The pen sat on the dusty wooden desk, its ink well dry, its metal body tarnished by time. But there was something in the way it gleamed, even in the half-darkness of the old office, that made it seem almost alive.
Ryan had always hated the office, the peeling wallpaper, the stale air, the broken fan that never seemed to work right. He'd only been here for a few months, taking over his late uncle's job.
But something about that pen, discarded at the corner of the desk, stirred something deep within him—a need to touch it, to hold it, to understand it.
He reached for it without thinking. The moment his fingers made contact with the cold metal, a shiver ran down his spine. The feeling wasn't like coldness, though. It felt more like a presence, a force—one that stirred in the pit of his stomach. Ryan hesitated for a second, but curiosity won out. He clicked the pen, and it released a faint, almost imperceptible sound, a faint click, like a door opening.
The first time it happened, Ryan thought he was just imagining it.
He wrote with the pen, like any normal pen. But as the words came out, they didn't feel like his own. The sentences took on a life of their own, forming patterns he didn't intend, shapes he didn't recognize.
They made sense, but not in any way he had ever understood writing before. It was a language of its own, twisting and turning on the page, forming words that seemed to speak directly to him, as though he was being instructed, guided, controlled.
He snapped the pen closed and pushed it away, shaking his head. It was nothing, just his tired mind playing tricks. Ryan stood up and walked away from the desk, but the pen stayed with him. Even when he turned to leave, it was still there, waiting for him to return.
Something was pulling him back. He didn't understand it, didn't want to. But it wasn't up to him.
The next time, it was even worse.
Ryan had returned to his uncle's office after another long day of paperwork, the kind of day that stretched on forever. He sat at the desk and stared at the pen again, his heart pounding. The dark, heavy silence in the room seemed to thicken as he reached for it once more.
This time, there was no hesitation. His fingers gripped it tightly, and as soon as he clicked it open, the room seemed to shift.
There was a pressure in the air, like something pressing in on him. The room felt smaller, the walls closer. His eyes widened as the pen, in his grip, began to move on its own. He didn't know how to stop it, didn't know what was happening.
The ink began to flow, and with each stroke, Ryan's body felt like it was being drawn into the words. He tried to move, to let go, but his hand didn't obey him. It just wrote, over and over, a script he didn't know.
Ryan screamed, but the words on the page drowned out the sound. It was as if the pen had a mind of its own, and now, it wanted him to write. But it wasn't just about the words. No. With each sentence, he felt the grip tighten around him.
His muscles locked, and his mind blurred. He was fading, slipping away into the pen's strange rhythm. The ink kept flowing, unstoppable.
It was only when the last words left the page that Ryan could move again. He gasped for air, his chest tight, his body trembling. The pen lay on the desk, harmless, as if nothing had happened. But Ryan knew it wasn't done. It had just begun.
He couldn't resist anymore.
From that moment, every time Ryan touched the pen, he felt it take over. He no longer controlled his own hand. He didn't even remember the things he wrote anymore, just that the pen guided him, led him, took him where it wanted him to go.
The office was his prison. Every inch of it felt like a cage. But he couldn't stop. The words. The ink. The pen. It was all he could focus on. It was all he could think about.
Day and night, he was driven to the desk, to the paper, to the pen. And with every word, he lost a little more of himself.
There were others now, in the office. They didn't look like they had before. They were drawn, pale, eyes hollow, as if they too had been touched by the pen. Every time Ryan looked up, they seemed to be staring at him, whispering to him—without words, without sound.
They were no longer human, not in any sense he could understand. But the pen had taken them. It had already claimed them. And now, it wanted him too.
Ryan was afraid of what was happening. He had seen the pen's power over others. He'd watched as the first person came into the office after the pen had made its mark, and that person had sat down at the desk, picking it up, much as he had.
The transformation was slow but sure. Their eyes glazed over, their posture stiffened, and their voice—when they spoke, if they ever spoke—sounded strange, distorted, as if the pen had twisted their very essence.
Now, Ryan knew. He knew it would eventually take him, too.
One night, when the clock struck midnight, he sat at the desk again. He'd tried to resist, but he couldn't. It was like a force pulling him in, and the pen was there, waiting for him.
His hands were shaking. But he couldn't stop. He clicked the pen open. As soon as the ink flowed, everything around him changed.
There were no longer any walls in the room, no ceiling, no floor. The space seemed to stretch out into an endless expanse, and the pen's ink trailed behind it, dark and thick. It seemed to have taken on a life of its own, like a living creature, twisting and pulsing with a rhythm Ryan could not control.
But the words... the words on the page weren't his.
He had written too much. The ink was everywhere, creeping over the desk, onto the floor, across his arms, and it was so cold, so wet. It was as though it was drawing him in. With every word, he felt weaker.
With every line, his mind slipped farther away. He could no longer remember who he was. What he was. All that remained was the ink, the pen, and the words.
He screamed, but no one heard him. Not even himself.
The office around him had vanished. Now, he was suspended in blackness, and the only thing he could see was the pen. It hovered before him, moving slowly, guiding him as it had before. But this time, it wasn't just his body that it controlled. It was his mind, his very essence, his soul. It was eating him alive from the inside out.
And then he understood.
The pen didn't just control the hand, it controlled everything. It made people forget who they were. It consumed them, piece by piece. And Ryan had written his own end. He had set the pen to take him, to erase him. The last words were his final surrender.
His body was still there, but his mind... It was gone.
Outside, the moon shone dimly through the window, casting long shadows over the desk. But the pen was no longer alone. Ryan's body sat lifeless at the desk, motionless and empty. The ink, once full, now dried in a spiral pattern on the paper. The pen had moved on, searching for another. There was always another.