The Writer
571 Words
Chapter Two:
Ethan Graves stared at the blinking cursor on his laptop screen.
It had been there for almost an hour.
One sentence.
That was all he had managed to write.
With a frustrated sigh, he leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. The small apartment was quiet except for the rain tapping against the window.
Another rejection email sat open on his screen.
The seventh this month.
He didn't even bother reading it.
The words were always the same.
"Thank you for your submission..."
"Unfortunately..."
"We wish you the best..."
Ethan closed the email and shut his laptop.
Three years of writing.
Three years of rejection.
At this point, he was beginning to wonder if becoming an author was just a foolish dream.
His eyes wandered to the strange wooden box sitting on the corner of his desk.
He had bought it earlier that day from an old antique shop tucked away between two abandoned buildings downtown.
The shop owner had looked relieved when Ethan agreed to take it.
Almost too relieved.
Ethan remembered the old man's warning.
"Be careful with that pen."
At the time, he'd laughed it off.
Now, alone in his apartment with thunder rumbling outside, the memory felt unsettling.
He opened the box.
The feather pen rested inside exactly where he'd left it.
It was beautiful.
The feather was black with streaks of silver running through it. The metal nib looked ancient, covered in symbols Ethan couldn't recognize.
Without thinking, he picked it up.
A strange chill passed through his fingers.
Not painful.
Just cold.
Very cold.
Ethan frowned but ignored it.
"It's just a pen," he said to himself.
He pulled a notebook closer and opened to a blank page.
A smile appeared on his face.
"What if you really are magical?"
The joke made him laugh.
Then he wrote:
Tomorrow my novel becomes a bestseller.
The moment the nib left the page, the room seemed to grow quieter.
The rain outside softened.
The air felt heavier.
Ethan stared at the sentence for several seconds before shaking his head.
"Okay. That's enough horror-movie nonsense for one night."
He closed the notebook and went to bed.
Sleep came quickly.
But peace did not.
He dreamed of endless shelves filled with books.
Thousands of them.
The shelves stretched into darkness so deep he couldn't see where they ended.
Somewhere among them, pages turned by themselves.
A voice whispered from the shadows.
Soft.
Patient.
Waiting.
"Write."
Ethan woke with a start.
His heart pounded.
The digital clock beside his bed read 3:07 a.m.
The apartment was dark.
For a moment, everything seemed normal.
Then he heard it.
Scratch.
Scratch.
Scratch.
The sound came from the living room.
Ethan sat frozen.
His mouth suddenly felt dry.
Scratch.
Scratch.
Scratch.
Slowly, he climbed out of bed and walked toward the sound.
The noise stopped the moment he entered the room.
His desk lamp was on.
He was certain he had switched it off before sleeping.
The notebook lay open.
The feather pen rested across the page.
Ethan approached carefully.
His stomach tightened.
There was writing on the paper.
Writing he didn't remember making.
His hands trembled as he read the words.
The story has begun.
A cold shiver ran down his spine.
Then, somewhere inside the apartment, a floorboard creaked.
Ethan slowly looked up.
He wasn't alone.
And whatever had entered his home was waiting in the darkness.
- Writer
