“When the abyss stares at you, you must always stare back at it.” – the motto Dimus often lived by.

  Right now, with the perfect opportunity present, he was brandishing this trait.

  With tens – actually, hundreds – of pigeons staring at him, he was doing his best to stare back. He had just woken up from sleep, but his eyes were so wide open, they sometimes forgot to blink.

  The pigeons had begun cooing. Dimus didn’t know pigeon-language, but their puffing necks and gawking eyes made the “We will kill you” threat pretty obvious.

  Dimus silently slid down the bed, not breaking eye contact. And when he felt he was close enough, he dashed to the window and pulled the frames to lock it up.

  The pigeons also, most definitely, didn’t like that. Their wings snapped open, and flapped. Some of the daring ones, struck the mirror with their beaks. The insane ones rammed their heads into it.

  Luckily, even though the room was inexpensive, the windows were solid. Perhaps, the landlord didn’t want the renters to jump out the windows – not to give rents.

  The knocking clink-clanks on his window, didn’t even let him grieve. Grieve the day where he had broken his schedule. The schedule his soul followed like a revelation, since the start of his college years.

  Once again. This time, utterly against his will, his mind started singing. His art-student mind, adding rhythms to it – internally.

  ”

  He did not have the time to wrestle with his beliefs. Prove how – at least one way – he could be right.

  Instead, he just grabbed the burner phone lying over his desk. Grabbed his main phone, and rushed out of the room.

  He couldn’t stand pigeons. The filthy, and pooping-anywhere pigeons. He couldn’t handle being in the same room as one, if the window broke.

  Unfortunately, today he had college lectures, and viola – it started at 8 o’ clock.

  He pushed his ear into the door from the outside, and he could still hear the constant tapping sound in the mirror. And noticing how nobody else was out of their rooms – not even the fashionable girls. The ones that sit over a cloth in the public bench, but ironically, always keep long nails.

  Even those kinds of girls weren't out. So he deduced, he was the only target of the pigeons' affection.

  He did not want to embrace the pigeons’ affection. But if he didn’t, he would have to accept the loss of scholarship. Art schools were a heck of a trouble. He’d have to save for a decade, to pay for a year, without the scholarship.

  Dimus looked inside the door through the keyhole. The ones that give you the actual pigeon-view of the room. By the grace of god – though Dimus didn’t believe in one – no pigeon had entered inside.

  Now pausing everything for a moment, almost halting his breath, he ransacked his brain to formulate a tight, efficient plan.

  Open the door, and dash to the wardrobe. Grab the blue jeans – will probably drop right when opening the door. Then grab the black shirt. Today, we are going casual and simple.

  As for the material for the class, he could buy a notebook and pencil from the stationary down the street. The cheaper method would be to sleep through the class. Obviously, after marking his attendance.

  He took a deep breath, and smacked the door open, about to step inside. But… the door struck something as it was opening, and from the utmost side of his eye, he caught the thing flying off.

  His eyes also unintentionally caught the sight of the broken window.

  Before his brain could react logically, he noticed the “something” flying towards him. He immediately flung the door back with force, and jumped out of the room.

  The pigeon didn’t touch him, neither did the door touch the pigeon. He had locked it back inside the room, and he was lying on the ground. His athleticism did come to use, though he put too much strength, and ran his back straight into the hallway railing. The impact shook him well.

  The impact hit like a small reset. Not a reset of pain or pleasure, but just realization. He was realizing how real the pain was, and he couldn’t sit over and hide his questions anymore.

  This weird thing is happening because of the book? Is the book real?

  Trying to run on pure survival, his brain flashed back to the Preface, and its eerie content. Recalling, it only made him realize how he had actually read nothing of the book –

  This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.

  He needed to see that book again.

  He dropped a hand on his pockets and took out his burner phone. He opened the phone, and furiously found his way to the pdf. No hesitation – he clicked on it.

  The pdf opened right at the end of the preface.

  He didn’t believe in ghosts, or the supernatural. But he did believe in the weird, because weird is a natural part of life. Like loopholes in the reality of this natural system.

  Some weird places exist on the earth – scientifically accepted. But possibly, many weird places and phenomena were yet to be discovered.

  The “weirdness” of this book was suddenly halting his breath. His fingers were pausing mid-scroll for moments in hesitation but they still moved again. Slowly, scrolling to the first chapter.

  Nobody knew if this book was powerful and mystical. Obviously, Dimus didn’t either. This was just a weird book. But the unknown. It was the unknown that was holding his breath.

  He had started to hate the word weird which was associated with the book. Of course, he hated the book equally well.

  “When the world was created humans came at last. A cause that reckons and justifies their intellect.”

  Dimus read the first line of the first chapter. He looked up and the chapter was only titled: Chapter 1. No name.

  “Thus, humans depict the god. They depict the demon. Most humans perfectly depict the fragility of fate. Studying these weak humans can help understand the complex rules of fate.

  This book is written for the reference of practitioners. Not the stupid, dumb ones. But the ones that have a searing intellect. Do not read through otherwise. You wouldn’t understand.”

  Dimus understandingly nodded, and moved to the next paragraph. He knew he had a searing intellect.

  “I, Richard McGuire Robinson, the author of this book have used half the power of my mystical practices into giving a boon to this book. A boon to reach the right readers, and always stay with them. No matter what.

  Right. This world is always subjective. In my long life, I have known it well.

  Readers who are genius, and full of cynicism. Those who haven’t been born on auspicious nights. Those who knew from their childhood, that demons hide behind their shadows. But if they saw one, they would run towards it, not away.

  Those are the right readers for this book.

  The ones that are demonic, inauspicious, and with a heart to destroy but somehow still have enough heart to live a good life.

  Whoever got this book, you are the luckiest inauspicious person of the millennia.

  And no, don’t even try to argue that you are pure. Let me remind you that calling a girl gorgeous, and making her day isn’t pure. Neither is picking out filthy changes from a heavy pocket, to give to some homeless beggar – pure.

  Refusing to give money to the beggar isn’t being devilish either, it is being selfish. In the name of whatever, if you were thinking that that was devilish you have got things to fill up in that hay-filled mind of yours.

  And for the reader/readers, who were stupid enough to read the preface. The kinds that don’t read the book, but might as well read the preface and sleep. Or the kind that hugs the girl awkwardly not even knowing how stupid they look.

  (Both of the aforementioned are the same kind of people.)

  If you woke up late – like between seven-thirty to seven-forty five, and saw a mob of pigeons attacking you.

  Congratulations, you have bound with the book.

  Look into the sole of your shoes, or the soul inside your body, and if you do not wear shoes, or if inhuman, do not have a body… Just continue reading.

  I meant – look wherever, you are now the perfect, inauspicious reader for this.“

  After this, there was a flashy scene break in use. Now personally, anybody would recommend Dimus to stop – who wouldn’t?

  But there were two problems. First, Dimus won’t stop, and second… Dimus just won’t stop.

  He scrolled down further, not taking any break. Perhaps, it was the book’s binding effect – if we give him the benefit of the doubt – but he just went to hear the story of Richard McGuire Robinson.

  “In my long and long and long, and then a bit more longer life – perhaps, add a bit more of long. I have found that stories are the best way to make people understand and remember your intent.

  So, for you newcomers to the field of say, magic, or mysticism, or ghost-isim – whatever. I am not going to introduce you to the basics or the fundamentals. I am not even going to tell you guys a single thing.

  Why? No reason. I was just always very stubborn.

  So… from now on, from the next chapter, you guys are gonna have stories and stories and stories to read. Like a lot of stories. If you loved reading, you are gonna start hating reading.

  Now, but if you guys really are of ‘searing intellect’, you guys will be like: “Oh! Why stories!?”

  The catch for the readers absolutely, completely and fundamentally needing a big brain was that… I write stories very poorly.

  Good luck understanding them.”

  And then the chapter ended.

  A small, five-hundred word chapter, but Dimus had never read a narration so blatant.

  Just as he finished it, his hands clasped the phone and he wanted to swing it down for a ride – down the floor, and then straight to garbage. But he stopped himself and took a deep, deep breath.

  He was detesting himself right now. Why did he even read the story? Why did he not stop?

  Long ago history gave us a quote: “Curiosity kills the cat.”

  Now, girls often would compare his look to a cat. That cat-handsome look. But trapping himself into the tragedy of this book, he proved it. He probably was more cat-like than he knew. He killed himself like a cat.

  When he even thought about the book, or its repercussions, or how his life is gonna change after this, his mind went blank.

  He smacked his face with both of hands, and then slowly dragged them down the face, as if trying to drag the heavy thoughts out. Honestly, he wished he could do that.

  He clicked the phone, and it opened the home screen. Time: seven-fifty three. The perfect time to start dressing for college when the class starts at eight.

  He was not entering the room to grab his jeans again. Who knew how much the pigeons had pooped around?

  He swung his phone in his phone in his hand, and messaged the only boy he had hope from.

  “Bro, I’m at college right now, and my home is like an hour ride from here,” was the message he received back from him.

  Many times in life, we have to make the choice we detest from the bottom of our hearts. And assuredly, Dimus detested Annie from the bottom of his heart.

  She was the perfect picture of, long nails and crazy makeup that ruin the beautiful looks, yet boys still simp over her.

  Of course this wasn’t the problematic part, Dimus wouldn’t care about someone for whatever they do.

  The problem was much bigger. The problem that caused him to have a perfect net loss of twenty-thousand dollars.