It takes a while, hours even, but I keep going. The story begins to take shape, one word at a time. And I—I—feel the spark of what I used to love about writing. The freedom, the unfiltered joy of letting the words flow from my mind, unhindered by any external force.
But then, something happens.
The room grows colder. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. A chill runs through me as I type the next sentence.
There was a knock on the door.
I stop. My fingers freeze mid-air, hovering over the keys as my mind races. There's no reason for me to be this unsettled. This is just a story, a simple mystery. So why does it feel so... real?
And that's when I see it.
On the corner of the screen, in the faintest of flickers, there's something new. A message. No, a symbol.
It's a jagged, cryptic mark—like the sharp edge of a broken line that keeps shifting, moving, as though trying to form something coherent, something familiar.
Before I can react, it's gone.
I shake my head, brushing it off. "It's nothing," I mutter, trying to dismiss the sensation. The laptop's ancient model—old and reliable—never had these glitches. I'm probably just imagining things, the paranoia from the magical laptop still lingering like an unwelcome guest.
But then it happens again.
This time, it's louder. More persistent.
I can't ignore it.
The symbols, they're appearing again. Flickering across the screen, one after the other. There's a sense of urgency to them. A message—no, a warning.
Don't turn back.
I blink. What? The words shift like liquid, twisting together in patterns I can't quite follow, as though the very software is bending to a higher power. The screen blurs for a second. The words are gone, but the cold persists.
I close the laptop with a snap, a little too forcefully, my heart racing. What the hell is going on?
For a long while, I just sit there, staring at the laptop. But nothing happens. No more flickering. No more strange symbols. It's just a regular laptop again.
Or at least it looks like one.
I swallow hard. I need to step away. I need a break from this.
But the curiosity gnaws at me. And it's a hunger I know too well. I've always been one to seek answers, whether I wanted them or not.
I stand up and pace the room. What's going on? What does Writer_Block have to do with all of this?
The cryptic reader who gifted me this laptop—they've been silent for weeks now, yet I can feel their presence. It's like they're watching me, always watching, ready to pull the strings at any given moment.
But why? Why give me something so powerful, so dangerous? And why would I ever be stupid enough to rely on it?
And then, it hits me.
Tonight, however, I'm no longer running from the truth.
I've crossed the line.
I sit at my desk, my fingers trembling ever so slightly as I glance over at the laptop. It's been watching me—waiting, as if it knows I've finally reached the moment where there's no turning back.
The screen is dark, quiet, but I can feel it—its presence—hanging in the air like a thick fog. The laptop doesn't need to be turned on to loom over me.
It's more than just a device now; it feels like a force, something tied to the very fabric of my existence.
I lean forward, feeling the cool touch of the desk beneath my fingers. My thoughts race, the weight of everything that has happened crashing into me like a tidal wave.
I know I can't ignore it any longer. I've danced around the truth for too long, pretending I didn't know it was there, buried under layers of success and words that came too easily.
The time has come to confront the source, to understand who or what has been pulling the strings behind my every creation.
Writer_Block.
The name rings in my mind like a bell tolling in the dead of night.
I stand, a sense of purpose finally coursing through me. There's no turning back now. I've come too far. The question isn't whether I can stop—I already know I can't. It's whether I want to.
I exhale, slowly, and reach for the laptop. The cold metal is strangely reassuring beneath my fingertips, grounding me in this moment. I open the lid, and the familiar glow illuminates my face.
For a second, I hesitate. Something tugs at the edge of my consciousness, as if warning me that I'm about to make a discovery that will shatter everything. I ignore it.
There's no room for hesitation now.
The screen flickers, and the symbols that once haunted me reappear. They dance across the screen—sharp, jagged lines that blur into incomprehensible shapes.
But this time, I'm not afraid. I've seen these patterns before. I understand them. They're messages—hidden codes, fragments of something deeper, something ancient.
A sudden rush of heat floods my chest, and I can't tell if it's excitement or fear. The message is clearer now, more direct.
Do you want to know?
The question hangs in the air like an invitation, both chilling and thrilling at the same time. Do I want to know?
Do I?
I swallow hard. This is the moment. The moment when I have to make a choice. It's not about the stories I've written, or the success I've achieved—it's about me, and whether I can face the truth of what I've become, what I've allowed to happen.
I type the words, my hands almost moving on their own.
Yes. Show me.
The laptop hums, and the screen glitches for a moment before revealing something completely unexpected.
A face. A young woman's face, pale and sharp, framed by dark, wild hair. Her eyes are wide, almost too wide, and they stare directly at me through the screen, as though she's seeing right into my soul. I blink, and the image shifts, becoming a blurry mess of pixels before it reforms. It's her again—only now, she's smiling.
But there's something unsettling about the smile. It's not kind. It's not warm. It's something darker. It's the smile of someone who knows a secret—my secret.
I lean in, my breath caught in my throat. This is it. The moment of truth.
"Who are you?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
The image flickers again, and this time, the woman's smile widens.
You know me, Steven. You've always known me.