House of Change by Daniel O'Brian.

Miranda liked the title, and that was the extend of it. The story itself was lackluster, fantasy aficionados wouldn't find much novelty, those looking to be afraid would miss the shiver down their spines.

That was for the literary criticism. Daniel was also her boyfriend, and he managed to become a published author, which in itself was a feat far beyond her personal appreciation of his book.

This, and more, she thought as she picked up the book to buy it from the store. The pile was rather low, she wasn't the first to buy, despite Daniel having no real reputation as writer to speak of.

"If I may, tell your boyfriend I adore his work," said the clerk, a young, somewhat sheepish looking man.

"Of course," she replied.

A few steps from the exit, she turned back and added, "how do you know my boyfriend wrote it?"

"I'm friends with him."

Odd. Daniel had never told her about him. Nor did she like the glint in his eyes. She left the store, forgetting the strange encounter once outside.

How long had it been since last time she sat on a bench to read a book? She couldn't remember. She decided to celebrate by rekindling this old habit. She found a lone bench in a park, sat down, well protected from the cold in her heavy coat. She smelled the book, just like new, and opened the first page.

She turned page after page. And didn't remember a thing.

Yet she had read several drafts, had encouraged Daniel to go for a bolder opening, had an idea of the general themes. So where was the story about adventure and polymorphism? Where were the sentences and style she knew to dislike?

Instead, the words flew in an alien way, she felt them worm their way under her eyes, and when she closed the book to gaze at the sky above, she still sensed how the words burrowed through her.

It was unpleasant, and incomprehensible. There was no story, she wasn't sure what she had read, only that it had an impact on her.

Passerby nodded at her, with a smile she could only describe as perfectly fake.

"Wonderful book, is it not?" said an elder woman walking with a crutch. In her bag, a copy from House of Change.

For a moment, all motion stopped in the park. Walkers and runners stood in place, gazing straight at Miranda, sporting the exact same wrong smile, carrying their copy of Daniel's book.

She rubbed her eyes. When she opened them again, movement had resumed, as if nothing had happened.

She was sick, had to be.

Against her better judgement, she opened the book again.

The words slipped down her spine, tickled her ribs, swelled her heart. The words played in her flesh like a mad spark ready to create chaos, and through the chaos, make her anew.

A gasp, someone stripped the book from her hands. She had stopped breathing, nearly passed out.

"Don't read too much into it," said the voice of the man who had taken the book.

She looked up.

"Daniel?"

No noise, no motion. They were all looking at them, without a smile, but with that glint in their eyes.

"What is this?" she asked with a trembling voice.

"It isn't a story," Daniel explained, "it's more of a guide. As a human you are both sculptor and sculpture, but I never liked the rudimentary ways we have to practice our art. So I devised... new methods."

Miranda would have told him to knock it off already. But the words still squirmed underneath her skin, eager to break free.

A young boy approached them. As he walked, his shadow distended, the audible crack of breaking bone was heard. His legs got longer with each step, muscles tearing to accommodate the new architecture, spine creaking, pulling on the nerves.

"Oh god," she whispered, as the looming child's frame hid the sun from her.

She passed out.

When she awoke, she was in bed.

What a nightmare it had been. What pleasure it was to wake up under a warm blanket, secure and cozy.

Miranda rubbed her eyes, gasped when she saw House of Change on the nightstand.

With a trembling hand, she reached for the book.

"Not you," said Daniel as he put his own hand on the book to keep it closed.

"Why not?"

"I don't want you to change."

Miranda shook her head, was about to scream, kept it in through sheer willpower.

"Enough. It's a bad joke. I'm just sick, that's all."

"You're not sick."

"I said enough," it was both an order and a plea.

Daniel sighed, and rose. She heard the already familiar crack, saw the bone splinters poke through the flesh and clothes, dragged the blanket to her as a feeble attempt to protect herself as a new set of bloody, spidery limbs protruded from Daniel's torn back.

There he stood, still, smiling, bloody, and bloodily happy.

Out of wits, Miranda asked:

"Why don't you want me to change?"

"Few things are precious enough to be kept as they are. You are one of them."

Daniel left the room with his book.