The Author writes all our stories. In the end, we're all his puppets. If I had known that then, I would never have signed up for that contest. It was early July, and the Larcan Library held its annual Write a Scary Story contest. Of course I signed up every year, and I usually came in first, but... This year was different. It was... off somehow... I couldn't pull it together. It was like my skills had just gone out the window. It wasn't writers block, it was just... I'm not sure...
I struggled for months with it. Sometimes, I'd write something good, only to come to a complete stop, or realize that it was actually crap. April flew by, then May, and June, and I still had nothing. Then, one night in early July, it hit me. I had the perfect story. An author who wrote scary stories from experience, what could be scarier than that. I immediately set to work, and by the day of the contest, my masterpiece was complete, and I was smug as a kitten.
Of course everyone was horrified by it, and I took first place. There was nothing nearly as good as my work of art. Everything was going smoothly... Until the part where the winner had to read his story to the crowd. I had everything set. My chair, my story in front of me on the table, even my glass of water, but something nagged at me. Something in the back of my mind told me something still wasn't right. That's when I saw the first page, and was horrified.
I didn't write this!! What's going on here?! I thought there must have been a mistake. The logical side of me though, I haven't read it yet, and I was pretty tired. Maybe I did write this, and just don't remember. It won first place, so does it really matter? Hesitantly, I started reading...
"The Author writes all our stories. They're always tragic, but they're always real." I looked up for a moment, sweating bullets, then continued to read, "So many stories, and so much pain, but would you believe they are all real? Like Mr. Dalton, who is killing himself right now, behind the stage, or Mrs. Patty, who will drown in a nearby lake in six days? Unfortunately for Mr. Dalton, no one will find him until tomorrow, but that's ok. Everyone is having a good time. After all, we have such short lives. Why waste them on dying any faster? Of course, that's not what this story is about. It's about The Author. He lives in such a tragic life, death following his footsteps. I bet he wishes it would all go away. I bet he wishes he could die that easily. Such a tragic waste of time. Such a pretentious scum. He can't even write a proper scary story anymore."
I stopped at that line and forced myself to focus on the words. There had to be some mistake here. I didn't write any of this! The crowd watched, eager for more, so I continued.
"Of course, The Author doesn't know. He'd go insane if he knew. The truth is that he's never written a scary story in his life. It's always been me! I've written every story for you, seen every tragedy unfold, everything you've ever written has been MY IDEA!!!! I infiltrated your mind, I watch you as you sleep each night, and take the credit for my ideas, but NO MORE!!!! I've had enough! You won't even acknowledge that I'm here! You think I'm part of your subconscious, that I'm within you, but you're wrong! I creep in your shadow, watch your every move, and whicper in your ear! Me! I'm your greatest fears, you doubts, and I am very much alive! But you still don't get it... That's ok. Be careful of your ignorance, boy. It will kill you in the end... If I don't kill you first..."
With that, I was done. The rest of the day was hazy at best. How could I have written that? It was beyond scary, it was straight up sadistic. It wasn't till the next day that I was truly horrified. Around 6:06 p.m. they found Mr. Dalton behind the stage. He had hung himself from the rafters while I was telling my story. Five days later, I was terrified when they found Mrs. Patty in the lake behind the church, only six blocks away from the library.
For months, it got worse and worse. I started to see people, things, and places that weren't there. I started to hear things, whispering in my ear, screaming, vile wretched things that no person should hear. Finally, on the eve of June 6, six years later, it was over. I poured myself a drink, a smooth bottle of father's scotch, lit a smoke, and stared into the landscape that wasn't there. Somewhere, in the back of my mind, I knew it wasn't scotch. I knew it was gasoline. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew there was no smokes. It was a blowtorch. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew that I wasn't in a dark pit, with fire all around me. I knew that I was on a roof top, but I ignored the back of my mind. I took a drink of the scotch, placed it down, and took a deep breath of the sulfurous air. I took a drag on the smoke, and watched the swirling black sky. A voice whispered in my ear, "But it is there. Just open your eyes, and take a step forward. You'll see." With that, I stepped forward, and fell into the flames.
Final Report - #842-9473-084
On the eve of June 6th, 2016, 22 year old Scott Markus climbed to the rooftop of his appartment building, where he proceeded to drink from a canister of gasoline, set himself on fire with a blowtorch, doing the most damage to his lungs and nose, then subsequently stepped off the roof, where he plummeted more then 120 feet before impact. He was dead before impact. Coroners report confirms that a beneign tumor caused the sparatic behavior when it suddenly swelled, pressing against and damaging parts of his brain, and causing paranoia, delusions, and other strange occurances. Friends and family say he was depressed often, and that he often talkied about two teachers that he said had died. Both teachers are currently alive and well.