It was my second lesson (English) and the usual teacher wasn’t there, instead it was the headteacher. Now, I’m horrified. Though, he didn't seem to be very happy. To be honest, he really never is happy.  “I am very sorry children but your english teacher died last night,” our headteacher sighed.   Everyone started crying their heads off except for me. At the end of my lesson, I took my book with me, then when I was at the library I realised that my book was covered in dried,  pure red blood. Only one thought came to mind: did the book eat my teacher? I mean, the book was close to eating my hand. I also heard staff saying that her body (that word scares me) was not to be found. Meaning my book might have eaten my teacher.

When I got home -around six- I had to do a very important experiment. In town streets, there are a lot of dirty rats. So, I took one. I know you're going to start calling me crazy but the truth is - I’m not.  As soon as I got home, I seized my book from under my bed and put it next to the rat. After I did that, I sprinted my way out of the room. Few minutes later, I went back and the rat was gone or should I say - DEAD! My next piece of proof was that fresh blood was found on top of my book again. I knew at once that I had  to hide it.

At midnight, I grabbed a knife from the kitchen and ripped the book into pieces. Then, I left it in the kitchen to hide it the next morning. I thought that nothing would happen, but something did and it was even worse. My cat and the family next door to us had also died. This was all my fault. If I wasn’t a thief then this would've never happened.

I skipped a day off and went to a forest one hour away from here where no one would ever dare to visit. When I arrived, I dug the remaining pieces of the book 4000m down which took me about three hours. That was the end of the book.                                                           

Or so I thought…