That’s when her dorm mates found her, screaming and clawing at herself.

As Jess finished the story, Lila let out a low moan and pointed at the corner. We all turned to see a dark, humanoid shape that seemed to seep out of the wall, its form shifting and indistinct. It had no face, but it reached out with long, thin fingers, and we could hear a faint, desperate scratching, like nails on wood. The girls screamed and scrambled back, clutching their rosaries. Maya grabbed Lila and pulled her toward the door, shouting for us to go. We stumbled out of the room and down the stairs, the scratching echoing behind us.

We burst out of the dormitory into the fading sunlight. The air was thick and heavy, and I could still feel that icy presence on my skin. Lila was trembling, and the scratches on her shoulders had begun to bleed through her shirt. Maya called her mother, who said to bring Lila to the church. As we walked, I looked back at the dormitory window, and I saw a face pressed against the glass, pale and featureless, watching us go.

Later, at the church, the priest performed a blessing, but when he saw Lila’s scratches, he grew grim. He said, ‘She’s been marked. The page she read was from a book of the dead, and now it has a claim on her.’ He gave Lila a silver cross and told her to keep it on her at all times. I never found out what happened to Lila after that. But weeks later, I heard that she had dropped out of university and moved to a small town in the mountains, where she swore she had never felt safer. As for me, I still have nightmares about that blank page, and sometimes, when I’m reading a book, I feel a cold draft and hear a faint scratching from behind me, and I turn around, terrified of what I might see.