I loved writing horror stories…But i stopped writing them a few days after I found an old rusty pen amongst my collection.I loved the way the ink emanated placidly, leaving no blotches on the paper.
It all happened when i began working on my third story with my new pen…. It was about this man, home alone and murdered on a rainy night. The assailant was viscious and clumsy. I just loved my characters. This was my third creation. A Piper.
My lights went out as rain poured down my roof..I felt weird.I felt as if what i was writing was really happening.. A weird mixture of de-ja-vu and fear.
I was uncomfortable, so i went to sleep.
I heard a flute being played and jerked awake. Someone was sitting on my chest. I could tell he was smiling cause his teeth shone in the dark. I switched on my phone light to see his hand come down fast – wedging a flute in my throat. Intense pain!!!!! I couldn’t breathe…He casually took out the flute and watched my blood gush out. He bent over and licked my neck – his coarse tongue sending shivers through me… It was when he stopped to take out a straw that i realized he was my creation. I was dying…But i was happy. Happy that it was this creation that got me. I suddenly felt sorry for other writers like me as i remembered my previous creations…
I felt really sorry for them….