My name is Aaron Sparks. Back in February of 2008, I decided that I needed a change in my monotonous life. Whether that change would come in the form of a new job or a new toothbrush, I didn't know. I was never the most adventurous person. I've always found it difficult to veer away from my comfort zone, and the limit of my existence usually depended upon which book I was reading at the time. It took me a while to realize that most of my happiness in my life was derived from works from fiction, from stories I often found myself lost in for days at a time; I was an avid bookworm - as miserable an expression as that is.

Once I realized my true outlet, I immediately knew what I wanted. I purchased a small shop, quit my boring job, renovated the building and transformed it into a bookstore --- I had never been happier. The next two years were the best of my life; the store had become a huge hit with the locals, my perspective on work had been completely altered, and I was feeling genuinely happy for the first time since my childhood.

It was during the winter of 2010 that she walked into my store. She stepped inside out of the snow and approached me with a large bin-bag. Etchings of age covered her pale face and hands -- she must have been at least 80 years old. Slamming the bag on the counter, she simply said, "These are for you."

I looked inside the bag to find a selection of some of the greatest novels ever written.

"Why?" I asked, confused. "Do you want money for these --- or some kind of book trade?"

"No, they're yours to have," she said. "Take them."

A feeling of unease swept over me as I stood in the woman's presence. Her dirty grey fringe slightly concealed her face as a cold gaze met my vision.

"Are you sure you want me to have them?" I asked. "Wouldn't you rather sell them?"

"No. I have no use for them, or for money."

"Okay... thank you. What's your name?"

"Lucy."

She departed from my store shortly after muttering her final words.

I found it all too strange that somebody would give away such great books for nothing, but I suppose some people are just nice. I made my way home that night and took the books with me so that I could go through them. I piled them up on the table and was surprised to see that all of them were in fantastic condition. A couple of them seemed to be first editions and others were versions that I had never even seen before. It took me a moment to realize it, but the novels that I was looking at were not as I had remembered them to be.

The first book that I picked up was The Green Mile. On the front cover, there was an image of John Coffey smiling and holding two dead, naked girls; I opened it up and flipped through the pages. In this version of the novel, he was in fact guilty of the rape and murder of both children. I made my way to the end of the book and read through the execution scene. All of the officers who had originally grown to love John Coffey in the original novel were now laughing uncontrollably and screaming racial taunts as he was being executed. My eyes had seen enough and my stomach had felt enough, too.

The next book I picked up was The Catcher in the Rye. The artwork upon the front page seemed to be of a dead body splattered on the street, as seen from an aerial perspective. I flipped through the book until I reached Chapter 14. After Holden Caulfield speaks of "messing with the idea of suicide," he suddenly breaks down in tears and jumps from the window, cracking his skull on the pavement below. The book abruptly ended after that.

I then picked up Lord of the Flies. The defining image on this novel was of a large child with the face of a pig; he was covered in blood and surrounded by decaying corpses. After thumbing through a few pages, I reached a point of the story in which Piggy is described as being "non-human, vicious, and a hungry animal." A chapter or so later, Jack insulted Piggy, which led him to lose his temper and rip Jack apart. Piggy then proceeded to kill and eat the rest of the children. The remainder of the book was the same line repeated over and over.

"Piggy sat alone on the island waiting for death."

I read through the few books that were left in the pile and they had all been changed in some sick way: The Great Gatsby, Withering Heights, To Kill a Mockingbird, Ulysses, every one of them. Just as I reached the bottom of the pile, I noticed that the final book was one that I had never even heard of before. It was called Last of the Sparks. Considering the content of the other books thus far, I found the inclusion of my last name in the title unnerving. Still, was just a book.

The front cover was six gravestones with words too small to read etched into the granite. I looked to the top corner of the book land noticed that there was a sell-by date on it --- June 4,  2013. I nervously opened it up to the beginning of the story: Chapter 1 - Alice sparks.

My stomach dropped as I read my mother's name upon the page. I felt dizzy and confused as I anxiously made my way through the chapter. It seemed to detail a regular day in the life of the character; that is, until I reached the last page. Alice was crossing the road when the heel of her shoe broke causing her to fall. She didn't get to her feet fast enough and a speeding car struck her, puncturing both her lungs.

I felt sick to my stomach. I put the book down and went straight to bed, hoping for some sleep. As it turned out, that was wishful thinking. I lay awake for most of the night, as innumerable questions ran through my mind. By daybreak I had managed to get a couple hours of sleep, but only after I spent an hour convincing myself there was nothing to worry about. It's just a book, I told myself. It's just a book.

The next morning when I got to work, I was feeling worse for wear. It wasn't lunch time that I began to perk up and regain a bit more energy. Then the phone rang. I answered the call, and I heard my father sobbing on the other end --- I immediately knew what happened. I closed the shop and ran to the hospital, but it was already too late; she was gone --- the victim of a hit-and-run driver doing 60 in a 35, they said.

I spent the next couple o weeks helping take care of my dad. Me, my brother and my sisters stayed with him in turns and looked after him; we all looked after each other. It wasn't until a few months later that I picked up Last of the Sparks again. It had scared me so much the last time that I had considered tossing it in the trash, but I never dad; rather I felt strangely compelled to hang on to it.

I opened the book up to page 37, and there it was: Chapter 2 --- Patrick Sparks.

This story was more of the same, a day in the life of a man that bore my father's name. It documented an ordinary day; ordinary, that is, until the part where he shot himself in the kitchen whilst on the phone with his son. Suddenly, I was possessed by an urge to run to the phone and call my father, to speak with him, comfort him --- but then I realized what I may be doing. Before I had the chance to hang up, someone picked up on the other end. Then he was gone.

I got my black suit and tie out once more and repeated the same process for another parent. It ruined us all. After the funeral, I refused to touch the book. What if I caused these deaths by reading it? I couldn't go through it all again. But on Christmas Eve of 2011, I got a phone call from my brother's wife, Heather. Will had been putting up Christmas lights on the roof, when he slipped on a patch of ice-coated shingles and broke his neck --- he died almost instantly, the doctor said.

I lost it. I threw the phone at the wall and began to sob on my sleeve. Anger took the pain away for a moment, long enough for me to pick up the book and read through Chapter 3. It was exactly as Heather described.

I fell asleep and woke the next day with the book still on lap. I decided to read ahead and discover who would be next to go, whether it would be me or one of my sisters. Whoever was next, I was determined to warm them, or give myself advance notice, as the case may be.

I turned the page: Chapter 4 --- Mary and Sarah Sparks. I rushed through the story as fast as I could until I reached the end. Both my sisters and their partners would drown in a lake after colliding with another car on a one-way bridge. That same sickly feeling overtook me.

I met with my sisters later that day to exchange gifts and I told them as calmly as I could that they ought to be careful while driving. I tried to sound as sincere as possible as I mentioned the lake, the bridge and the fact that all four of them would be in the car at the same time. Of course, they didn't take me seriously, taking apprehension up to fears of losing more loved ones. At least I told them.

Mary and Sarah drowned eight months later in August 2012. Following the funeral, I picked up the book and turned to the final pages: Chapter 5 --- Aaron Sparks. But I didn't read it. I decided I'd rather not live in the fear for who-knows how long, so I decided to save it for a later time; after all, there was a sell-by date on it for a reason.

Everything has been normal for the past five months or so. I've lost interest in reading, though, so I'm back to my old, miserable self. I questioned myself every day as to why the old woman was doing this to me. But it doesn't matter; it's all going to be over soon anyway.

I've just finished reading the final chapter.

It's June 4, 2013, and I'm sitting in my basement waiting for her to arrive, that's the way the ending goes...or so I've read.