The Bookworm's Awakening

Chapter Three

She flipped through page after page, her eyes fixed on the words until she reached the very end, still seated in the same position.

No.

The book was not over. The vampire had failed to end the human race as he intended, some mysterious force preventing him from doing so.

"Why couldn't you finish this book, Cynthia Hall?" Sarah growled, picking up the novel with a frown.

She couldn't understand why she had become so engrossed in it. Perhaps it was the captivating allure of the handsome vampire that held her in its grip. Regardless, she yearned to uncover the fate of the vampire, to know if he would ever find love.

How could she reach Cynthia Hall? The author was strangely mysterious.

Sarah dropped the book on her bed and headed into the kitchen to prepare something. For once, she decided she wouldn't think about the handsome vampire.

Her feet dragged as she reached the kitchen door, feeling a sense of reluctance as she eyed the pots, pans, and utensils. Cooking was not her favorite thing to do, and she believed she wasn't a good cook. Perhaps that was why she rarely enjoyed eating her own food. She usually ordered takeout, but today, her wallet was empty.

Sarah made her way to the kitchen counter and retrieved the last packet of spaghetti, wrapped in red and transparent packaging. She let out a frustrated growl.

Her food supplies were running low, and she wouldn't receive any money from her parents until the end of the month, which was still two weeks away.

She had used half of her money to buy all of Cynthia's Halls books, since she could not find them at the school library.

Sarah tossed the spaghetti on the counter and dragged out her mortar and pestle from under her kitchen table where she had kept it; the wooden mortar was surprisingly heavy despite its petite form.

Now she thought about that woman in the suit and the funny heels. No matter how hard she tried to get her mind off it, she still ended up thinking about her. She was certain she had seen her in class and heard her voice, which was much sharper than it had been at the bus stop.

Sarah shook her head.

No, she was only imagining things; she was probably just imagining it.

After she had finished cooking, the sweet aroma of spaghetti wafted through the air.

She stared lazily at the spaghetti that had curled itself in her cooking pot, at the faint steam coming out, and at the pepper and green peas in it.

She dished it into a bowl, sat by the window, ate silently while staring at the water flowing by the river.

Through her steam-blurred glasses, which she was too lazy to wipe off, she averted her gaze to the Bloodlust book lying on her bed.

She had not read the last of the pages because she knew nothing would be there—no glossary, no author’s page. It was how Cynthia Hall wrote all of her books.

For some unknown reason, Sarah left her half-finished food and decided to flip through the book again; perhaps she would find something that could lead to an email or any contact.

She stared at the cover with her mouth full. Her gaze on the red splashed on the title, boldly written in black ink. And she also noticed the crown atop the 'C' in her name, faintly written in white.

She had first stumbled upon her romance books last year when she had gone into a book shop. At first, she didn’t want to read them because they were blank, no decorations, the sort of books that resembled her textbooks. But she had been intrigued by the fact that she did not know this author, had not heard of her before.

She knew many authors; she was a bookworm after all, the fastest of the worms, the one who would browse about every author she came across at any chance she got.

When Sarah first read the author's book, she surfed the internet but found nothing about her, not even a social media handle.

She let it be, though. It was possible that most authors decided to hide their identity. However, she was still intrigued; she still wanted to know about her because her books had become her favorite.

As she flipped through the last of the pages, she wasn’t surprised to find it blank. She sighed; she should have known it would be hard to find anything. Maybe she would go to the bookstore and see if the author had written any new books, probably a sequel to "Bloodlust."

However, as Sarah closed the book and was about to drop it, her eyes caught something. It was an address. It was written at the back, below where the ISBN was. It was faint, and if one did not look carefully, they would have missed it.

But what sort of an address was this? How in the...

It read, "Walk to the end of the street and take a right turn. There is a house with the number 1111."

No.

She threw the book on her bed, her eyes wide. What kind of address was that? Was Cynthia Hall living on her street and knew she wanted to meet her, so she wrote an address specially for her?

And the number—she took a deep breath—this was odd, all odd, that number.

She shook her head. It was a coincidence.

Was it?

Because that number happens to be her birthday, November 11.

Sarah stood up and stared at the book for longer than she should.

"Dammit, Sarah, it's just a book, and maybe the author was just playing mind games with her readers." she mumbled to herself.