CHAPTER TWO: Writing into Existence

Thank you very much.” I say with a wide smile on my face as the shopkeeper packs up the inkwell. 

I've always been attracted to antiques — things dating as far back as my birth. There's just something so rich and beautiful about the history of these items that I can't help but take them for myself. 

All my novels are usually historical fiction. My characters' love for each other transcending through time. 

I step out of the antiques shop, and I can't help but wonder why I haven't taken note of this shop before. I'm not too shocked though, considering the fact that I rarely leave my house. I'm always holed up inside my house. 

I breathe easier when I get closer to my house and realize that Josh is no longer anywhere close by. I don't waste any more time outside though, for fear that an evil bigger than Josh will jump out of the shadows and attack me. 

I lock the door behind me, rushing towards my writing desk where I carefully place the inkwell on top. I stare at it for a few minutes, waiting for something magical to happen. 

With the kind of force that compelled me to purchase the inkwell, for a second I believed that it had some supernatural _______

There's just something about the inkwell — something mysterious and scary as well as something else that I just can't place my hand on. 

I run my fingers over the intricate symbols carved into the surface. I don't know if I'm hallucinating, but I definitely feel a strange energy humming beneath my touch. 

A part of me is nervous, maybe even scared, but another part—a deeper, quieter part—feels drawn to it, like this is what I’ve been waiting for.

I pull open the inkwell, the faint scent of ink wafting out and around me. I dip my pen into the ink, watching as it turns a deep, rich black. 

I hesitate for a moment, unsure of what to write, but then the words begin to flow. At first, it’s slow, a trickle of thoughts and ideas forming on the page, but soon it’s like the ink has a life of its own, guiding my hand across the paper. 

The story unfolds before me, vivid and intense, unlike anything I’ve written before. It’s dark and gothic, filled with shadows and secrets, and at the center of it all is a werewolf named Lucien Blackthorn.

Lucien Blackthorn is everything I've never dared to write. He is a brooding, enigmatic figure who finds himself trapped by his own nature. He is a werewolf who has to navigate the murky waters surrounding his heritage. 

He is torn between the darkness inside him and the faint glimmer of redemption he believes is out of his reach. Not proud of the things he's done, he finds himself believing that he doesn't deserve salvation. 

The more I write about this enigmatic character, the more real he becomes. With every stroke of my pen, his world takes shape in my mind as though I'm not just imagining it but seeing it play out as a movie right before my eyes. 

The ink glides effortlessly across the paper, the words pouring out of me as though I'm merely a channel for something stronger and more powerful. 

My heart rate spikes up, and I find it hard to breathe as my story deepens, the plot thickening and twisting with each page. 

There's a small part of me that wonders how the words are coming so easily, and why the story seems to be telling itself. Since my last novel which made waves, I've found it extremely hard to pen down anything successful. 

Time slips away, and the night grows darker as I continue to write. I find myself completely immersed in the world I'm creating. 

But then, something extremely strange happens. It's very subtle at first, and if I weren't so tuned to my surroundings, I would have missed it. A prickling sensation goes through my body as though someone's watching me. 

I pause for a second, fear erupting in my mind as I glance around my apartment. The room is dim, lit only by the soft glow of my desk lamp, but everything seems normal. Although the sensation lingers, I manage to shake it off, chalking it up to my imagination running wild. 

As the story continues to unfold on the pages, Lucien’s character becomes stronger until it's almost as if he's standing right beside me. 

The feeling of being watched intensifies, but I can’t stop now. The story is too strong, too compelling, and I’m too deep into it to pull away.

Then, I hear it—a faint rustling, like fabric brushing against something solid. I freeze, my breath catching in my throat. The room is deathly quiet, but the air feels thick, oppressive. 

I slowly lift my head, scanning the room again, and that’s when I see it—a shadow, darker than the rest, standing just beyond the reach of the lamplight.

My heart leaps into my throat as I stare at the figure, trying to make sense of what I’m seeing. 

It can’t be real, I tell myself. It’s just a trick of the light, a figment of my imagination. But the shadow moves, stepping forward into the light, and my breath hitches in pure, unadulterated terror.

Lucien Blackthorn. In flesh and blood. His dark eyes meet mine, holding my gaze with a commendable intensity. 

I push my chair back, nearly knocking it over as I scramble to my feet, my mind reeling. This isn’t happening. It can’t be happening. 

Characters don’t just step out of stories, they don’t just appear in the real world. But there he is, standing before me, every detail exactly as I imagined—no, as I *wrote* him.

“Who are you?” I manage to choke out, my voice trembling.

Lucien tilts his head slightly, his gaze never leaving mine. “You know who I am, Emma,” he says, his voice low and smooth, just as I’d imagined it. “You created me, after all.”

My heart races, pounding in my ears as I struggle to process his words. “This isn’t real,” I whisper, more to myself than to him. “You’re not real.”

He takes another step closer, and I instinctively back away, nearly tripping over the edge of the rug. “And yet, here I am,” he replies, a hint of a smile playing at the corner of his lips. “Thanks to you, I exist.”

“Stay back!” I say in a scared tone as I scurry away from him. 

Right before my very eyes, his eyes seem to change color, glowing in the dark. I feel myself slowly becoming paralyzed with fear. My legs give out beneath me, and I crumple to the ground, pulled under by the darkness.