The Midnight Society

Emma Stone - First Person POV

The book that would destroy my life fell exactly thirteen seconds after I touched the restricted section's lock.

My hands shake as I reach for another dusty manuscript on the high shelf. Two in the morning, and I'm still here in Thornfield Library, fighting to keep my eyes open. Twenty hours straight of work today. Coffee shop at four AM, tutoring until noon, then this library shift that should have ended hours ago. But rent doesn't pay itself, and neither does Mom's treatment back home.

The restricted section gives me the creeps. Always has. Something about these old books makes my skin crawl, like they're watching me. I've learned to trust that feeling over the years. When something makes me uncomfortable, there's usually a good reason.

I grab the next book from my cart and immediately drop it. The leather cover feels wrong somehow. Cold and oily, like touching a snake. My stomach turns, and I kick it under the shelf instead of picking it up.

"Get it together, Emma," I whisper to myself. "It's just a book."

But that's not true, is it? Books aren't just books here. Not in the restricted section where students aren't allowed. Not when Professor Martinez specifically told me to avoid the locked cabinet in the corner. The one with symbols carved into its dark wood that hurt my eyes to look at.

I turn away from it, focusing on the cart. Three more hours until my shift ends. Then I can go back to my dorm, check on Jess, and maybe get two hours of sleep before my next shift starts.

The lock clicks behind me.

I freeze. I didn't touch it. I'm sure I didn't touch it. But when I turn around, the forbidden cabinet stands open, and something heavy crashes to the floor.

An ancient leather tome lies at my feet, thick as a dictionary but bound in what looks like human skin. The cover has symbols that seem to move when I'm not looking directly at them. Every instinct screams at me to walk away. To leave it there and finish my shift.

Instead, I reach for it.

The moment my fingers touch the binding, the world explodes.

I'm somewhere else. Somewhere dark and cold, filled with the smell of old stone and burning candles. Four figures in academic robes stand in a circle, their faces hidden by shadows. In the center lies a girl on a stone altar. She has my face. My exact face.

"The ritual must be completed," one of them says. His voice echoes like he's speaking from the bottom of a well. "The bloodline cannot be broken."

The girl who looks like me screams. Not from pain, but from rage. Power crackles around her like lightning, and the four figures stumble backward. But it's not enough. Something holds her down, invisible chains that burn her skin.

"She's fighting too hard," another voice says. Younger. Worried. "We need to"

The vision shatters.

I'm on the library floor, gasping like I've been underwater. The book lies open beside me, its pages yellow with age. But that's not what makes me scramble backward on my hands and knees.

It's the family tree drawn in red ink across both pages. Names and dates going back centuries, all connected by thin lines that look too much like veins. At the bottom, circled in fresh blood that's still wet, is my name.

Emma Stone. Born October 13th. And underneath, in handwriting I don't recognize: The Last Conduit.

My hands won't stop shaking as I try to close the book. The pages stick together like they're coated in something thick. I push harder, but they won't budge. If anything, they seem to be opening wider.

Blood seeps from between the pages. Not red blood, but something darker. It spreads across the floor in letters that burn themselves into my vision:

THE CONDUIT HAS AWAKENED.

I scramble to my feet and run. The book calls after me, its pages fluttering like wings, but I don't stop. Can't stop. The images from the vision chase me down the empty hallways, the girl with my face, the four robed figures, the smell of burning candles and old death.

By the time I reach my dorm, my chest burns from running. I fumble with my key card, dropping it twice before the lock finally clicks green. The hallway is empty, which is normal for this time of night. Everything looks normal.

Except my door is open. Just a crack, but enough to see that the lights are off inside.

I left them on. I always leave them on because Jess is afraid of the dark.

"Jess?" I call softly, pushing the door wider. "Are you okay?"

No answer. I step inside, and the silence feels wrong. Too thick. Like the air itself is holding its breath.

My roommate sits on her bed, perfectly still. Her back is to me, but something's not right about the way she's sitting. Too straight. Too rigid.

"Jess?" I will try again. "I'm sorry I'm so late. The library shift ran over and"

She doesn't move. Doesn't even acknowledge that I'm speaking. A chill runs down my spine that has nothing to do with the open window.

I walk around to face her, and my blood turns to ice.

Jess stares at nothing with wide, empty eyes. Blood trickles from her ears, dark in the moonlight. Her lips move like she's trying to speak, but no sound comes out.

On her desk, placed carefully next to her economics textbook, sits an envelope made of expensive cream paper. My name is written across it in elegant handwriting. The same handwriting from the book.

With trembling fingers, I tear it open. Inside is a single card with a message that makes my knees buckle:

The Midnight Society requests your immediate presence. Tonight. Old Chapel. Come alone, or Jess dies.

I look back at Jess, her real name is Jessica, but everyone calls her Jess except her mother who insists on Jessica. Whoever wrote this knows things they shouldn't know.

"Jess," I whisper, reaching for her shoulder. "Can you hear me?"

The moment I touch her, another vision hits. Briefer this time, but just as terrifying. Four male figures standing in shadow, waiting. One of them holds something that looks like a syringe filled with liquid darkness.

I jerk my hand away, and Jess's lips finally move enough for sound to escape:

"Emma... someone's here."