Lighthouse Horror Podcast - I Found a Notebook in the Chicago Library. Everyone Who Reads It DIES | Scary Stories

Episode Date: May 21, 2025

Credits to: www.creepypasta.fandom.comCover Art from NinerioMore of the artist’s works at ninerioartsOriginal YouTube link: I Found a Notebook in the Chicago Library. Everyone Who Reads It DIES. Merch: lighthousehorror.shopFor more stories like this one, check out my YouTube channel: Lighthouse Horror | YouTube Patreon: Lighthouse Horror | PatreonMusic:Lucas King - YouTubeMyuu - YouTube IncompetechDarren Curtis Music - YouTubeThank you for listening to this scary story! If you enjoyed this new creepypasta story, please check out some of my other horror stories. We'll be uploading new episodes every week, featuring ghost stories, haunted encounters, mysteries, true stories, creepypasta, and anything supernatural and paranormal. Don't miss out on the thrill and suspense that await you in each episode!

This is a pretty nice city, Chicago. It's big. And because it's so big, you never see the same person twice. I sometimes curse that reality when I'm working on my latest project. Actually, it's less of a project and more of an investigation. An investigation of a peculiar thing that happens in the city library. Let me explain. About eight months ago, I'd say mid-November,

I'd been assigned a bit of a weird duty by my teachers. They requested that I start my research now for a paper that I was to turn in at the beginning of the next fall semester. I'm working on my PhD in modern American anthropology at DePaul University. They wanted a paper from me to find the profile for the most average American possible, using statistics, culture, you know, language, etc. It was an odd project, but I figured I could do it. I had the internet and the library, and I had a list of volunteer interviewees that volunteered to be questioned for the human sciences majors should I want to do a survey. I haven't worked on that project for weeks. Let me explain how it started.

Mid-November came around, and the school library had yielded as much information as it could give, which was not enough, unfortunately. I decided to migrate all my studies over to the much older, much larger city library. I packed up my laptop, wrote down the names of all the larger reference books that I used, and began the trek to the train station to head over to the right side of town. I arrived at the library, about 10 a.m. And as soon as I walked into the main lobby, I was marauded by the screams and giggles, of a visiting elementary school class.

I tried to smile and push my way through the sea of tiny faces and brightly colored t-shirts over to the main staircase. I trekked up the stairs to about the third floor. Before I left the staircase and headed over to the computer to look up the location of the books about which my paper was centered. Floor 9. West Wing. Great. I thought to my son.

six more floors to climb before I can begin. I'll be in great shape by the time I'm done with us. So I climbed and climbed and I climbed. Finally, I reached my destination and took out four or five books, fired up my computer, and began working. I worked through about 3.30 p.m. before I began to get hungry. I leaned back from my chair, stretched my arms into the air, and then pushed my glasses up my nose. It was only then I realized that there was another person on the silent library floor along with me. A young girl, maybe 18 or 19, was browsing through the books on the shelves across from me and the other work tables. I remember remarking to myself that either I was working very hard to not have noticed another huge, human being enter the room, or she was just incredibly quiet, maybe a mixture of the two.

I thought nothing of it at the time and began packing up my things. As I was packing my things up, I noticed the girl come to a table and sit down with a peculiar looking book. I did not see where she got it from exactly, though I just assumed one of the shelves. It didn't look like a book that is printed and bound and published. and mass, but more like a simple notebook with lined pages and a flimsy paperback, like you'd get at Office Depot, Borp's Staples. She was reading it very intently. I could see something written on the book's front cover, but it was written in black, and it was hard to read against the dark blue paper cover. I decided not to intrude,

and continued packing, as she continued to rip through the words on the pages. with her eyes. As I lifted the strap of my computer bag over my shoulder, the girl dropped the book onto the floor with a soft flapping of paper. Her eyes were fixed onto the opposite wall, in a glazed over awe. I looked across the room to where she was looking, but I didn't see anything but bookshelves. I could tell immediately that it was something she'd read that caused her to be suddenly dumbstruck. There was no indication of anything in her eyes. They were unmoving, unresponsive. She slowly rose from her seat and silently moved across the room toward the stairs down to the main hall. I followed with caution and a bit of curiosity. I looked back over my shoulder and saw the

small notebook still lying on the ground. I was hungry, and the bag was heavy, so I did not involve myself in preserving the library's belongings and followed the girl down the stairs. Her eyes, they were completely dead and glazed over. She didn't make a sound through all nine floors of stairs. She walked slowly and silently, looking half focused on the stairs and half in deep thought. And thought about whatever it was the book had revealed to her. She went out the front door of the lobby. I was still following her a few feet behind. She pushed open the door and stepped out onto the sidewalk.

I followed, keeping the door open, still intending to go to lunch and not have to endure any drama. Instead of walking left or right, the girl kept walking straight. She walked in between the bumpers of two parked cars and right out into traffic. I panicked as she walked out into the street. I quickly ran to try and grab her shoulder before she wandered into the busy street, but it was too late. A large pickup truck, horn blaring, plowed straight into her. The driver slammed down his brakes, but it wasn't enough.

Her neck snapped left, then right, and then her head hit the pavement. There was blood everywhere. The truck finally screeched to a halt. It skidded so far that the girl's body was now just underneath the truck. The driver just sat in the driver's seat in shock, Knuckles White, gripping the steering wheel, and him just staring at the blood all over the windshield. I ran over to the girl, trying to pull her out to see if she was alive. I was able to grab her hand.

I pulled, but I realized her arm was broken. Her elbow was shattered, and her forearm and upper arm had been dislocated. I bent way down and looked under the car. Her skull had been compromised. completely crushed. Her eyes, though, they were glazed over, looking at nothing, just staring out into space. It was strange. I thought she was alive just for a moment.

Just for a second, the notion that she hadn't been harmed by the accident crossed my mind. Sure, her brain was ground into the tarmac, and there was blood. Not everywhere, but her face hadn't changed. The dead-eyed look that had come over her way up on the ninth floor of the building, it was still on her face. Now it was never to be removed again. I just looked at her face for a second. I stood up at the sound of sirens. The police had come and were blocking off the area where the accident happened.

I told them everything I've told either. They took notes, but didn't seem interested in the book. I was shaken up, really shaken up. Wasn't hungry anymore. I decided to just go home. The library closed for the day. It was tough to sleep that night. I just wanted to go upstairs and find that book.

I don't know why. Nothing plagued my mind more than what was in that book. That book, I think it killed her. Either up on the ninth floor or down in the street, I couldn't positively decide which in my mind. What I'd witnessed, whatever it was, had me convinced that the book was responsible for a life that day. I was both very curious and scared of what was in that book.

If I did go up to the next book, ninth floor. Should I read it? Could I even find it? Had the police taken it? Was it still sitting on the floor where the girl had dropped it? These things I did not know. The library, it didn't open for days. I have been looking for this book for over a week now. I have scoured every single shelf on the ninth, eighth, and now the seventh floor. I've asked the librarians about any such book. None have seen it. I asked all the janitors. None had seen any book like it. I even asked a policeman who wanted to interview me.

He said no such book had been found. The case had been closed and deemed an accident. The driver was acquitted, seeing as how he had almost no time to stop, probably couldn't have done anything anyway. I keep thinking to myself, I have to continue my research. Looking for this book is ridiculous. There's no point to it. I mean, come on, even if I do find it,

the chances of the book being the cause of her death are slim. She must have had mental problems. Maybe it really was just an accident. Maybe it was something completely different that, you know, she just remembered that caused her to be so distrable. that she walked straight into traffic. Or maybe the thing she remembered, I don't know, it made her so depressed that she just had to end it.

The book, I mean, come on, it's unlikely to be the reason she died, right? But there were still some things that didn't add up. If the librarians didn't do anything with the book, nor the janitors, nor the police, then who? There was very little time for anyone to go up the stairs after the girl and I went down. And if someone did happen to go all the way to the ninth floor, they would have to go over to that particular table among dozens to be able to find it.

It was very inconspicuous after all. I think I might need a therapist. This is haunting me. I need to put this behind me. I'm not getting anything done. I think it may be happening again. Somehow, someone else found the book, I think. It's been three weeks since then.

I have an office. The library lends to heavy researchers. There are dozens like this one, next to mine up here on the ninth floor. I've been getting a lot of work done with this office. It's been over a month since the incident with that girl. I was thinking about it less and less every day until now as I'm writing this. I'm glancing up every few seconds out of the window in the office over to a table in the library. Sitting on this table as a kid, boy maybe 16, 17, is sitting there reading the book.

I am almost certain that it is the exact same. book. I mean, it has to be. I watched him bend down inside one of the aisles and pick it up. I know what I have to do now if he drops it, like the girl did. I have to grab it. I'm considering going out there right now and getting it from him. But I don't know. I want to see if it puts him into a trance like it did the girl. He's been reading it much longer than the girl had, but just as intent like. The kid dropped it. He looked up now, just as the girl had, but now he's looking right at me.

I can tell. He's looking right at me. There's no mistaking it. I rose from my chair, and he hopped off the top of the table. His eyes still dead focused on me. I opened the door to my office and walked out in the room. to the library. The kid is still staring, unblinking. He began walking toward me, but now was just walked around the table. What was in the book? I asked him. His face grimaced. He began walking

steadily backwards away from me towards the other side of the library. I began walking towards him. What was in the book? I ask again. He flinched and looked very annoyed. He was now grinding his teeth. What was in the book? Tell me what was in the book, I asked. I was now passing the table he'd left the book on. I went over to grab it, but before I could,

he flipped around and started to run. He ran like the hounds of hell were at his heels. I was watching him. It wasn't five seconds before he reached the opposite wall, and there was a very large window there. He ran like hell, and he dove through the window. The glass shattered, and he fell. I didn't know what to do.

It was the second time this had happened. I ran over to the broken window without the book, and I looked down. There, the boy was face down in a parking space. His legs were twisted horribly. I could see that he was alive for now. He was moving but bleeding bad like. People were rushing to help.

I went back to that table, and the book wasn't there. I sat down in a chair and looked at, looked into my office and thought until the police came to question me again. The same cops. And I told them what I told you. They seemed not to believe me very much this time. There were witnesses for the first accident, but not for this one. There were no surveillance cameras in the library.

The police could not honestly believe that a kid just jumped out of a window, but because of this same book, and I couldn't blame him. It boggled my mind for months. It still does, as I sit here and holding at the state house. I'm on trial for the death of this kid. I'm currently waiting for the psychologist to come in, give me an evaluation. The psychologist came in, sat down, and put his briefcase on the table. Good afternoon, Mr. Baker.

Yeah, afternoon. I've been quite anxious to speak with you. I've studied your case quite thoroughly, he said. Now, correct me if I'm wrong, but you claim that both the boy who fell out of the window and the girl who was hit by a car a few months ago, both of whom you were near when they died, were reading some sort of notebook.

Yeah. I explained for the thousand times since I'd been here. Describe this notebook to me, he said as he opened up his briefcase. Well, it's small, thin, got a dark blue paper cover. It's got something written. It's got something written on it. Just then, the doctor removed a few papers. and sitting there in his briefcase was the notebook, the very same notebook.

Yes, he said as he looked at me in curiosity. He saw that I was looking at the notebook wide-eyed. He saw it too. Hmm, what is this? He asked, holding it up and opening it. I could see that on the front was written the word fly paper. I began to breathe heavily. I pushed my chair away from the examination room table, and I sat there against the wall,

looking at that notebook. It had killed two people already. The doctor just read the book intently for maybe a minute, and then slowly he rose from his chair without saying a word, and without an expression on his face, I could see only a single tear running from his eye. He turned around and opened the door to the room. Just outside the door was an officer who was guarding it.

The doctor reached down, grab the gun out of the officer's holster, put it in his mouth, and pulled the trigger. Blood hit me. I didn't really notice it. I just looked at the book still sitting on the table. I grabbed it, and I ran.

I jumped over the doctor's body and spun around the cop. I sprinted down the hallway, and I found an open janitor's closet. I ran in, shut the door. and flipped on the light. There I was with the book. I opened it, and then bam. A cop had opened the door and smacked me in the back of the head with a nightstick. And I blacked out.

I woke up in a hospital, cuffed to my bed, still covered in blood. The cops testified to the fact that the doctor had killed himself, not me. I told them about the book and how I was in the closet to read it. They searched. They said there was no book in the closet. And here I sit in this cell. Here I will sit

for two and a half years for the unintentional manslaughter of three people with antipsychosis medication. Now I'm not in prison, but an institution. The handlers here do not treat many people well, including me. I tell them all day, every day, that I'm not crazy. They have to force me to take my medicine every day.

I found the notebook in my cell. I haven't read it. Two of the most horrible handlers here have found the notebook as well. I gave it to them. They no longer bother me. Every day I think about the book, it always feels like it's just daring me to read it. I always feel the temptation.

I'm always curious about what's written in the book. The notebook always finds its way back to me. I know better than to read it. I know that. I'm not stupid. I've seen what happens when somebody reads the book, okay, but I just want to know. I just want to know what it says.

I just want to know. No.