As I left the used book sale, I felt pretty pleased with my haul. Among the tattered paperbacks and questionable romance novels was a single, leather-bound book—aged, weathered, and practically whispering, Take me home with every glance. I wasn’t sure what drew me to it, but the embossed spine and intricate cover had a mysterious charm. So, I did what any self-respecting bibliophile would do—I bought it.
At home, the late afternoon sun streamed through my window, casting long shadows across the wooden floor of my study. I lit a candle on my desk, more for atmosphere than necessity, and settled into the quiet. The book felt heavy in my hands, its cover cold, with that satisfying creak as I opened it. As I thumbed through the yellowed pages, something small and brittle fluttered out, like a moth disturbed from its hiding place.
“Whoa, what’s this?” I muttered, reaching down to retrieve a folded piece of parchment.
Unfolding it, I found myself staring at an old letter, written in a flowing, dramatic script. I could almost imagine the author—a mysterious figure hunched over a desk like mine, the candlelight casting long, ominous shadows, just like now.
And then, the words came alive. Literally.
“Ah, well, it took you long enough,” a voice echoed from the letter.
I blinked, staring at the paper, half-expecting it to start moving or burst into flame. “Did… did you just—?”
“Yes, yes, I did just speak. Let’s not make a whole thing out of it. I’ve been stuck in here for what feels like a century, waiting for someone to find me.” The voice was exasperated, but there was a hint of amusement. “Name’s Jim, by the way.”
“Jim? You’re a… letter?”
“Ghost in a letter. Don’t make it weirder than it needs to be,” Jim quipped. “Now, before you go freaking out and burning this thing, I’ve got some advice for you. It’s the least I can do since you finally set me free.”
“Free? From what?” I asked, glancing at the old book, then at the shadow of the tree through the window, its branches forming a jagged silhouette.
“From eternal boredom. Imagine being stuck in a book for years, with no one to talk to except yourself and the occasional spider crawling across your face. And not even a fun book either. This one’s mostly obscure poetry and dried-up philosophy. No offense if that’s your thing.”
I laughed, despite myself. “So, what now? You haunt my house? Or give me a cursed treasure map?”
Jim chuckled. “Oh, I’m not that kind of ghost. I’m more of a ‘here’s some life advice and witty banter’ kind of spirit. Besides, you wouldn’t want treasure from me. It’s probably cursed, and I’m no good at maps. But I’ll leave you with this—never judge a book by its cover. Unless, of course, it’s leather-bound and mysterious. Then, absolutely judge away. Fancy covers rarely lie.”
I shook my head, grinning. “Great advice. Anything else?”
“Yeah, one more thing. Check the back of the book. There’s a list of things I need from the store—if you’re going out later.”
I flipped to the back, and sure enough, there was a list scribbled in faint ink: Milk, eggs, bread, and… garlic?
“Garlic?” I asked aloud.
Jim’s voice sighed. “Yeah, I was prepping for a potential vampire problem. You can never be too careful.”
I sat back, chuckling softly as the shadows lengthened around the room, the tree outside casting darker, more intricate shapes against the wall. For a brief moment, it almost felt like the branches were moving, as if alive with their own story.
“Well, Jim, welcome to your new home,” I said, placing the letter back between the pages of the book.
Jim’s voice faded slightly, but I could still hear him as I closed the cover. “Thanks, pal. Just don’t forget the garlic.”
And with that, I had the oddest, but most welcome, companion I’d ever encountered—haunting not my house, but my bookshelf.
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Writing Prompt: create a story, poem, flash fictions for the following prompt:
Red Letter/Dead Letter
At a used book sale, you purchase a leather-bound volume. At home, you thumb through the pages and an old
letter tumbles out. What does it say? Write the letter.
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