I once met an old man, who claimed to have been an author years ago.He said that, during his prime, he was widely known and sought after by everyone. His work primarily were scary short stories, that were published in large collections. He had many admirers and countless fans that continued to support his work. He did multiple interviews, and was asked the same question, “What was your source of inspiration?”
The response usually remained the same: “I have an overactive imagination.” But he was not satisfied with his work; he wanted something more… He began writing a story based on an account his mother told him many years ago. She claimed that while she was working as a nurse in WWII, a soldier put a demonic curse on her.The soldiers’ parents were followed by an evil spirit from their home country, that continuously fed on them up until their death. It wasn’t a quick death, but rather, a long, tiresome, prolonged process. It began by consuming their energy, which it did while they slept. It would bite through their skin, close to their heart and drain every ounce of vitality they had. As it did that, it would consume their health, and sanity. His parents would wake up with disgusting, unexplainable bite marks, and blood staining their clothes and bed. It would do this everyday, without fail. But the most painful thing his parents endured was the mental deterioration. They began to see shadows throughout the day, and a dark figure at the end of the bed...watching them. Once the hungry demon was done with the human, they would die a painful death, and then the cycle would continue itself with its next victim. To put it simply, she believed that she had made contact with the same demon that continued to follow her up until she died.
The demon’s name was never mentioned, simply for fear of giving it power. But she described the fear she felt whenever it was close to her. She described it as almost painfully nauseating. So painful, in fact, that she wasn’t able to move. She would just lay there and allow the feeling to wash over and consume her. Her body was heightened by even the slightest decrease in temperature, and there was nothing that could be done. Then, from the corner of her eye, she would see the shadow of a tall, slinky human-like figure, creeping slowly towards her. She could never rest easily, fearing that if she stood still for a second, it would eat her. The only time she found rest was when she was asleep. But even then her dreams were plagued with vicious, grotesque images that she could bring herself to talk about. There was no cure, no answer as to why it followed you. It just did.
As the man began to write, he noticed that his words did not flow right; there was something off about this story. He wanted to start chapter 1 with the recollection of her first memory of it, but for some reason it didn’t make sense. It drove him crazy trying to figure out a way to start the novel, so much so, that he ended up finishing the story without a first chapter.
The man sent it to his publisher, with the note saying, “Chapter 1 simply doesn’t exist.”
The story, however, was successful with the publisher. Even before publication, there was a rumor that it would be a big hit. TV personnel were already contacting him to do interviews and press conferences. The level of success got to his head, and he couldn’t help but feel great.
He sent an early copy to his mom, who was living in a retirement home. Even at the age of 96, she still enjoyed reading what her son published. But when the advanced copy arrived, she was in complete shock. As she began reading, a strong gnawing feeling began to eat at the pit of her stomach. With each page that she read, the sensation became stronger. It grew with such ferocity, that she couldn't take it anymore. She walked to her favorite chair, and took out a piece of paper and pen. Once she was done, she placed it in an envelope, and went to her window. She opened it, and looked down the four story building. There was a beautiful lake, majestic forest, and the spiky fence that surrounded the building; it was about five feet away from the building. She stood on the window sill, and jumped...making sure to aim her head against the sharp metal fence.
Word of her death didn't reach the famous writer until a week later; he was kept busy with press conferences. His manager knew that if he found out, he would not be able to focus on the interviews. But during one interview, the host had prepared a stack of unopened fan mail, ready for him to open and respond to. It started off fine; most of them had asked questions in regards to his novel and rumors to a potential movie. When he finally reached the end, he noticed a blood stained envelope with his name on it. He recognized the handwriting to be his mother's...
His face grew pale, and he began to fear for the worst. He forgot where he was, as he ripped through the envelope. Inside was a single piece of paper, with the words “Chapter 1” scribbled on the outside of the notepaper.
The audience members, and host grew quiet, realizing that the letter he had begun reading, had to have been important. What they heard next, could only be described as anguish...pure agony. He began screaming and clawing at his face. He tore through most of his flesh, spreading his blood all over the host and the table. The show immediately ended, and they sent him to the hospital. He held onto the piece of paper for dear life, and refused to let anyone touch it.
The book was quickly pulled back, and the writer was sent to a nearby Asylum. He spent the rest of his time there, locked between four padded walls. He kept the piece of paper locked away in a small lockbox, which he kept at the corner of his room. No one was allowed to touch it, let alone go near it.
The last time I saw the man was a few weeks ago, and as always, I had promised to stop by and visit again. But today, I had received word that he had committed suicide late last night. He gouged his eyes out with his eyes out with his disgustingly sharp nails, and tore through his throat. The medics never arrived to attempt to save him, and they do not understand how he managed to get out of his straight jacket.
And though his passing was sad, my mind was otherwise distracted. I received a package early this morning, sent by him. It was no bigger than a shoebox, but it weighed as much as a box of clay. I had finally opened it a few minutes ago, to discover his only copy of his book, with an envelope. There was fresh blood on the envelope…
As I grabbed the envelope, I felt a painful, gnawing sensation building from the base of my stomach. As I opened it, and saw “Chapter 1” written on it, I realized I wasn’t alone in the room.
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