It all started about seven months ago, I guess that’s the best place to start. I’d been online for a while, writing a blog, and somehow during that time started developing this relationship, I guess that’s the best word you can call it, with another writer. He was a master of the words, and was very encouraging to up an coming writers like me, so, we developed a, what I thought, strong bond very quickly. Over the next few months I found myself sharing more and more of my ideas with him, none of it felt fake, none of it felt wrong, it all felt, perfect. That’s until he disappeared, just like that, gone, no notice, no email, no nothing, his Facebook page was never updated, his blog was deleted, his emails rejected, he just vanished. After a week or so I gave up trying to work out what happened and continued to write, I figured he’d just had enough and maybe, one day would show up again. You know us writers, in our heads too much sometimes. Anyway, three weeks ago I received a call from some woman I never heard of, not that she told me her name, she said I needed to go to a local bookstore, it didn’t matter what it’s name was, any would be fine as they’d all be the same, and pick up a copy of Hallows Tales, then, she hung up. I was confused, but, I ignored it, putting it down to a telemarketer, I mean, was this how people were going to get you to buy their books these days? It was a week later, while I was reading something online, I can’t remember what it was, but off to the side I saw it, Hallows Tales. I resisted the urge for all of about five seconds before I pressed on the link, what followed was the worst feeling I’d ever experienced in my life up to that point. Hallows Tales was my stories, the fucker, had stolen them, stolen them all and claimed them from himself. At first, I didn’t know what to do, I made calls, tried to get in touch with the publisher, tried anything, but, to no avail, and then, then I turned back to the web, back to my blog, and decided what I would do. I found his house quicker than I thought I would, but, I convinced myself it was easy to locate, after all, he’d posted so many photos over social media, it was impossible not to find my way to his home. For seven days I followed him, familiarised myself with his routine, watched him walk through his life, and began to understand his secrets. But, when the day came, he wasn’t shocked I knocked on his door, he knew me, my face, but that was all, he didn’t know why I was there, or what I wanted to do, or so, I thought. When I pulled out the knife, he didn’t seem surprised at all, as if he knew it was going to happen, too late did I realise, he was the hunter, not I, and I had walked into his trap. The first shot, it stung, the second, was nothing, not that I didn’t feel it, but the pain was everything already, and the second bullet was lost in my screams. When I hit the floor, my world exploded before me into an abyss of unending pain, and his laugh, his demented fucking laugh, irritated the hell out of me. I screamed for him to do it, to finish the job, but that wasn’t what he wanted. The next thing I knew, my world turned to black as I felt his boot connect with my head. When I woke sometimes later, I found myself sitting here, in front of this keyboard, with one simple instruction, write, or die.
You can read the original version HERE.