Daniel didn't run.
Every instinct he'd developed over twenty-two years told him to.
Run.
Fight.
Survive.
But his feet wouldn't move.
Something stood behind him.
He could feel it.
The room had become unnaturally cold. His breath appeared in the darkness, a thin white cloud drifting in front of his face.
Then the voice spoke again.
"Daniel."
His own voice.
Same tone.
Same cadence.
Same voice he'd heard every morning for nearly forty years.
Except it was coming from something that wasn't him.
Daniel slowly turned.
Nothing.
The room was empty.
His pistol was still raised.
"Show yourself."
Silence.
He reached into his jacket and pulled out a flashlight.
The beam swept across the room.
The bed.
The bathroom.
The window.
The door.
Nothing.
Then the beam stopped.
The black book was no longer on the table.
Daniel's stomach dropped.
He looked down.
The book was sitting on the floor.
Open.
The final page was blank.
Daniel stared at it.
"What the hell are you?"
The pages began turning.
Slowly.
One at a time.
They stopped on a page near the middle.
A photograph had been attached to it.
Daniel stepped closer.
The photograph showed a farmhouse.
He recognized it immediately.
His old home.
His childhood home.
His father's house.
Daniel's hand tightened around the flashlight.
"No."
Underneath the photograph was a handwritten address.
Then a date.
Twenty-two years earlier.
The night his father disappeared.
Daniel had spent half his life believing his father had died hunting a demon.
The official story among hunters was simple.
His father had gone after a demon alone.
He never came back.
Daniel had accepted it.
Eventually.
But the book had another story.
Written beneath the photograph were six words.
HE WAS NEVER KILLED BY A DEMON.
Daniel stopped breathing.
He turned the page.
Another photograph.
His father.
Alive.
Standing beside three strangers.
Daniel recognized two of them.
Hunters.
Both had been reported dead.
The third man was unfamiliar.
Tall.
Pale.
His face had been scratched out with something sharp.
Daniel leaned closer.
A name had been written underneath him.
Elias Vale.
Daniel whispered the name.
"Elias Vale."
The moment he said it, every candle in the room lit by itself.
Daniel spun around.
There hadn't been candles on the table before.
Now there were six.
Their flames burned unnaturally still.
No flickering.
No movement.
Just six small flames illuminating the darkness.
The book turned another page.
Daniel looked down.
A sentence appeared.
HE KNOWS YOUR NAME.
Daniel's phone rang again.
Unknown number.
He answered.
"Who is this?"
A man's voice replied.
"You're reading the book."
Daniel recognized the voice.
It was the man who had called before.
"Who are you?"
"You shouldn't have opened it."
"Who are you?"
A pause.
Then:
"My name is Michael."
Daniel frowned.
"Michael what?"
"Doesn't matter."
"It matters to me."
"Then listen carefully."
Daniel glanced toward the book.
Michael continued.
"The book doesn't record history,"
Daniel said nothing.
"It records possibilities."
Daniel's eyes narrowed.
"Possibilities?"
"Deaths that haven't happened yet. Places that haven't been found. Monsters that haven't been born."
Daniel looked at his own name.
Tomorrow's date was still beneath it.
"Then tell me how to change mine."
Silence.
Michael finally answered.
"You can't."
Daniel's jaw tightened.
"Try me."
"The book doesn't predict your death."
Daniel looked down.
"Then what does it predict?"
Michael's voice dropped.
"Your transformation."
The line went dead.
Daniel stared at the phone.
Then at the book.
The candles suddenly went out.
A loud crash came from the bathroom.
Daniel spun around and raised his pistol.
The bathroom door slowly opened.
Nothing came out.
Daniel moved toward it.
One step.
Then another.
He reached the doorway.
The mirror above the sink was covered in condensation.
Something had been written across it.
Not with a finger.
With blood.
HE'S WATCHING.
Daniel stepped backward.
A floorboard creaked behind him.
He turned.
A man stood in the center of the motel room.
Tall.
Thin.
Dressed in an old black suit.
Daniel raised his pistol.
"Don't move."
The man smiled.
His eyes were completely black.
Daniel fired.
The bullet struck the man's chest.
He didn't fall.
He looked down at the hole in his shirt.
Then back at Daniel.
"That won't work."
Daniel fired again.
And again.
The man kept walking.
Daniel grabbed the black book from the table and backed toward the door.
The man stopped.
His smile disappeared.
"You have no idea what you're holding."
Daniel crossed the salt line.
The man stepped forward.
The salt burned against his skin.
He screamed.
Not like a human.
Not like any demon Daniel had ever heard.
The windows shattered.
The walls shook.
The creature's face twisted.
For one brief second, Daniel saw something underneath the man's skin.
Something enormous.
Something ancient.
Then it vanished.
The creature looked directly at him.
"We've been waiting for the book to return."
Daniel slammed the door.
He ran.
Rain struck his face as he sprinted across the parking lot toward his truck.
He didn't look back.
He didn't need to.
He could hear footsteps behind him.
Daniel reached the truck, unlocked the door, and threw himself inside.
He started the engine.
The headlights illuminated the road.
Empty.
Nothing followed him.
Daniel looked in the rearview mirror.
The motel was gone.
His blood ran cold.
In its place stood an abandoned farmhouse.
The same farmhouse from the photograph.
His childhood home.
The clock on his dashboard read 2:13 A.M.
It had not moved.
Daniel looked down at the passenger seat.
The black book was sitting there.
Open.
A new sentence appeared across the page.
WELCOME HOME, DANIEL.