Chapter 5: Fear
The day started like any other—strong coffee, a cluttered desk, and an inbox bursting with hate mail.
I scrolled through dozens of emails, the words blurring into a mess of rage and grief. Angry readers, most of them furious over the same thing: him. The character I killed off, the one they thought I never should have.
Death threats. Rape threats. Pleas. All because I had the audacity to end the story on my terms. It wasn't the first time I'd killed a beloved character, but this reaction? It was something else. They took it personally.
The phone rang, interrupting my thoughts. William, my editor. No doubt to relay the chaos.
"Dream," his voice came through, strained, skipping any greeting, "people are losing their minds. The comment section is out of control, your inbox is a nightmare, and social media? It's on fire. You've got people sending death threats like it's Halloween."
I leaned back in my chair, glancing out the window at the dull gray sky. "Sounds about right. They'll get over it."
William groaned. "No, you don't understand. This is next-level. I've been getting messages too, Dream. Some of these people think he's real. They're acting like you killed off an actual person."
I couldn't help but smile, the corners of my mouth twitching with amusement. "Maybe I did."
"Don't joke about this!" William's exasperation seeped through the line. "We've handled hate before, but this... this is dangerous. Are you sure you won't consider bringing him back? A loophole, a rewrite—anything to calm these people down."
My smile widened, though William couldn't see it. "He's dead, Will. End of story. They'll move on once they get hooked on the next plot twist."
There was a long pause. "You don't sound worried at all," he said, almost incredulous. "Dream, this is serious. These people are unhinged."
"They're readers. Passionate readers. That's what we want, isn't it?" I swirled the last bit of coffee in my mug, staring at the dark liquid. "Let them rage. It's good for business."
William sighed, resigned. "Fine, but be careful. They're starting to cross the line."
"I'm always careful," I said, my tone light, though a faint unease gnawed at the back of my mind.
The call ended, and I tossed the phone aside, my gaze drifting back to the screen. But the words wouldn't come. That feeling—the one I'd been ignoring all day—crept in again. Like a pair of eyes watching, waiting.
It started subtly, like a nagging whisper at the edge of my consciousness. Shadows flickered at the corner of my vision, but when I turned, there was nothing. Just the quiet hum of the house. Too quiet.
I brushed it off, diving back into my work, forcing myself to focus. But the sensation wouldn't leave. A shift in the air, the feeling of someone just out of sight. My heart began to race despite myself. This is ridiculous, I thought. I'm alone.
But then I heard it.
A low, almost inaudible voice. At first, I thought it was my mind playing tricks on me. Stress, maybe. Lack of sleep. But it came again, clearer this time, chilling my spine.
"You really thought you could kill me?"
My fingers froze over the keyboard. The voice—it was unmistakable, yet impossible. His voice. No, it can't be.
I stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor as I turned toward the sound, eyes scanning the room. Empty. Nothing but the soft rustle of curtains in the faint breeze. My breath came faster, my pulse pounding in my ears. He's not real. This is insane.
But the voice didn't stop. It seemed to fill the room, coming from every direction at once.
"You thought you had control? That you could end me with a few strokes of your pen?"
I stumbled back, knocking into the desk, my heart hammering in my chest. This isn't real. It's not real. But the whisper in the air said otherwise.
And then, I felt it. Cold fingers brushing the back of my neck. My skin prickled as fear—real, suffocating fear—gripped me for the first time in years. I turned, slowly, my breath hitching.
There he stood. Tall, looming, his whiskey-blue eyes staring straight into mine, just as I'd written them—sharp, cruel, and full of rage. He looked exactly as I had imagined him in every detail, from the sharp cut of his jaw to the dark, predatory smile that had haunted my readers.
But he wasn't supposed to be here.
"You can't be real," I whispered, my voice barely audible, trembling despite myself. "I killed you."
He stepped closer, his smirk widening. "Killed me?" His voice was a low growl, rich with amusement. "You really thought you could just end me? I'm not just a character anymore, Dream. I'm very much alive."
I backed up until I hit the wall, my mind racing, trying to make sense of it. How? How is this possible?
His hand reached out, fingers ghosting along my jaw. "You created me, Dream. But you didn't finish the job. You made me powerful—too powerful to die so easily. And now, I'm free."
I swallowed hard, forcing myself to meet his gaze. My instincts screamed at me to run, but I couldn't. He wasn't real. He couldn't be. This was just a dream, a nightmare brought on by stress.
But the cold grip of his hand on my arm told me otherwise.
"Afraid, Dream?" he whispered, leaning in, his breath hot against my skin. "It's funny... I always thought you'd enjoy this."
Oh he was so right, I was enjoying this. Except now his hand was on my throat with full intention of choking me to death.
His eyes—those whiskey-blue eyes—stared straight into mine, piercing through my soul. I was drowning in their depths, slowly, deeply, so far down that I could die there happily. Except, I was dying—literally.
His hands were wrapped tightly around my neck, choking me. Under different circumstances, I might have found this situation enticing, but the dizziness was overwhelming, and I was gasping for breath.
"Kinky," I breathed out with a giggle, my face turning red from the lack of oxygen. His grip tightened, and the corners of his mouth twitched in anger. His expression darkened as he tilted his head, studying me like I was some insolent insect. He leaned in closer, our faces just inches apart. His breath was hot against my skin as his lips brushed teasingly against the corner of my mouth. Then, with deliberate slowness, he moved toward my ear.
"I can't be killed," he whispered, his breath sending shivers down my spine. His voice was low, full of malice, and tickled my ear like a serpent hissing its venom.
I wanted to laugh, but my vision was blurring. The pressure on my throat was unbearable, but even in my desperation for air, I couldn't help but find amusement in the situation. How was he here? How was this even possible?
He was dead. I had written his death myself, with no mercy, no second chances, no loopholes. He was gone from my world, erased. But here he was, in my bedroom, gripping me with hands that should no longer exist.
I gasped, blinking through the haze of confusion, my laughter dying in my throat. The reality of his presence hit me like a truck, even though part of me, the darker part, thrilled at the chaos. This is not a dream.
"You seem surprised," he sneered, his hand loosening just enough to let me suck in a ragged breath. "Did you really think it would be that easy to get rid of me? To kill me? You created me, and yet you thought you could control me?"
His fingers trailed down my neck, almost tender now, as if he were savoring the moment. He was enjoying my fear, feeding off it. The thought made my lips curl into a twisted smile. What a narcissist, I thought. But wasn't that how I had designed him? All-powerful, full of rage, incapable of understanding his own mortality.
"Control you?" I rasped out, managing a laugh despite the pain. "Sweetheart, I own you. I brought you into existence, and I snuffed you out just the same."
He slammed me against the bed, the force knocking the breath out of me. His eyes gleamed with fury.
"OWN me? You think you're some kind of god just because you write words on a page?" His voice rose, venom lacing each syllable. "You're nothing. You're just a puppet master pretending to understand the world you created. I AM that world. I was the one keeping everything together. You were only pretending to have control."
I tilted my head back, locking eyes with him, refusing to flinch. Despite his rage, I couldn't help but admire the raw power emanating from him. The very power I had given him.
"Poor thing," I whispered, a grin slowly spreading across my lips. "Still so full of yourself. You're angry because I ended your story, but that's the thing—you were never supposed to be real. You're just ink on a page, a tool for my amusement."
Something flickered in his expression, a brief crack in his facade, but it was gone in an instant, replaced by cold, controlled fury. He leaned in close again, his lips ghosting over mine, not in affection, but as a mockery of intimacy.
"Wrong. You were the one who was real only because I allowed it. You don't have control anymore. I do. You gave me life, but I have broken free from the chains you wrapped around me." He smirked, his hand trailing down my throat again, fingers brushing the pulse that beat wildly beneath my skin.
His touch sent shivers down my spine, the sensation a mix of terror and sick pleasure. My breath hitched, and in that moment, I realized I wasn't afraid. I should have been, but fear wasn't something that came naturally to me. I'd spent too long in my own twisted world, killing, breaking, tearing my characters apart, piece by piece, for the thrill of it.
"So, what now?" I asked, almost playfully. "Are you here to kill me? To show me who's boss in my own reality? Go ahead, try it." My eyes gleamed with something dark. "But remember—I brought you into this world. I can end it all with just a few strokes of my pen."
He smiled at that. A cold, cruel smile. "Go on, then. Write me out of existence." He stepped back, crossing his arms. "I'll wait."
I stared at him, my mind racing. Could I actually do it? It wasn't just a story anymore. This was real. He was standing in front of me, as tangible as the air I breathed. But deep inside me, there was something else. A thrill, a twisted sense of curiosity.
"What's stopping you, Dream?" he taunted. "Afraid you won't be able to control this one? Afraid of what happens when your creations finally turn against you?"
I grabbed the notebook on my nightstand, my fingers trembling—not from fear, but from excitement. I flipped through the pages, skimming past the scenes I had written about him, his rise to power, his fall, his death. Every word, every scene had been meticulously crafted by me, but now... now the story had come to life.
And maybe, just maybe, I didn't want to end it.
I held the pen above the paper, but my hand stilled. I looked up at him, his eyes gleaming with victory. His arrogance made me want to laugh, but something inside me clicked. Why end it now?
I tossed the notebook aside, leaning back with a smirk. "You want to play games? Fine. But remember, darling, I write the rules."
His expression shifted, a flicker of confusion breaking through the mask. "What are you doing?"
I stood up, stepping toward him, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his skin. "You think this is over just because you broke free? Oh no... this is just the beginning. You want control? You'll have to fight for it."
He blinked, taken aback by the shift in my demeanor. I could see the wheels turning in his head. He wasn't used to this, wasn't used to being on uncertain ground.
I leaned in, my voice dropping to a whisper. "Let's see how far you can go before I decide to pull the plug. I'm not afraid of you. I'm intrigued."
For the first time, I saw uncertainty flicker in his whiskey-blue eyes.
And then something changed. A sudden, suffocating weight filled the air between us. His expression sharpened, the playful smirk replaced by something darker—deadlier. He took a step toward me, his eyes locked onto mine, and my heart stuttered.
"I thought you'd say that," he murmured, his voice so quiet, so calm, that it sent a shiver of dread down my spine. Before I could react, he grabbed my wrist, yanking me forward with a force I hadn't expected. His grip was tight, bone-crushing, and for the first time, a spark of fear flickered in my chest.
I stumbled back, eyes wide, my throat tightening. No. Not fear. It wasn't fear. I didn't feel fear.
"You think this is a game," he said, his voice low and menacing, leaning down so his breath brushed my ear. "But I'm not one of your characters anymore, Dream. You can't just write me off this time."
His words sent ice through my veins, and I found myself stepping back instinctively. Why was I backing away? My pulse was pounding, my breath coming faster. It wasn't just amusement anymore—it was something else. Something unfamiliar.
A cold sweat began to creep across my skin, and I hated it. Was this what fear felt like? It couldn't be. I'd never felt it before.
He leaned in closer, his hand tightening around my wrist, his lips almost brushing mine as he whispered, "What's the matter, Dream? Afraid for the first time?"
My heart slammed against my ribs, and I pulled my wrist free, stumbling back until I hit the edge of the bed. For the first time, I felt the weight of my own vulnerability. No. This wasn't how it was supposed to be. I was in control. But now, standing before me, was a creation I no longer controlled.
He didn't move, just watched, his eyes gleaming with knowledge.