At last! I snap shut my spiral notebook. I had promised this was the final piece of the horror genre I'd be authoring. Each time I complete a story, the silence in my apartment becomes even more unsettling, and the solitude becomes more troubling. I went to the kitchen just outside my bedroom door to make popcorn when the sound of the bathroom faucet streaming struck me. I concluded it was a strange coincidence because the craving for popcorn emerged from my final chapter, but the faucet running was ironic. I crept into the dark bathroom and immediately turned the knobs, assuring myself the faucet was now off. For a strange reason, I looked behind the shower curtain and saw nothing but my coconut-scented shampoo. This is just ridiculous, Carley. It would be best if you had some sleep. I let out a small laugh and continued toward the popping noises in the kitchen. I jumped when a shadow appeared to slide across the kitchen sink, prompting me to look behind me. Just then, the TV turned on, and the 11’o'clock news was blasting at total volume: "The police urge you to call them immediately if you observe any suspicious activity," the anchor declared as I leaned towards the remote resting on the couch. I paused as the camera focused on images of three masked individuals.

What is happening? Am I being spied on? Those are the same masks from my novel! _ _

I shook the thought from my mind, and before I could make it to the microwave, a soft humming came from the corner of the dark living room. When I glanced over, absolute terror consumed me. An elderly woman with silver hair, wearing a white buttoned shirt covered in a pink cardigan, sat in a rocking chair, crocheting a blue garment. “Who—who are you?” I muttered. The humming gradually seized as the woman dropped the crochet needles to her lap. “You should know who I am, Carley,” the woman smiled a toothless grin that jolted me to my core, “You created me. I’m Mrs. Sherman, the old witch in the creepy house.” The woman cackled, throwing her head in a backward motion before returning to her crocheting and resumed humming.

I have to be dreaming. I'm in a dream!

I tried earnestly to convince myself, wiping my eyes with my palms. When my vision focused, the woman stood right in front of me. I shrieked and ran towards the kitchen for a knife, where three masked men were standing at the edge of the counter. “Boys,” the elderly woman said, looking at them joyfully, “Please be careful with this one. She’s quite pretty, no?” The intruders nodded in agreement before slowly walking toward me. Thinking quickly, I ran toward the basement, where I kept the washing machine and dryer. There was a door down there that exited toward the backyard, and I'd be able to escape. When I reached the bottom of the stairs, I darted toward the exit, noticing it was locked from the opposite side. The stairs began to creak with footsteps, and I slid behind the boiler. “Carly…?” the woman asked as all four intruders continued down the staircase.

I noticed the Borax next to the fabric softener and was immediately reminded of my novel. I decided to run for it, and when the foursome was in arms reach, I shook the box of Borax as fiercely and accurately as possible, letting out a large grunt.

The four immediately sizzled to the ground in a poof of powdery soap.

When I could see again, I was suddenly sitting in my literature class. “Carly?” “Huh?” I responded, confused and breathless. It was my professor, Mr. Jones. “Your novel, did you finish it last night?”

I sat at my table, stunned, staring down at the final copy. I slammed my notebook shut, “No, I uhh- I need another night if that's okay.”

He shook his head ashamedly and walked back toward the whiteboard.

“Okay, class. Next week, we start our observation of Shakespeare,” Mr. Jones glanced over toward me as if to mock me. “Please be prepared.”

I reached for my bookbag, trying to understand what had just happened while other students shuffled to their next class.

I sit staring at my laptop screen, drumming my fingers on the desk and everything else within reach as I try to regain the will to write. Somehow my motivation always seems to slip away right when I need it most. I decide to do something crazy.

    This novel stars a young woman who is, herself, writing a book. (Yes, it is very possible that I designed this woman after myself, but don’t worry about it; it’s none of your business). 

    But it’s not going anywhere. With the knowledge that I am condemning my entire species as a novelist: a writer is a rather boring thing to write about. 

   So I make changes. With a flick of my fingers my young woman gets sucked into the world she has created. Her computer swallows her whole and she…………..ERROR-







   I open my eyes. For a moment I think I must have fallen asleep, and just when my mind was racing with all the possibilities! But then I take a moment to look around. I check the time on my laptop: 11:00 a.m.. 

  _That’s not possible. _I sat down to write at 12:30. Unless I was about a million times more exhausted than I thought and slept a full thirteen hours, something is seriously wrong. I stare at my computer screen for a minute and then sit bold upright as panic courses through me.

   My story is gone. All of it. I scroll frantically through my other documents and find them all empty as well. I’m about to start screaming and throwing up when there’s a knock at the door to my apartment. I have a strange sensation as I’m walking through the room, like I can’t fully see everything.

  I’m aware of my surroundings but at the same time everything has this hazy sheen to it. And when I try to look at my couch there’s an odd dark hole where it’s supposed to be. But the door. I go to answer it just as the intruder knocks again.

   I have another strange sensation as I open the door and stare at this person. It’s a man, and somehow I knew that it would be. I know I’ve seen him somewhere before but I can’t place him. He smiles a perfect smile and says hello but somehow I knew he would and I feel like I’m in a fever dream. 

   “Hi…” I say hesitantly, completely aware that I’m staring at him like a psychopath analyzing a victim.
   “You’re her,” he says, and even though I knew he would say that too I don’t know what he means.
   “I’m…who?”
   “The writer,” and he laughs like he’s just told a funny joke. Haha. “Or did you forget?”
   “No…” I say slowly, “I didn’t forget. But just so I know that _you_ didn’t, who am I exactly?”
  Though undoubtedly a strange question, he doesn’t seem surprised in the slightest.
   “Cassandra Elliot: the writer of our book,” he explains helpfully, a pleasant smile on his too-pleasant face. 

   _Our_ book? Are there more than one of him?

   “What, are you a clone or something?” It comes out before I can stop myself and I’m less surprised than last time when he laughs again.
   “That’s up to you,” he answers mysteriously. “Well I’ll let you get back to work now. I just wanted to stop by and see if you were really here.”

  And with a friendly wave my next door stalker is gone. I stand there with my hand on the doorframe for about three minutes before heading back in. The couch is still hazy. I ignore it and head back to my room, sitting on the edge of the bed to think.

  And then it’s like a switch has been flipped and everything hits me at once. That was Dylan, the next door neighbor. He’s thirty-four and he has a cat and two dogs and he drives a loud Camaro and plays pool every Thursday night with a group of friends.

  But he’s not _my_ next door neighbor. He’s my protagonist’s neighbor. _Cassandra’s_ neighbor. So that means…

I run to the living room again and look at the blobs of haze scattered here and there. I’d never finished the description of Cassandra’s apartment. I hadn’t written in a couch or coffee table or tv set so they’re not here.

 And so I stand there in awe and trepidation of what I’ve done. What I’ve somehow managed to accomplish. I’ve trapped myself inside my own book. But I didnt finish that book, so how do I escape? I wonder briefly if Dylan knows but then remember that he only knows what I planted in his mind.

 An idea strikes me, and I return once more to my laptop. I sit down and my fingers hover over the keys. I type: “_suddenly the doorbell rings…”_and am rewarded by a chime on the air. What makes it a little spooky is the fact that I don’t actually _have_ a doorbell. 

 I try again, adrenaline pumping through my body. 

__ _ “Out of nowhere a mariachi band appears and begins to play a song I’ve heard but can’t remember the name of….” _

 Before I can even finish typing my ears are assaulted with sound: trumpets and accordions and guitars in a rousing melody of- what song _is_ that?? 
 I quickly erase my last sentence and the band vanishes. Then I drop my hands to my lap and lean back in my chair. 

This could either be super sick or the worst mistake of my life…

“At some point in life the question of who or what am I inevitably appears. Neither sorcery or longevity keep the inner voice asking. Most species create gods and religious orders to offer hope. Whether this is real or misguided is not known. Savagery and war resulting from them are. It is for each individual to consider this question without indoctrination. Never forget though that life is precious. Even if it takes a sour turn and despair looms. That is but one turn of the wheel. It is life. As are hope, love, happiness, sadness and tragedy. Embrace them all for they will surely embrace you.”

Jeremiah Delalande. The Philosophy of Life.

”Wordsmith,” The Amanuenis focused on me.

”I anticipated this as part of the reflections.” My own curiosity was peeked.

“Am I merely a figment of your atrophying imaginations?”

“What do you think?” Where am I?

“I feel, I see, I hear.”

“Then you have your answer,” I replied.

“Then Wordsmith should be replaced by Chronicler.”

“Agreed, I am nothing more than a biographer, a Scribe in your terms.” Have I gone mad? I am the writer. How can a character appear real?

“What comes next?”

“That has yet to unfold. I write as it happens.” I reached for a pen. Could I write my way out?

“No powers of foresight at all.”

“Alas no.”

“Do you see all worlds, all permutations and courses of action?”

“No. I see things as they unfold. I walked with the wizard, was with Wayland and a the Black, walked with Rose in her dreamscape, Dave as he sat at the graveside, Joseph as his brother fell.” Again, this Amanuensis knows all, thinks and feels. It reminds me of Goosebumps.

“And me, Chronicler. What do you see while here.”

“An enigma. A prisoner not knowing who or what he is. You control your destiny not me.”

“And my past? Have I lived that or have you merely contrived it for me?”

“Again, I have not written these things yet. It is you Amanuensis that has not shown me your past yet.”

“Then what lies in the Vault remains unknown?”

“There are two that know,” or was it Dark Tower. Didn’t Sai King get caught by Roland’s Ka-Tet?

“Let me use foresight. These two are unwritten yet also.”

“Correct.”

“And Yish. What know you of her?”

“That, I will not answer. I know Yish and you must wait until paths cross to discover the connection.”

“Then start chronicling fool.”

The blot of ink fell from my shaky pen. A black pool on the white paper began a spin. First the few words were pulled from the page, each letter stretched into a singularity. Then I felt a strong pull of gravity, I tried to pull myself away from the desk. No use. I fell head first, feet kicking into that black hole no bigger than a coin. The whirl and twist was a spin that would not stop. I was left alone with my thoughts.

I had only wanted to get away from it all, find the disconnection to be connected to the words on the page. To do that, I had left it all behind. No electricity, I pulled water from a well. I felt my muscles grow with a block of ice in a box to keep my milk fresh and vodka chilled just right for the evening martini. A bunsen stove warmed the cans of chili and the flames in the fireplace breathed life into my bags of popcorn. The comfort of keyboard, the warm glow of the screen asleep back in my apartment, cuddled in city lights. No backspace to be lightly touched to take away what had been. I had to live with my mistakes. Or cross them out, but still to be seen. I had packed three reams of paper (the novel would be long, a bestseller), two old silver tipped fountain pens and a bottle of ink I found dust covered in a shaky red-bricked antique store. After I blew off the dust in a sneeze, I saw the brand: Wells and Burrough’s Fathomless Ink.

I fell and fell. My thoughts spun as well. This writer’s block had pushed my to my limits, to the very edges of my soul. Black and empty, just like this hole.

I fell and fell, faster and faster. Every cell stretched long. My whole body and mind felt oblong. Pull of pressure. Wrench of weight. Heave of force. Hefty heaviness.

I fell and fell. I gave in. No fight—-no more.

Then there was a pinpoint. Light. I reached its spin and felt pulled in another direction. The dark was gone and I could see. Around and around were, letters, words, phrases, whole sentences tumbling. I could read them in snitch and snatches, those I liked, I cupped in my hands. They wriggled and tickled and I wondered what to do. I had an idea, fresh and cool. I took my cupped hands and placed them over my nose and mouth. I breathed them in, what an aroma! I let them tickle my tongue and then a euphoric swallow in gulp after gulp.

I felt myself being pulled up towards a white plain. As I rose I saw two gentleman, both in a suit, tie and vest. One with a mustache and eyebrows just as big to match. The other clean shaven chin and cheeks, with just a few strands on the top of his head. They smiled and held their gray fedoras with their dark ribbon bands high. One said, “Carry on old chap!” the other, “Do your best, pal!”

I had no time to say farewell. I became as light as a feather and floated to the top of a flat field of white. I pushed my fingers through, then my hands then with one long press I found myself sitting on the rickety pine desk next to a piece of paper labeled one. There on that page was an ink blot that had begun to dry. Words were flowing from it in a spiral. They read:

The blot of ink fell from my shaky pen. A black pool on the white paper began to spin…

And you, dear Reader, I think you know how the rest goes. At least on that first page. But there is more. Much, much more to be written with: Wells and Burrough’s Fathomless ink and three reams of paper, minus one.

I’ve had these ideas floating around in my head for about a month now. Nothing completely solid. Just simple plot points mapped out on paper, not yet linked together, but I know I want to include them.

It was one such afternoon of writing notes on each of my characters, the grumpy-and-seemingly-nonchalant-but-secretly-actually-cares-‘you’re-an-idiot’ detective, the sneaky but overly cocky thief and the twattish and spoilt thirty-something that has recently taken over his parents mansion.

I was minding my own business, building character profiles and mood boards, trying to get something -anything- on paper, when I felt this weird dizziness fall over me. I set my pen down and rested my forehead in the palm of my hand and shut my eyes, waiting for the sensation to pass. It worsened until I stood up from my desk and stumbled over towards my bed and laid down, hoping the change of position would make the spinning stop. It did not.

I must have fallen asleep or passed out, because the next thing I knew was being shaken rather violently by my shoulder. I sat up and opened my eyes, coming face-to-face with a gruff-looking landlord, a bushy grey beard and equally bushy moustache, mousy eyes squinting at me. A quick glance around told me I was sitting in a pub, surrounded by men in tweed jackets and bowler hats, 95 percent of them talking around a black or brown pipe between their teeth.

I turned back to the man in front of me, who was stood with his arms folded. “Where am I?” I asked, in what I hope was an innocent, confused voice, and not as though I was some very drunk individual who had passed out in his bar.

“Where are you? Bloody hell, you must’ve had a lot to drink-“ (Damn.) “You’re in my pub, lady, the-“

I presume the words he said next was the name of his pub. His mouth moved to form some letters – don’t ask me, I can’t lip read- but no sounds came out. Ah, that’ll be because I haven’t thought of the name yet.

What? Where did that thought come from? I had the strangest feeling that I wasn’t quite in reality. An old Victorian pub, that much was obvious. And it was either filled with very dedicated reenactors… Or… Could it be?

A quick movement in the far corner of the pub caught my eye, and I turned to see two men huddled over a table. One had a paper-boy style hat pulled down close to his eyes and appeared to be talking very hurriedly. The other was smoking a pipe with one leg folded over the other, looking far more relaxed or unfazed than his companion.

I watched their exchange for a while, then turned to the landlord who was still standing next to me. “Wow, aren’t you persistent?” I joked. He didn’t smile. “Who are those men, over there in the corner by the window?”

“The bloke with the pipe is Daniel Turner, he’s one of the new bobbies in town. The other I don’t know, and I am not one to pry. Now, you seem to have had a little too much to drink so go on, get out of here.” He grabbed me by the arm and pulled me up out of my chair and towards the front door of the pub. I stumbled out of the door and braced myself on my knees. I heard the door slam behind me and sighed.

“Daniel Turner? Then I’ll bet you that’s my John in there as well. Huh. The one scene I’ve actually written for this blasted book.”

I knew some of the plot points but had no idea how they could help me, and I couldn’t go back in there and tell Daniel or John about them because I’d get arrested, either for going back in there after being kicked out, and sounding completely insane or equal parts suspicious, to go in there spouting things about murder.

How on earth was I to travel several hundred years into the future to the present day? Or out of this seemingly fictional world I’d woken up in, with no idea how I got in here or how I’m supposed to get out of here.

Though, I probably needed to go and find some clothes first, my Winnie the Pooh pyjamas were drawing a lot of attention.

Whoosh, I’m suddenly in a bar and I pause in confusion. But it’s as if this scene keeps happening around me regardless. I look at my hand, it’s my hand. I keep looking to check it’s real and these automatons just keep going around me, despite my lack of mutual interest.

I look up and notice this gorgeous girl across the bar making eyes at me. What on earth is happening?

I look at her again. She’s definitely into me, and Christ she is hot.

I forget about the weirdness of the situation and keep looking at her while the automatons interact at me and around me.

The girl gives me a look and then gets her jacket. I leave after her, excusing myself for some reason, but I don’t think it would have made a difference whether I did so or not.

I get outside and there she is, looking at me. She bites her lip and beckons me to follow her.

This girl likes to play dangerous games and I shouldn’t play this game because I wrote it and I know where it’s going.

I follow her anyway, and as we approach St James’ park I know what it means, I know it’s sex, death or both.

I walk eagerly behind her and when we get to the tree in the middle of the park she finally turns to face me.

I know it’s you Daniel, I saw your soul drop in to Dr Velde’s body

I pause in astonishment and say ‘er, yeah. Hello!’

‘And you followed me anyway, hoping for what?’

‘we—‘

‘shut up!’

‘You followed me despite knowing how this ends because your little pea brain wanted some. But let’s forget that for a moment’.

‘Why did you write me as such a cliche, with these ridiculous ‘sexy’ tattoos and using my sexuality to kill men I could just as easily sneak up on’.

‘Well, I don’t know I just thought of you that way’.

She gave me a disappointed look and said ‘so I’m just a lazy fantasy of yours?’

‘No, well in a way yes, but you’re still a bad ass assassin.’

‘Yes with a troubled past, blah, blah, blah. A victim through and through. Why couldn’t you make me like James Bond?’

‘He’s an orphan, it’s not like his life was all peaches’.

‘Well he doesn’t get raped Daniel! And he doesn’t end up in some shitty orphanage having to give birth to two children who are taken away before he’s sterilised! What the actual fuck were you thinking? Like I couldn’t have just had a normal life and then chosen to be an assassin. Fucking male authors and your lazy cliches’.

‘Well, cmon. It makes for a good story’.

She aped my voice in a childlike manner, ‘makes for a good story’ she said rolling her eyes.

‘Let’s get this stupid scene over with’.

'I wrote it, and you are about to murder me, so I’m in no rush’.

‘Oh stop being a pussy or you’ll be stuck here’.

She paused, looked at me and said

‘Look, I’ll make a deal with you’.

‘What?’

‘Since I’m your little fantasy character, we can do the nasty quickly before I send you off. And I won’t kill you as painfully as you wrote Dr Velde’s death here. But you have to get rid of the tattoos and make me less broken and pathetic. Maybe I just like to kill people’.

With that she dropped her coat and opened her shirt under which she was braless. Her body shone in the cold moonlight and my mind was made up.

I walked over and planted a kiss on her neck, whispering to her ‘you drive a hard bargain’ as I breathed in the soft, sweet aroma of her hair.

We kissed and then looked into one another's eyes. She was just so perfect in every way.

‘Sike!’ She said as she pushed her flat blade through my ribcage, deep into my lung.

I dropped to the floor clutching the wound as she carried on looking directly into my eyes, circling like a victorious predator.

‘I’m obviously not gonna fuck you. Now would you like to die slowly like Dr Velde did or are you going to write those changes I suggested’.

I looked at her in desperation, wheezing though bubbles of blood and saliva. Nodding an enthusiastic yes trying to convince her.

She reached to her lower back and pulled out her pocket pistol.

‘You sure Danny?’

I desperately nodded yes once more and she put the barrel of her gun under my chin. She said ‘bye sweetie’, giving me a condescending pat on the cheek and pulling the trigger.

I woke up with an abrupt start, looking around the room in comforting, relieved disbelief.

What an intense dream I thought, before getting out of bed and back to writing a less cliche version of my girl assassin.

Life could be fantastic, terrifying, and just plain strange at the same time. About sixty-five percent of the time, you would not know what to do with it. A hundred percent of the time, there was something about it that you would regret.

It all happened one day when you are whittling away castles, forests, and places far away that no one could ever imagined with your trusted pen and ripped out stationery from your work notebook. Then, came a whirlpool of light and glitter and cloud of confusion before the panic had settled and you are screaming away as you continue to fall down the centre. And the next thing you know was that you are face to face with a creation that you based yourself on. Only that Cordelia was much more prettier, more smarter, and so secure with herself that you question why did you even make her in the first instance.

It only had gotten worse when you looked onto her side and saw the love interest - faces of men that you had loved but never had the courage to approach all mixed into one perfection. You had looked away immediately but you could not help but to wonder which of the boy he would turn into. Would he be the childhood crush who was always by your side? The high school rival who always pushed you into doing your best? Or that college friend who you nearly said “I love you” to? Now that you thought about it, you suddenly did not want to know.

‘Let’s take you back,’ were the very first words that Cordelia gave you, amongst the very few words that she ever uttered to you through the castles, forests, and places no one had ever imagined. But there were little need in the way of words because you knew that you are going to love Cordelia - the fantasy that you gave yourself. And that was all right, you had suddenly imagined when you remembered the warmth of her hands enclosing yours. There was no shame in fantasies.

The imagination is a wonderful thing... But what happens when you cross the border between fiction and reality?

Well, I have the answer to that question and I found it in the most literal (and impossible) way possible!

——

Today was just an ordinary day for me as I sat down on my iPad, ready to continue working on an ongoing project called ‘Role Reversal’. I had been working on Role Reversal for around six months. It was a passion project, like any other story that I write (I’m super passionate about writing!).

As I opened up the app that I was using to write the story, I had suddenly gotten a notification to tell me that the app required an update (don’t you just hate it when that happens!). This update, however, was different to any other update that I had ever seen on an app before. The size of the update read as one zettabyte, which is freakin’ HUGE (one zettabyte is the equivalent of one trillion gigabytes). There was no way that my iPad was going to be able to run something that massive... Or so I thought...

Several minutes later (to my surprise), the update had installed itself onto my device. “Hm... Maybe it was just a mistake...” I muttered to myself as I opened the app. The screen remained black for a moment before large letters popped up. “WELCOME BACK NILLY GIN. PLEASE TOUCH THE SCREEN TO CONTINUE.”

This confused me, as the app never behaved like this before... But I wanted to write, so I merely chalked it up to the update changing things... However, when I tried to tap the screen, something very strange happened. My finger suddenly phased THROUGH the screen, almost as if I were a ghost! When I attempted to tap harder... My whole body was suddenly swallowed up by the device!

It took a while, but when I regained consciousness, I found myself in a dingy, unnaturally bright hotel room. There was a large green clock haphazardly hung up on the wall, a double bed with red sheets, a small table with a small TV on it and a heavily-used purple sofa. This was... Nef and G’s room... If I wasn’t mistaken... But why and how did I get here?! And how do I get back to grim reality again?

My burning internal questions were interupted by the sound of someone slowly turning the doorknob, almost sounding unsure on whether they wanted to enter the room or not. When they finally opened the door, I found myself face-to-face with Nef, the main protagonist of the story. His pale, blue skin and the terrified look on his face confirmed that this was the very character whom the whole story revolved around.

“U-uhm... W-who are you?” He asked in a nervous voice.

I could hardly say that I created him, but I needed to say something... Furthermore, it needed be said fast before things got too awkward...

“Hey, babe! I’m going to the writing cave. I need to knock out at least 1,000 words tonight. Don’t wait up for me,” Kara called to Sam, her husband.

Sam just chuckles, and kisses his wife.

Kara climbs up to the attic space that she transformed into a Pinterest worthy writing cave. She has her inspiration board on the wall next to the window, notes are scattered everywhere, and images of actors and models are taped up around the room with names and notes. This is day three of actually writing on her debut novel. A regency romance meet fantasy.

Kara sits down at her small desk, and opens up her draft.

“Let’s see... where did we leave off?”

Kara scans the last few pages she knocked out the night before, and starts typing, speaking the story aloud as she pecks away.

“Rebeca Havensquare waltzed through the crowded ballroom with Daniel. He has crushed her soft silk slippers several times already. This dance had just began, but she was ready for it to be over. Out of the corner of her eye she saw him. He was quite out of place in Lady Surrey’s ballroom. His hair was long and darker than ink, and he was a good head taller than the people around him. He was just standing at the door to the gardens...”

She continues typing vigorously though the night. Falling asleep in the wee hours of the morning on the couch she sat up in her cave.

“Miss Havensquare, it is time to wake!” Yells a voice Kara didn’t recognize. “Your mother is requiring your presence in 30 minutes in the rose parlor. She expects you to have several morning callers.”

Kara sets up to see a young lady with long red hair pinned up in a tight bun. She was dressed in a simple grey dress buttoned to the neck. “Shit!” Kara though! That lady looks just like Rebeca’s lady’s maid Gwen.

“Your mother insisted you wear your new lavender day dress. She said to me ‘Gwendolyn, be a dear and do not allow my daughter to come down in one of her dark dresses regardless of her excuses.’ I told her I would pass the message along, but I am but your maid, not your governess. You can imagine how well she took that,” the red head chattered while pulling things out of drawers and wardrobes.

What is going on. Kara has no idea how she got to Rebeca’s bed, to Rebeca’s body, but she should have know something was going to happen based on the chuckle her warlock husband let out before she went up to write. Now she knows she just has to suck it up and live through this for however long this “vacation” her husband sent her on would last. At least she will get to see him tonight at the ball.

'Darkness and trepidation lace over the isolated street, a mix one would wish not to experience at such a late time of the night, yet despite this terrifying mix. Connie's feet glide across the rain-stained asphalt, desperate to keep her night time escapades from attracting any lurkers hiding in the alleyways as she walks back to her apartment. Her heart beats rhythmically like the music she had played in her ears, she sends a desperate pray to God that she makes it to her apartment... however, one's never alone. In the dark backgrounds of the alleyways, a predator lurks with psychotic eagerness.'

I heave out a strained sigh, the continuous glare of the computer light taking a hefty toll on my head. I force myself to pull away from the word document that I was indulging in. I glance at my own phone next to me, 00:35, I stand up from the desk chair pulling my arms up and rolling my neck. Many cracks coming from my stiff joints, reminding me of my long period of typing. My eyes trail over the dark room, only my lamp and laptop's light remains. I prefer the solitude in writing in the dark, but there is always that irk of something from a horror novel coming around the corner that has traumatised my mind into paranoia. The few windows scattered around the right side of the room display the city, and even in this building down town you can still hear the movement and lights of the city.

I turn to my laptop, saving and closing the document, placing it along with the charger into my carry bag. I grab my phone with cold fingers, as I pull on my coat. Once I leave the building, I turn my back to lock the doors. Humming softly as I twist the key, before pulling away and looking back at the street.

It has become oddly darker, no street lamps around the road guiding any travellers, and silence has replaced the faint sounds of the city. I hesitate before pulling myself down the asphalt, trailing quietly, awfully similar to the piece I was writing. I freeze. This is my story? Why am I in...why am I Connie?I softly glance to the alleyway few 10 metres down, there would be someone there watching Connie in the story... am I being paranoid? I look back down at the road, I don't even know if I can get to my apartment, unless I somehow miraculously and oddly know Connie's or something. I look back down the street.

My blood drains cold.

There, a tall masculine figure stands at the entrance of the alleyway, watching. The figure gazed at me, head cocked to the side in a curious tilt but leaking evil. They take a slow step forward, the dark shadows caressing any telltale features from their face but my eyes don't miss the glint of a knife... a rather large knife.

Shit.