The Devil's Writer

MIST

As Thorne William Alaric grew older, he felt distance from everyone. Like he doesn't belong there.

While other children laughed in the gardens or learned to ride horses, Thorne stayed inside. He liked quiet rooms. He doesn't like to be with other children. His parents would force him out to play but he never enjoyed it.

By the time he turned twelve, he stopped joining the family for dinner. At fourteen, he refused every tutor. “They have nothing left to teach me,” he said.

The servants whispered about him. Some called him strange. Others said he was cursed.

William didn’t care. He had to write.

He wrote on everything. Margins of old books, walls, doors. If there was no ink, he used burnt coal. Once, even his own blood.

His father, Lord Cedric, grew angry. “You’re filling this house with death,” he shouted once. “You shame this family.”

His mother stayed quiet, but she was sad. She tried to talk to William but still, he didn't stop.

They couldn't stop him from writing, even after banning writing stories in the house.

When Thorne was sixteen, he finished his first book.

He called it Ashes and Voices.

It wasn’t a novel, not really. It was a mix of poems, dreams, memories. Some pages felt like grief. The words were heavy, full of sorrow.

But Thorne believed in it.

He wrapped the pages in old leather, tied it tight, and sent it to London. He had found a publisher there and sent him his book.

The man read a few lines, then closed it quickly.

“This is not a story,” he said. He returned the book, it can't be published.

He tried again. And again. Each time, the answer was no. One man threw the book into a fire. The pages curled, but didn’t burn.

The publisher went pale. He grabbed the book and threw it out of his office.

That was when the rumors began.

They called him the Devil’s Writer.

Said he used cursed ink.

Said his stories called spirits into the room.

Wherever he went, people turned away.

Even his family.

By the time Thorne turned twenty, he no longer had a place in his own home.

His parents barely spoke. Servants crossed themselves when he passed. The halls felt colder, empty, as if the house was a ghost house.

One morning, before the sun rose, Thorne packed a small bag.

His book. A quill. A bottle of ink.

He stood at the front door. The fog outside was thick.

His mother found him there.

She looked tired. Fragile. “Where will you go?” she asked.

Thorne didn’t turn to her. He just stared into the fog.

“Somewhere I know not of yet,” he said.

And then, without saying goodbye, he stepped outside.

The mist closed around him. And they never saw him again.