Andi 💙

“The Bookworm,” most people called them — it — in the most threatening voices they could muster. In truth, the username was more along the lines of “g-something-bookworm” with a random string of numbers following (sometimes all zeros, often 666, occasionally 1818, though that one never seemed to carry the same hefty weight to it), and those who had encountered it would never admit to it. That was part of the fun. Part of the cost. Admitting that you’d had a run-in with the bookworm and lived was...well. It just didn’t seem to carry the same terror as, say, a photograph that drives you mad or an email chain that picks off everyone who receives it, you know?

“It’s about fear,” you remember one of your classmates — a long, gangly boy with too many missing teeth and a lopsided smile to match — telling you once, “it can’t feed off of you if you’re dead.”

“It does kill you eventually,” a pigtailed girl had appended, “but it’s slow. So slow you don’t even realize until it’s too late. I don’t know exactly how it kills you, but I know that’s why you never get firsthand accounts.” 

“I always thought it was one of those chatbots, you know? Like, what kind of scary name is ‘The Bookworm’? Just sounds lame, honestly.”

“I heard it drives you mad if you try to talk with it.”

“I heard it’s real. My friend’s cousin knew a guy who had a run-in with it.”

“I heard—”

“I heard—” 

“I heard—”

And so on, and so forth. The names warped. The rumors spun. But the hitch, of course, was the part that always stayed the same.

Lie to the Bookworm and it would reveal your darkest secret.

And that, most could agree, was a fear to behold in and of itself.

Of course, it had to be a good lie. The Bookworm didn’t just go around wasting its time on children lying about their ages or middle-aged fathers lying about their relationship statuses; those were matters that could resolve themselves with angry parents and spouses without some sort of eldritch intervention. It had to be something worthy of pulling apart. It had to be a story. 

It had to be something that you had a stake in, something you had a chance at losing, because the Bookworm always won in the end. There was never any question about that. The only question to be answered was whether you were stupid enough to play its game.

But it’s not like you ever really believed in all that.

In a way, it was like a ghost — something fun to scare yourself with. A spook you could safely hold at arm’s distance and pretend gave you nightmares as opposed to very real, very tangible terrors, like break-ins or overdue phone bills. It kept you honest as a kid, as you assume that’s what the story was spun to do, so it served its purpose well enough before quietly folding away into long-abandoned forum servers and long-forgotten sleepover tales from people you no longer keep in touch with. You forget about it, and it forgets about you. Such is the lifespan of urban legends.

You don’t think about the Bookworm or the Twisted Man or the Grinning Dog these days; they’re long-forgotten monsters under your childhood bed, and you have your own flat nowadays. You have real problems now — adult problems — so you don’t think about them. Not when it gets dark or when you’re alone. Not even when you check under your bed for a stray sock.

Maybe that’s why you didn’t think about it when you made the post.

In all honesty, it’d probably been a long time coming — the fighting, then the careless words, then the police. You hadn’t really been thinking much at all in all your blind anger, the snap judgment of the whole evening constricting around your throat when you’d opened your laptop, made a new account, and poured yourself into a tale for the internet’s approval. Maybe you just needed a good vent. Maybe you just needed the feeling of someone having your back for once, after everything had gone to shit these past few weeks. A simple fix. A harmless decompression.

Posted 4:34 pm: AITA for calling the police on my girlfriend after she keyed my car?

You hit send and slide your laptop onto the coffee table.

And then you sit.

And then you wait. 

The comments tick up in a slow trickle, and then a wave, and then a tsunami. You can’t believe your eyes. In the next two hours, the jury makes its decision between seven-hundred upvotes and two-hundred comments, all echoing the same sentiments, all patting you on the back in a support you haven’t felt in weeks. NTA, one reads, she’s out of her mind. You did the right thing.

NTA. Hope she does time. Sorry about the car.

NTA. Better than me, I would have gone and slashed her tires afterward.

NTA. Do you need money for repairs op?

And so on, and so on, and so on.

And by god, does it feel good.

It feels good to have something go your way for once. Feels good to have all these strangers at your side, telling you you’re right, telling you that she’s wrong when no one else ever seems to agree. To think that hundreds of strangers finally see your side when no one else does — not your friends, not your family — it feels...liberating. You feel at ease. You feel vindicated. You feel like you’ve finally gotten the answers you wanted, patting your own back as your scroll through the overwhelming support. This is what you’ve been missing.

And then at 7:12 pm, there’s a single comment that makes you pause.

jarchivist15: you forgot to mention David.

Just five words. Just five.

You stare at the screen. You read it again. You pick through each letter aloud, feeling it over in your mouth, feeling your tongue go dry as you can’t seem to find anything in your own post, in any of the comments or replies to even warrant such a blank, unprompted response. You never......you never mentioned that name. You never brought it up once here — no one knows about that person, not even your family.

Feeling your throat close up around itself as you type, you can only respond with a simple, what?

You watch your screen anxiously, the cursor blinking hungrily.

And then, just under three minutes later, a new response loads in.

David, the poster says, your boss. You forgot to mention how she caught you making out with him in the closet at your company’s holiday party, which is what prompted her to key your car. I think, given the fact that you cheated on her, you most certainly are the asshole here.

Your vision begins to tunnel. Your hands cramp. Your mouth moves wordlessly, open and closed. There’s no way, you want to type, there’s just no way this person could know that. No identifying features in the story itself; no person in your life who you’ve even shared this secret with. It’s maddening. It’s impossible.

In your third-storey, single-bedroom flat, it feels insane to entertain the notion of being watched by someone, and yet the feeling is undeniable. There’s a soft prickle on your neck. A tension in your shoulders, like long, boney fingers digging in. A chill on the back of your left ear, like someone breathing, like something breathing on you — looking over your shoulder in mute amusement, watching and waiting and hungry.

You slam your laptop closed with enough force to crack the screen, and then you get up. You grab your coat. You take your keys and leave without locking your door, and you don’t stop running even after your lungs begin to burn.

—

Jon’s chewing on his thumb, decisively, when the front door unlocks. He’s gotten used to the sound by now, the fumbling with the old knob over a handful of groceries, a sound he’s come to look forward to at the end of every day.

“You’re back early,” he calls, hearing Martin close the door behind him before peeling off his shoes with twin thumps.

“I just went to the grocer. Figured I could save the post office for tomorrow,” Martin responds. He wanders over behind the couch, slotting his hand onto Jon’s shoulder where Jon holds it there, warm against his own eternally cold hands. “Find anything worth reading today?”

“Hm. I guess.” Jon glances back to the screen. The now-deleted user above his comment stares back in palpable resolution.

“Another asshole, eh?”

“God, aren’t they all?”

Martin chuckles a bit at this before sliding away back towards the kitchen. “I hope you didn’t eat too much,” he teases, “because I happen to have some fresh tomatoes that would make for a lovely spaghetti sauce.” 

Jon lets out a snort. He closes his laptop. He rolls around, tucking his elbow over the back of the couch to look at Martin as he ties on his novelty “kiss the cook” apron — and hey, Jon might just have to take him up on that offer.

“You know I always leave room for your cooking,” Jon smirks.