Post by asylum on Dec 27, 2021 19:09:36 GMT -5
The Writer sat at his desk. The room was dark save for the glow cast by a small lamp on the left hand corner of his work surface and the faint illumination of his laptop screen. He had a word processing program open, but the white page was blank. His cursor blinked at him accusingly, begging him to type something. Anything. Words Dammit! Type some words! Nothing came. He just stared sightlessly at the blank page.
At first the whispers were almost inaudible and very near unintelligible. They were less words and more the slight tickle of breath on his ear. He felt the small hairs at the back of his neck stand up. He turned, but there was no one there. He shrugged and continued to work.
Then he heard it again. This time it was slightly louder.
“Write me,” the voice said.
The Writer turned and looked behind him.
“Anyone there?” he asked like he was the big-breasted girl in the opening scene of a slasher film. “Hello?”
The wind howling outside the windows of his home was the only reply.
He turned back to the computer and began to type. Then he erased. Then he typed again, shook his head, and erased some more. It was a zero net gain. Words had appeared and disappeared, but none remained. He slammed his fist onto the desk’s surface hard enough to make the laptop jump. He was about to give up. He closed the laptop and pushed his rolling office chair back from his desk. He placed his hands on his thighs and was preparing to stand when he heard the voice again. This time it was loud and unmistakable.
“WRITE ME!”
The Writer whirled around expecting someone to be standing right behind him, but there was no one there. He stood up and turned on the overhead light. The room was fully illuminated. There were no corners for anyone to hide in. Other than him, there was not another soul present.
“Am I going crazy?” he asked himself.
He turned off the overhead light and was about to turn off the desk lamp when inspiration struck him like a blow to the back of the head. He was almost knocked over by the idea. He dropped back into his chair, wheeled forward, and opened his computer. He began to bang away at the keys as if he were a man possessed by the spirit of Charles Dickens. He didn’t even have time to think the words let alone read them as his fingers pounded them out one by one. Letters became syllables became words became sentences became paragraphs. Words became allusions of images that were quickly fleshed out and fully-formed. Characters were born and characters died. When his fingers finally stopped typing he had a chance to see what he had written. Frantically he read through his stream of consciousness. As he neared the end his eyes widened in horror.
“My God! What have I done?”
He raised a hand to delete his writing. Afraid of what would happen if he didn’t. It was too late, however. Just then the entire room went dark.
“You unleashed me!” a deep voice growled.
There was a high-pitched scream that ended in a gurgling sound as if the screamer had suddenly found themselves plunged into water.
The desk lamp came back on.
The Writer was still in his seat, but a bloody, second smile had opened in his neck. The arterial spray covered the wall, desk, and even his laptop. Rivulets of blood ran down the screen. He remained upright though more slumped in his seat than he had been. Once more his eyes stared at the screen. This time, however, they were sightless.
Out of the darkness a face appeared. The face was clad in a restraint mask that did its best to hide the demonic grin beneath. Soulless blue eyes stared outward. The man’s bald head showed the permanent signs of numerous battles.
“And may God have mercy on you all!”
Then, once again, there was darkness.
All that remained was an unsettling laugh that seemed to reverberate through the entire building.
At first the whispers were almost inaudible and very near unintelligible. They were less words and more the slight tickle of breath on his ear. He felt the small hairs at the back of his neck stand up. He turned, but there was no one there. He shrugged and continued to work.
Then he heard it again. This time it was slightly louder.
“Write me,” the voice said.
The Writer turned and looked behind him.
“Anyone there?” he asked like he was the big-breasted girl in the opening scene of a slasher film. “Hello?”
The wind howling outside the windows of his home was the only reply.
He turned back to the computer and began to type. Then he erased. Then he typed again, shook his head, and erased some more. It was a zero net gain. Words had appeared and disappeared, but none remained. He slammed his fist onto the desk’s surface hard enough to make the laptop jump. He was about to give up. He closed the laptop and pushed his rolling office chair back from his desk. He placed his hands on his thighs and was preparing to stand when he heard the voice again. This time it was loud and unmistakable.
“WRITE ME!”
The Writer whirled around expecting someone to be standing right behind him, but there was no one there. He stood up and turned on the overhead light. The room was fully illuminated. There were no corners for anyone to hide in. Other than him, there was not another soul present.
“Am I going crazy?” he asked himself.
He turned off the overhead light and was about to turn off the desk lamp when inspiration struck him like a blow to the back of the head. He was almost knocked over by the idea. He dropped back into his chair, wheeled forward, and opened his computer. He began to bang away at the keys as if he were a man possessed by the spirit of Charles Dickens. He didn’t even have time to think the words let alone read them as his fingers pounded them out one by one. Letters became syllables became words became sentences became paragraphs. Words became allusions of images that were quickly fleshed out and fully-formed. Characters were born and characters died. When his fingers finally stopped typing he had a chance to see what he had written. Frantically he read through his stream of consciousness. As he neared the end his eyes widened in horror.
“My God! What have I done?”
He raised a hand to delete his writing. Afraid of what would happen if he didn’t. It was too late, however. Just then the entire room went dark.
“You unleashed me!” a deep voice growled.
There was a high-pitched scream that ended in a gurgling sound as if the screamer had suddenly found themselves plunged into water.
The desk lamp came back on.
The Writer was still in his seat, but a bloody, second smile had opened in his neck. The arterial spray covered the wall, desk, and even his laptop. Rivulets of blood ran down the screen. He remained upright though more slumped in his seat than he had been. Once more his eyes stared at the screen. This time, however, they were sightless.
Out of the darkness a face appeared. The face was clad in a restraint mask that did its best to hide the demonic grin beneath. Soulless blue eyes stared outward. The man’s bald head showed the permanent signs of numerous battles.
“And may God have mercy on you all!”
Then, once again, there was darkness.
All that remained was an unsettling laugh that seemed to reverberate through the entire building.