CHAPTER 1:
LOW TIDE AT MIDNIGHT
The sea retracted like a filmstrip, exposing the wound in the coastline where Tidehaven waited.
Liora Vale's boots sank into damp sand as she counted her steps—twenty-seven, twenty-eight—her OCD ritual as reliable as the tide itself. Rust flakes from the iron gate clung to her palms like dried blood, each flake shaped like a tiny, broken key.
Above her, barnacles trembled in their stone niches, their whispers layering into a warped rendition of Für Elise, played on a music box left too long in saltwater.
"Happy birthday, little archivist," they seemed to say, in a dialect dead before English was born.
Her watch flashed 11:47 PM. The second hand spasmed backward, then froze. When it jerked forward again, the numbers read 11:46.
Thirteen minutes left.
The air reeked of rotting vellum and wet iron—the scent of a place that existed between seconds. She didn’t recall arriving at this desolate stretch of Nova Scotia coast, only the unsigned letter that had appeared in her mailbox three nights ago, its velvet wax seal still burning a hole in her coat pocket.
The handwriting had been unmistakable.
Marinne’s handwriting.
This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.
---
THE FIRST THEFT
The velvet-bound Jane Eyre on the entry pedestal pulsed like an open wound, its cover glistening with unnatural warmth. Liora's breath hitched. She'd read about books like this in her research—Tidehaven’s most dangerous texts.
Rule 1: Never touch a velvet book barehanded.
But rules had never stopped her before.
Her fingers brushed the spine.
The book lunged.
For one fractured moment, Liora was seven years old again—her mother’s arms tight around her, the scent of lavender soap, the crackle of a rain-soaked radio playing Here Comes the Sun through the kitchen window. Summer rain pattered against the glass as Mom hummed off-key, her heartbeat steady against Liora’s cheek.
Then—
Riiip.
The memory tore away with the sound of stitches popping from flesh. Liora gasped, her fingertips turning corpse-gray where the velvet clung. Numbness slithered up her knuckles like icy water rising in a sinking ship.
The book sighed, its spine expanding and contracting like a starving lung.
"Guilt," it crooned, in a voice made of static and breaking waves, "is the sweetest meal."
She retched violently. Her mouth flooded with the acrid taste of gunpowder and salt—not her memory. Someone else’s death lingered on her tongue: spearmint toothpaste and battery acid, the metallic zing of a microphone left live on a CB radio.
Dexi’s memory. Though she didn’t know that name yet.
---
THE SHIFTING CODE
Liora spat a mouthful of black ink onto the marble floor.
Twenty-eight, twenty-eight, twenty-eight—
The numbers steadied her as the bookshelf before her convulsed. A tome slid forth without being touched, its cover mottled like drowned skin: The Self-Rewriting Codex.
Her numb fingers trembled as she turned the pages. Inside, three versions of Marinne’s death stared back:
Times New Roman: "Accident"
Courier: "Suicide"
Comic Sans: "Murder"
The Comic Sans text oozed red when she touched it, the ink clinging to her skin like blood. Her tongue darted out instinctively, catching a droplet.
Gunpowder. Salt. And beneath it—
Spearmint.
The wax-sealed book on the librarian’s desk began to shudder, its binding creaking as it emitted a backward rendition of Für Elise in a voice that stopped Liora’s heart.
Marinne’s voice.
"He lied about 1987," the book whispered, and the library doors slammed shut behind her.
---
WHISPERS & GLITCHES
Her watch chimed midnight. The second hand froze mid-tick, the numbers flickering between 12:00 and 11:47.
From the ventilation shafts came a whisper like pages turning in a hurricane:
"Eleanor Vale, 1892."
From the shadows between shelves, a Ramones riff stuttered to life—Sheena Is a Punk Rocker, but three seconds out of sync with reality.
From her own numb fingers, a word formed in ink she hadn’t spilled:
"EXODUS"
