Struggling Author

You sit up on your chair, the glow of your computer screen in the midst of the darkness in your bedroom strains your eyes. You want to get up, you want to go to bed, but you are determined to finish this one. It looks promising.

You have been an author for a while. You think of yourself as a veteran, considering the numerous years you have been in the game. Nevertheless, you have only published one or two projects. It is becoming tiresome, but you will not let go of your passion.

Horror is your thing, it inspires you. It is the pillar you have been supporting yourself with since you were a teenager. You know you are good at it, so it is only logical to keep on writing.

A quick glance at your monitor makes your eyes burn so you decide to take a break and have a quick snack. You look at the time on your screen as it shows it is now 1:24 AM. You’ll be back in thirty minutes. No big deal.

You stand up and head for the kitchen, brushing off all the unease the dark corners of your apartment make you feel. As you reach for your fridge, you hear a slight tapping noise coming from your window. You live in the fifth floor; it’s probably rain. You’ll be fine.

The sandwich you made satisfies your appetite and you feel ready to go on with your story. You head back to your room, ignoring the sudden foul smell you have just perceived. It’s an old apartment, the neighbors aren’t particularly neat. This comes as no surprise to you.

You sit back down in front of your computer. There are strange black stains on your desk. They are slimy, and they are fresh. No, they’re not. You must’ve spilled some drink while you were busy playing a videogame. It happens all the time. You resume the development of your next big story. The cat wants to play, but you ignore it and go on with your work.

You keep writing for a while until the clock on your computer monitor shows 2:30 AM. You decide it is time to call it a night and turn in. You usually go to bed much later, but you have been writing for a while and you are feeling your eyelids grow heavy.

The jarring light of your screen finally goes out and you are left in complete darkness, save for the lights of the town outside your window. This is enough for you to make your way towards the bathroom and do your nightly routine before bed.

You feel the wall of your bathroom to help you find the light switch. The bathroom lights flicker on and off. This hurts your eyes again, but you have grown accustomed to it. You could swear you saw the silhouette of a woman right before lights finally turned on all the way. It looked like she had no arms, but that’s ridiculous. There was no woman there to begin with.

You take a glance at the mirror. Your sunken eyes and cold stare show the toll this writing endeavor has taken on you. That could have been you, or that other face you just saw right before you blinked. No, that’s your face. You’re sure of it. You cannot cope with this drowsy state for much longer.

The sound of the running faucet feels unnecessarily boisterous in the middle of all this silence. You begin brushing your teeth, thinking about how your story will unravel in the end. You are proud of this one. It is one of your finest works. You are not quite done yet, but the antagonist is building up to be rather frightening.

One final spit and you are done here. You turn off the faucet as you are prepared to return to the unsettling silence of your home. The water was drowning out another sound, though. A sound you had not noticed before.

Screaming.

It sounds far away, but you can distinctly hear it. Hear them. You are hearing several screams now. They all vary in tone, too. From a blood-curdling shriek to an intimidating guttural, it is not something you were prepared to hear. However you are not fazed by it. Some stupid teenagers must be out partying and disturbing the neighborhood.

You stroll out of your bathroom. You just heard a low-pitched moan and felt something grasping your pant leg, tugging ever so slightly. No thought is given to this, as you head to your fold-out couch, ignoring all the faces you can make out in the dark. People are so silly, always making up faces out of the most unusual things. After a quick search for the remote in-between your old cushions you turn on the television in hopes to find some entertainment.

All channel networks have been interrupted by your local news team. There is a state of emergency going on in your town. The shaky news anchor stutters as she informs you about the unusual outbreak that is now happening. They show images of people getting slaughtered by impossibly-shaped monsters, children being taken away by faceless bodies with six arms, a group of misshaped little girls with knives stabbing every breathing thing in sight. Mayhem covers the streets. You are appalled. You are outraged. It looks awful.

It looks familiar.

You know these beings. The monsters swallowing people whole, the psychopathic serial killers with unsettling grins on their faces. Everything you have ever written is now out there. Every single creature, ghoul and apparition that has ever crossed your mind is wreaking havoc in the streets.

In the thick of it all, a headless body missing an arm is running around. The incomplete mess wobbles about without any purpose or motive. It is almost sad to look at, comparing it to all the other fully-formed abominations.

The cat comes out of the corner and jumps into your lap. She purrs as you pet one of her heads.

“Damn,” you think out loud. “I forgot to lock them in again.”