Chapter 2 " Don't Break silent "

“Some stories are invitations, dear reader. Others are traps. This book doesn’t care which you think it is. It’s found Sumi now, alone in her quiet little world. Let’s see if she can keep the silence…”

Sumi Takahashi, a 25-year-old graphic designer, lived alone in a small apartment on the edge of town. 

Her days were filled with deadlines and coffee, her nights with Netflix and takeout. 

She wasn’t superstitious, didn’t believe in ghosts or curses life was too practical for that. 

So when she shuffled into her kitchen at 2 p.m. to grab a glass of water, the last thing she expected was to find a book on her counter. 

It sat between her cutting board and a pile of unwashed dishes, its leather cover cracked and stained, as if it had been buried for years. 

No title, no author, just a faint embossing of twisted branches that seemed to shift when she tilted her head. She froze, glass in hand. 

She hadn’t bought it, hadn’t seen it before. Her apartment was locked; no one had a spare key.

Curiosity won over unease. Sumi set the glass down and opened the book, its pages crackling like dry leaves. 

The first page was missing, torn out jaggedly, leaving only a frayed edge. She frowned but turned to the next intact page, which read.... 

Chapter 2: Don’t Break the Silence. The text was handwritten, the ink uneven, as if scratched into the paper with a quill.

The book smelled faintly of mildew and something metallic, like old blood. Sumi, a fan of horror podcasts, felt a thrill. 

“Weird,” she muttered, settling onto a stool to read.Sometimes, without warning, the world changes. 

In my kitchen, day turns to night in a heartbeat, the light sucked away like water down a drain. 

The air grows thick, heavy with the scent of damp earth and something sour, like spoiled milk. 

That’s when she comes. She’s tall, her body unnaturally elongated, her arms dangling like willow branches. 

Her face is a blank canvas, eyes sewn shut with black thread, leaving only puckered scars. 

She cannot see, but her hearing is a predator’s every creak, every breath, every heartbeat draws her closer. 

I have one rule don’t break the silence. Not a whisper, not a step, not a clink of a glass. 

She’s kind if you obey, gliding past, her fingers brushing the air as if tracing an invisible map. 

But break the rule, and her kindness vanishes. She’ll do things worse than death things that leave you screaming in a place where no one hears.

I learned the hard way. One night, my foot scuffed the floor. Her head snapped toward me, the stitches stretching as if her eyes might open. 

The air turned to ice, and the shadows twisted into shapes with claws. I don’t remember what came next, only the endless dark and the sound of my own voice, begging for silence that never came.Sumi closed the book, her pulse quickening. 

“Who writes this stuff?” she said aloud, half-laughing to shake off the chill. The story was good too good, almost personal, like it knew her kitchen, her solitude. 

She glanced at the counter, half-expecting the book to have moved. It hadn’t, but its weight seemed to press on the room, the air heavier than before.

She checked her phone 2:15 p.m. Time to get back to work. She left the book on the counter, promising herself she’d read more later.

At 6 p.m., Sumi returned to the kitchen for dinner. The book was still there, its cover catching the fading daylight. 

She ignored it, microwaving leftovers, but her eyes kept drifting to it. The missing first page nagged at her. 

Had someone torn it out deliberately? And why was the book here? She shook her head, dismissing the thought, and sat down to eat.Then it happened. 

The light vanished, as if a switch had been flipped. The kitchen plunged into darkness, the windows showing a starless night sky where afternoon sun should have been. 

Sumi’s fork clattered to the table, the sound deafening in the sudden silence. 

Her heart pounded as the air grew cold, thick with the stench of wet earth and decay. 

A faint rustle came from the corner, like fabric dragging across the floor. Sumi froze, her breath shallow, the story’s words echoing in her mind

Don’t break the silence. She appeared. Tall too tall her head nearly brushing the ceiling. 

Her body was gaunt, wrapped in a tattered gray dress that hung like cobwebs. 

Her face was a nightmare: no eyes, just scarred, stitched-over sockets, her head tilted as if listening. 

Her long fingers twitched, feeling the air. Sumi clamped a hand over her mouth, stifling a gasp. 

The entity glided closer, her movements silent but deliberate, her head turning toward the table where the fork had fallen. 

Sumi’s muscles screamed to run, but she remembered the rule. She held still, her pulse thundering in her ears, praying it wasn’t loud enough to betray her.

The entity paused, inches away, her stitched face hovering over Sumi. A low hum emanated from her, like a distant scream muffled by earth. 

Then, slowly, she retreated, her form dissolving into the shadows. The kitchen light flickered back on, the clock showing 

6:02 p.m., the afternoon sun streaming through the window as if nothing had happened. 

Sumi exhaled, trembling, and looked at the book. It was open to Chapter 2 again, though she hadn’t touched it. 

On the page, a new line had appeared in fresh ink

"You were quiet this time, Sumi. But can you stay silent forever? 

“She’s listening, always listening. One slip, and you’ll join the others in her dark.” 

Sumi backed away, her eyes darting to the corners of the room, where shadows seemed to linger just a moment too long.