A Notebook From Hell

Chapter 7- The Notebook

Emma stood frozen in the dim alley, her mind spinning, heart racing. The world felt surreal, like she was trapped between dream and reality. Midnight was approaching, but time felt meaningless now.

Alright, so let's recap, she thought, her pulse thudding in her ears. I’ve got a notebook here that writes by itself, reads minds, claims to answer all my questions, and—it sounds smarter than half the people I know.

She stood there for a few minutes, processing the absurdity of it all. And then, out of nowhere, laughter exploded from her. Her hands trembled with excitement, gripping the notebook tighter.

"This... this is perfect!" she cackled, her voice echoing off the alley walls. She laughed like someone possessed, the pent-up frustration and chaos of her life releasing in one crazed burst. Finally, something was going her way. It felt intoxicating.

"Well, dear friend, I’m definitely glad I found you," she murmured, smirking to herself. Her voice oozed with satisfaction. She shoved the tattered notebook into her bag, her feet racing through the dark streets toward home.

In her room, Emma sat on her bed, staring at the notebook like it was some kind of treasure chest. Her thoughts were racing faster than her heart.

"Okay, notebook—paper master, or whatever the hell you call yourself—what’s your deal? You said knowledge is power. So, you gonna help me or what?" she asked, her voice sharp with anticipation.

Silence.

"Hey! Are you going to answer me, or are you just a dumb notebook pretending to be cool?" Emma snapped, her frustration bubbling over. Maybe I imagined the whole thing... she thought, a wave of doubt hitting her. She frantically flipped through the pages, looking for the sentence that had appeared before—but it was gone.

Great. I’ve lost my mind, she thought bitterly.

Just as she was about to throw the notebook across the room in frustration, black ink appeared at the top of the page:

"Are you done complaining, or do you actually want answers?"

Emma blinked, her breath catching in her throat. No way.

"Wait—so this is real?" she asked, her voice softer, almost tentative.

The ink bled onto the page again, this time near the bottom: "Write your questions if you want answers."

"What? You literally read my mind! Why do I have to write it down?" she shot back.

"Writing." The word appeared, and then nothing else. No further explanation.

The night crawled by, but Emma didn’t care. She stayed up with the notebook—Mr. Note, as she had decided to call it—learning everything she could.

She learned that if she wanted answers, she had to physically write her questions down. No shortcuts. Even though Mr. Note could read her mind, it wasn’t going to make things easy. It responded when it felt like it. And sometimes, it didn’t. It was unpredictable, moody, maybe even a little sadistic.

But it was also brilliant. The possibilities seemed endless. With every question she scribbled, a door opened. Emma’s mind buzzed with new ideas, schemes forming faster than she could process them.

By the time the first rays of dawn crept through her window, she felt a sense of power she had never experienced before.

"In a few minutes, my mom's going to wake me up for school," she whispered, glancing at the dark pages. "Better get ready than go back to sleep, huh?"

"Of course. And I'm coming with you," Mr. Note seemed to reply through the ink, as if winking back at her. Emma couldn’t help but smile.

By the time Emma was walking down the street to Ridgewood High, she felt different. The world was the same—gray and dull—but she was changed. The notebook was tucked safely in her backpack, hidden from the prying eyes of the idiots around her. She had torn out a few pages and stuffed them into her pocket—a clever trick Mr. Note had suggested so they could communicate during the day.

With a devilish grin plastered on her gothic pale face, Emma pushed through the school gates. For the first time in her life, she felt powerful. And that was far better than feeling happy.