And then, a vase falls off of her shelf and smashes, almost as if somebody brushed against it… The woman stands from her desk carefully – a shadow lurks just where she can’t see it.
My latest book is going to be amazing. I’m just now hunched over my desk, tapping the ending into my laptop. Spoiler alert: it doesn’t go well for the character I named Jules, after myself.
I think I should write in another hint at the shadowy presence. I look around my own room for inspiration – ah! The light can flicker! Cliché, but effective.
The overhead light flickers, dims, and then cuts out entirely, leaving the only light in the room as the harsh white emanating from her computer. She gasps quietly.
Now it’s time for her to notice the threat.
She senses the demon, but it is already too late. She screams until her voice is stolen, she cries until she has no more tears. The shadowy demon licks it’s reddened lips, and steps into the light cast by her computer. It sits in her chair, swings it’s legs up onto her desk, knocking off a pot of pens and a framed photograph which smashes as it hits the floor. The demon, who resembles … well, perhaps a man Jules once knew, reaches for the photograph and casts it’s glowing red gaze upon the two figures immortalised inside – best friends, never to be torn apart, always happy in each other’s company. The demon recognises the man he once was. He remembers his name, too late.
Luca remembers his name, too late.
It was my cruel brainchild to have the demon, the villain of my story, to be the best friend of my main character. The ultimate plot twist.
I add: The light flickers on again, as if nothing had occurred, before brightening and brightening to rival even the sun’s glare.
I smile and lean back, satisfied, and then a vase falls from my shelf and smashes, almost as if somebody had brushed against it.
I laugh. What bad timing! It’s sad about the vase though, that was a gift from my grandmother and was quite beautiful. It was decorated with purple and orange swirls, but now those swirls lie in sharp shards on the wooden floor. I stand carefully, so as to not step on any of the pieces – they look actually quite sharp. Where did I leave my broom last? A dustpan would be better... I don't think I have one.
Maybe I should keep one of the pieces of the vase and sand it down as a relic. For old Grandma’s sake.
The overhead light flickers, dims, and then cuts out entirely. I stare at it hopelessly – didn’t I just buy that yesterday? I stifle a gasp as I recall the words I just wrote. No, that’s ridiculous! I need to pull myself together.
But, I see something… Something in the corner of my eye – a shadow? A- a shadow, and it move- it moves, and it isn’t going away; it has claws, but that’s impos- no, it definitely has claws.
It has claws and it moves, it writhes yet it walks; I think I see a hint of glowing red…
My voice quivers as I ask the empty air, “Luca?” to no reply. I hear another smash.
“LUCA?” I shriek, my nerves destroyed. In a panic, I retreat to my desk, my hand bumping against my laptop. Yes, my laptop! I can rewrite this story, I can change my fate-
The keys aren’t working. The keys aren’t – it’s typing by itself… I read:
“Jules. Turn around and face us.”’
Then I hear:
“Jules. Turn around and face us.”
A prickle of fear strokes my neck. I know that voice, for it is the one I had imagined for Luca. I turn, and not just one of my characters stand in front of me, but two.
It’s like looking in a mirror, except your reflection has a mind of it’s own, and it’s mind is made up on killing you.
My speech evades me, but my scream does not.
I scream as Jules whispers something to Luca. I scream as his shadowy essence oozes forward. I scream until my voice is stolen, then I cry until I have no more tears.
But I’m not dead. I never wrote that – it was merely implied. I was going to bring her back for the sequel…
“Oh, don’t worry,” I hear my own voice, “You’ll get your sequel. In fact, you’ll live your sequel.”
The pain of my injuries have sealed my lips, but not-me-Jules smiles understandingly, if a little coldly. She continues, “You have put me through absolute hell for years. You have manipulated my story, killed my family, and now it is your turn. I am the author now.”
My laptop, which I can just about see from my position sprawled on the floor, types with no human influence: The light flickers on again, as if nothing had occurred, before brightening and brightening to rival even the sun’s glare.
It’s true. The light does flicker on again, and it brightens so much that I am forced to screw my eyes up tight.
As to what I’ll see when I open them? God knows. No, I take it back: The author knows. Jules knows.
For the first time, I empathise with all the character I have written about over the years. It's a pity, because now it is far too late.
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