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Mathew Arredondo and the Book of Forgotten Names
Mathew Arredondo had always found the old house on Willow Street unsettling.
Its windows were too tall, its door too narrow, and the air around it seemed to hum with a low, forgotten tune.
He had passed it every day on his way to work, and every day, he had ignored the feeling that it was watching him.
But today, something was different.
The front door stood open, and the wind had pushed a single yellow leaf inside.
Mathew stepped inside, his boots clicking against the floorboards as if the house had been waiting for him.
The air was thick with dust and something else - something that smelled like old paper and regret.
In the living room, a book sat open on a table, its pages blank except for a single line: 'You are not the first.'
Mathew's heart pounded. He had heard stories like this before, but he had never believed them.
He turned around, but the door was gone, replaced by a wall of books that stretched into the shadows.
Mathew ran his fingers over the spines of the books, each one bearing the same name: his own.
His breath caught in his throat. He had read about this - about how the house consumed people, leaving only echoes behind.
He had thought it was a myth, a cautionary tale for children.
But now, standing in the middle of the room, he knew it was real.
Mathew turned back to the book, his hand trembling as he reached for it.
The moment his fingers brushed the cover, the air in the room grew colder, and the books on the wall began to rattle.
A voice, low and ancient, whispered in his ear: 'Every name you take, every story you steal, becomes your own.'
Mathew pulled his hand back, but it was too late. The book had already begun to change.
Its pages filled with lines that were not his, yet felt like they had always been.
As he stepped out of the house, the air felt heavier, and the house on Willow Street stood as it always had, silent and watching.
Mathew walked home, his steps slow and heavy, the weight of the house pressing on his chest like a stone.
He tried to forget what had happened, but the words from the book echoed in his mind, louder than the wind and the hum of the house.
At work, he found himself hesitating, unsure of the names of colleagues, as if they had been rewritten by an unseen hand.
His boss asked if he was unwell, but Mathew only nodded, his eyes fixed on the floor.
That night, he stood before the house on Willow Street again, the yellow leaf still resting on the threshold, as if waiting for him to return.
The next morning, his coworkers whispered about him, their voices tinged with unease. He had not spoken, not even to his boss, and they had noticed.
Bernard, his colleague, approached him at lunch, his face pale. 'Mathew, are you all right?' he asked, his voice low.
Mathew looked up, his eyes hollow. 'I don't know,' he said. 'I think I've forgotten who I am.'
Bernard turned away, his shoulders slumping. The house on Willow Street stood as it always had, silent and watching.