Chapter 5: "Don’t Say Her Name"

“Names have power, dear reader. Some should never be spoken. Lila’s about to learn why. Will you make the same mistake?”

Lila Moreno, a 32-year-old librarian, worked late in the dusty archives of her small-town library, cataloging old donations. 

She was a bookworm with a knack for uncovering hidden stories lost manuscripts, forgotten diaries. 

At 8:00 p.m., as she sorted through a box of unsorted books, she found something odd a leather-bound volume, its cover cracked and etched with twisting branches that seemed to writhe in the dim light. 

No title, no author, just a faint, sour smell of mildew and something metallic, like old blood. Lila frowned. 

The library was locked; no one had donated this. Her curiosity, honed by years of digging into obscure texts, got the better of her.

She opened the book, its pages crackling, heavier than they should be. The first four pages were missing, torn out with jagged edges, leaving a reddish stain. 

The first intact page read: Chapter 5: "Don’t Say Her Name" The text was handwritten, the ink uneven, as if scratched with a quill. Lila, a fan of gothic horror, felt a thrill. 

She settled at a desk under a flickering bulb and began to read. 

Names are dangerous. I learned that when I spoke hers. She’s the Queen of the Underworld, a shadow with no face, only a voice that hums like a swarm of locusts. Her name is forbidden. 

Say it, and she hears you. Say it, and she comes. The air grows thick, the light dies, and her presence wraps around you like roots pulling you into the earth. 

She doesn’t kill at least, not quickly. She binds you to her, forcing you to write her stories, each one darker than the last, until your soul is hers.I said her name, thinking it was just a story. 

The room went cold, the shadows twisting into claws. Her voice filled my mind, commanding me to write. 

Now I’m trapped, my words feeding her book, my name forgotten. Don’t say her name. She’s listening.

But there’s more. A secret page, hidden in this book, tells of a man who made a deal with her. A writer, desperate to win a contest for the greatest story. 

He was talentless, mocked, until he called her name in a forbidden ritual. She gave him brilliance, but for every tale of beauty, he had to write one of horror cursed stories that trapped their readers. 

His good stories faded, but his cursed book lives forever, seeking new voices to feed her hunger.

Lila’s heart raced as she finished. The story felt too real, the secret page’s mention of the author chilling. 

She flipped back, searching for the hidden page, and found it tucked behind the binding, a single sheet in different handwriting, faded but legible. 

It told of an author, Elias Crowe, in 1893, who entered a literary competition in a bustling city. 

His stories were dull, his rivals lauded. In despair, he performed a ritual, spilling blood on a blank book and summoning Quola, Queen of the Underworld. 

Her form was a shadow with no face, her voice a hum that shook the earth. She granted him talent, but for every “great” story, he wrote a cursed one, bound to her will. 

His book, The Cursed Book, outlived him, its pages tearing themselves free to hide his good works, leaving only her darkness.

Lila whispered, “Quola,” testing the name. The library went silent, the bulb flickering out. 

The air grew heavy, thick with the smell of earth and decay. A low hum filled the room, like insects buzzing in her skull. 

Shadows moved in the corners, coiling like roots. Lila froze, the rule echoing: Don’t say her name. 

She clamped her mouth shut, but the hum grew louder, forming words: Write for me, Lila. 

Her hand twitched toward a pen, moving against her will. She dropped it, heart pounding, and ran for the door.

The archives warped shelves twisted, books fell, their pages fluttering like wings. 

A shadow loomed, faceless, its edges fraying into claw-like tendrils. Lila stumbled, knocking over a glass display case. 

Its shards reflected a figure not her, but a shadow with no face, its hum deafening. 

The book, now on the floor, glowed, its pages open to a new line: You said her name, Lila. Now you’re mine.

“Quola’s waiting, Lila. Write, or join the others in her dark.” 

The library door slammed shut, the hum rising, as the shadows tightened around her.