The Writer
682 Words
Chapter 2
The rain had not stopped since Father Elias died.
By morning, the abandoned monastery had become the center of every news report in the city.
Police officers stood outside the ancient building, blocking curious onlookers from entering.
"It doesn't make any sense," one detective muttered. "The doors were locked from the inside."
Another officer shook his head.
"And there's no murder weapon."
Inside the chamber, Father Elias's body lay where it had fallen.
His eyes remained open, fixed on the ceiling as if he had died looking at something no one else could see.
The only clue was a journal lying beside him.
Written across its final page in dried blood were six chilling words:
Do not let it write the end.
No one understood what they meant.
Present day.......
Miles away, twenty-eight-year-old Ethan Graves sat alone in his small apartment.
His laptop screen displayed another rejection email.
"We regret to inform you that your manuscript has not been accepted..."
Ethan sighed and closed the laptop.
It was his twenty-third rejection.
He had spent years writing horror novels, but no publisher believed in him.
His rent was overdue.
His refrigerator was almost empty.
And his dream of becoming a successful author was slipping away.
"Maybe I'm just not good enough," he whispered.
A knock interrupted his thoughts.
His elderly neighbor smiled from the hallway.
"Ethan, there's an antique market downtown today. You love old books, don't you? Maybe you'll find something to inspire your next story."
Ethan forced a smile.
"Thanks. I guess it couldn't hurt."
The antique market buzzed with life.
Collectors examined dusty clocks, faded paintings, and stacks of forgotten books.
As Ethan wandered through the stalls, something caught his attention.
An old wooden box rested alone on a small table.
Unlike the other antiques, it looked untouched by time.
Its dark wood was polished, and strange symbols were carved into its surface.
A single black feather lay across the lid.
The old shopkeeper frowned.
"Funny thing," he said. "I don't remember putting that box there."
Ethan picked it up.
It felt warm.
Almost...
Alive.
"How much?" he asked.
The shopkeeper hesitated.
"You can have it."
"For free?"
"I just want it gone."
A strange feeling settled over Ethan, but curiosity won.
He thanked the old man and carried the box home.
Night fell quickly.
Rain tapped against the windows as Ethan placed the box on his desk.
He studied the iron chains wrapped around it.
Most had already rusted away.
Only one remained.
With a deep breath, he unhooked it.
The lid slowly creaked open.
Inside lay a magnificent feather pen.
Its feather was darker than midnight.
Its silver nib gleamed despite the dim light.
Beside it rested a tiny bottle filled with black ink.
There was no note.
No explanation.
Only the Pen.
As Ethan reached for it, a freezing wind swept through the room.
His lights flickered.
The walls groaned softly.
Then everything became still.
He laughed nervously.
"I'm really letting my imagination get to me."
He dipped the Pen into the ink and pulled a blank sheet of paper toward him.
"Let's see if you're lucky," he joked.
Smiling, he wrote:
Tomorrow, my novel will become the most talked-about horror story in the country.
The ink shimmered for a moment.
Then it disappeared into the page.
Every word vanished.
The paper became completely blank.
Ethan blinked.
"What..."
Before he could think further, his phone buzzed.
Unknown Number.
He answered.
"Hello?"
A woman's excited voice came through the speaker.
"Mr. Ethan Graves? This is Blackwood Publishing. We just finished reading your manuscript."
Ethan's heart skipped.
"We'd like to offer you the biggest publishing contract of your career."
He stood frozen.
His manuscript had been rejected that very morning.
So how...
The room suddenly became cold again.
A faint whisper drifted through the darkness behind him.
"You've written your first sentence..."
Ethan spun around.
The apartment was empty.
Or so it seemed.
On the blank sheet of paper, new words slowly began to appear on their own.
Every gift has a price.
End of Chapter 2
- Writer
