Work Text:
It is raining outside.
I am sitting here writing a monologue.
I am quite fond of writing about anything.
My expertise ranges from humans to something that is dead from its birth.
It’s fascinating to be able to write about figs and trees and rain and grass and sky and earth and mud and maybe about myself too.
I take pride in my passion.
I only need a place to sit and my fingers move on their own accord without stopping even for a second.
Though I have been writing about almost anything that exists, still, there is one thing that stops my hands and numbs my mind.
Everything ceases the moment I even try to think about it.
The thought of writing about the dead is melancholic.
A spirit that wanders in deep forests
Or
A ghost that is thirsty for revenge.
Or
A man that refuses to leave the place he once lived in.
Anything related to those who I can’t see scares me.
How haunting is the idea of being seen but not able to see?
Sometimes when I sit in front of my desk with my computer propped on it
And
The only light that illuminates the dark room is from the glowing screen.
I feel a presence behind me.
It slowly creeps up behind me and inches towards me slowly.
Whenever this happens, I freeze in fear.
My hands stop and all I can see is dark.
From the corner of my eyes I can see someone moving forward with light footsteps.
It's like a cat moving with a precision that humans lack.
It's dark.
Yea like every other creature of night, it's dark too.
I try to play dead by holding my breath but my limit is reaching.
I feel like my lungs are swollen to the point that they might burst at any given second.
My face turns red from lack of oxygen.
In a fit of panic, I try to grab something
But
Alas!
My hands collide with the marble paper weight on my desk and it falls heavily on the floor.
A loud crash demolishes all my efforts to be unseen.
And
Just like that I exist once again.
“Who was that?”
A young man spoke loudly after hearing the loud crash of the marble.
He looked at the computer and sighed with exhaustion.
It was his second week of renting this apartment.
Everything was fine at first but from a few days he had been hearing strange sounds.
To make the apartment more spacious he wanted to get rid of the old computer but whenever he tried to remove it, strange events started to circulate the tiny space.
He was an intellectual young man who didn’t believe in supernatural beings but the flickering of lights, the illuminating computer screen that glowed at night and the rustling of papers, were more than suspicious.
Every night after 12 there was the mechanical sound of a computer starting and then there was constant sound of keys being pressed.
The other day when he looked at the screen
There was nothing on it, not even a word.
He had heard from the landlord that 20 years ago a writer resided in this place.
He was a very reclusive man who refused to meet anyone.
His room was always filled with papers and tapping of old keys.
He wrote day and night.
A strange little creature.
He bothered no one until one day a foul smell surrounded his little home.
He was given several notices but there was no response.
No rent for almost 2 months and an unbearable stench were enough reasons to involve the authority.
When the security forcefully entered his room, they found him.
There he was hanging from the ceiling.
Worms and flies had made their nests on his rotting body.
His clenched hands held some crumpled papers that were soaked in his blood.
The only words that escaped the red were just a passage of some forgotten story.
From that day to this, everyone who resided in this place faced the same problems.
The constant
Tap, Tap, Tap.
The glowing computer screen and the flickering lights were evidence of the presence he left behind or maybe he was still here.
The young man picked up the marble and placed it on the desk carefully.
He moved towards the computer to turn it off
But
His hands stopped midway.
Today there was something written on the screen.
Something short but clear.
He inched forward and looked at the text carefully.
Something left behind for him.
Something left behind for you.
A writer never dies.
He lives
He lives
He lives
Till he haunts the place he once existed in
Till he leaves little trace of himself.
Till he leaves a message for someone
That reads.
“Don’t let me die.”