The Perpetual Page

When I was a student in Oxford, I often escaped the clamor of the city to explore the quieter corners of the Bodleian Library. One afternoon, while wandering through the Divinity School’s vaulted ceiling, I struck up a conversation with one of the archivists. He told me about a peculiar book in the Duke Humfrey’s Reading Room, a large folio of medieval sermons. Every evening, the staff would ensure it was closed and placed at the end of a long oak table. Every morning, they would find it open to a specific page, with a small, dried leaf pressed between its leaves. No one admitted to moving it, and the CCTV never showed anything.

I was intrigued, and I decided to stay until closing time, hoping to witness the phenomenon. As the sun dipped low, casting long shadows through the leaded windows, the reading room emptied. I hid behind a pillar, my heart thumping.

When the final librarian left, the room fell into a profound silence, broken only by the tick of a grandfather clock. I waited, my eyes fixed on the book. After what felt like an eternity, I heard a faint rustling, as if pages were being turned. But the book remained closed. Then, a cold draft swept through the aisle, and the book’s cover creaked open by itself, as invisible fingers flipped through the parchment until it reached the middle. A single leaf, brown and brittle, fluttered down from the pages and landed on the table.

I crept closer, my breath held. The page was illuminated by the dying light, and I could see a crude drawing in red ink: a circle with a spiral inside, and what looked like a tiny hand. I felt a sudden urge to touch the page, to know what it meant. But as I reached out, the temperature plummeted, and a voice whispered in my ear, ‘Do not turn it.’

I froze, then backed away, my skin crawling. I didn’t stay to find out more; I fled the library, but the image of that spiral haunted my dreams.

Years later, I returned to Oxford for a research project. I sought out the book again, half-expecting it to be gone. But it was still there, in the same spot, open to the same page. The leaf was gone, but the drawing remained. I asked the archivist if they knew what it meant. He looked at me with a grave expression and said, ‘We believe it’s a key to a tomb, but one that should never be opened. The book was donated by a collector who claimed it came from a monastery that was abandoned. Since then, the page has been found open every day, as if it’s waiting for someone to turn it further.’

I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the cold stone walls. I realized that the whisper I’d heard all those years ago wasn’t a warning—it was an invitation. The book wasn’t just opening itself; it was revealing a secret that demanded to be known. And now, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was meant to turn the page.

That night, I returned to the reading room, alone. The book was bathed in moonlight, glowing eerily. I placed my hand on the page, and this time, the voice returned, clearer than before: ‘Turn me.’ I did.

Instantly, the library dissolved around me. I was in a narrow, damp corridor, lit by a single flickering torch. The walls were painted with frescoes of saints, their faces contorted in agony. At the end of the corridor was a wooden door, bound in iron. I knew I had to open it. I pushed, and it creaked open to reveal a small chamber. In the center lay a stone sarcophagus, its lid broken. On the floor were scattered bones, and a tarnished silver chalice.

I felt a presence behind me. I turned, but nothing was there. Yet I heard a voice, now familiar, say, ‘You have found me. Now you must set me free.’

I tried to step back, but my body wouldn’t move. I looked down at my hands—they were old, gnarled, covered with liver spots. I was not myself anymore.

The voice laughed, a dry, rattling sound. ‘You have taken my place,’ it said. ‘Just as I took the place of the one who came before me. This book is a trap, and you have fallen into it.’

I realized with horror that I was trapped in the body of the last person who had turned the page, a man I’d seen in my dreams, a monk who had disappeared centuries ago. And the book was still open on the table in the library, waiting for another curious soul to come and turn it.

Now, I spend my days in this dank cell, watching through the eyes of the living as they discover the book. I try to warn them, but my voice is weak, just a whisper on the edge of hearing. Some hear it, and they flee. Others, like the one who will come tomorrow, will not be so fortunate.

The book has claimed another victim, and it will never stop. For the page is meant to be turned, and the cycle must continue, forever and ever. Amen.