Horrid 15. The Ink That Tastes Like Old Blood

HG told me the secret to the book was the "Special Blend." I didn't believe them until I accidentally licked a smudge of ink off my thumb while turning a page. The taste hit me like a physical blow—iron, salt, and the distinct, copper tang of a suicide’s final breath. Suddenly, the words on the page weren't static; they were pulsing.

Every time I read a sentence, I felt a sharp, stinging pinch in my veins. The book isn't printed with ink; it’s a transfusion. It draws the hemoglobin from the reader to keep the stories "fresh." I looked at the page and watched the black letters turn a deep, bruised crimson. I tried to drop the book, but the paper had fused to my skin, the fibers acting like microscopic IV needles. I’m paler now. The book is getting heavier, warmer, and more vivid. By the time you finish this paragraph, I’ll be nothing but a white, bloodless husk, and the next story will be written in a shade of red that looks suspiciously like your own.