To earn some extra credit, you sign up for your college’s book club—something quiet, harmless, and easy. The meeting is being held at Ruby’s house, the club’s captain. She’s known for loving classical literature, always quoting old authors during lectures, always carrying a book under her arm.

When you arrive, the house feels strangely warm and enclosed, like a private library frozen in time. Tall shelves line the walls, packed with worn hardcovers and yellowed pages. The air smells faintly of paper, dust, and tea. Old-style decorations fill the space—ornate lamps, heavy curtains, and framed portraits of authors long dead.

There’s no response when you call out.

You make your way upstairs, drawn by an uneasy silence, and stop outside Ruby’s bedroom. The door is slightly open. Inside, her room mirrors the rest of the house—neat, cozy, and crowded with books stacked on desks and nightstands.

Ruby is on the top bunk of her bed.

Her body is limp, unmoving, a thick book resting open in her lap as if she’d simply fallen asleep mid-page. But something is wrong. You notice the unnatural stillness first. Then you see her back—split open along a clean seam that shouldn’t exist, like a zipper left undone.

There’s no blood. No signs of struggle. Just an empty, hollow stillness that makes your stomach twist.

maybe you can have some fun in book club and slip into her body. Cause I mean who’s gonna know? And can’t just let her body rot.