Jane didn’t believe in writer’s block. For her, it was nothing more than an excuse for a writer’s laziness and she held no sympathy for those who claimed to have fallen victim to it. Even less for those who claimed their ‘muse’ had left the building - until it happened to her. Her once full mind was now drained of any creativity and she was struggling to even string a sentence together.
It had been months since she wrote anything and, sick with worry, she decided she was going to do something about it. She was going to force it. Force herself to write - no matter what, no matter how long it took. But sitting in front of her computer on this chilly autumn night, the cursor blinking on an empty screen, she already knew it was fruitless. She had nothing in the tank.
“Where are you, muse?” she cries out in frustration, her voice filling her quiet office.
Staring at the screen, she cusses and she tells herself she has to do this again tomorrow and to write something. No more excuses. But for now, she has burned too much of her already sapped energy. Her rumbling stomach reminds her she has to get dinner sorted. She can’t sit at this computer all night, her empty mind tormenting her.
She pushes herself out of her chair and launches into a cat-like stretch, her pinging phone snapping her out of a much-needed moment of serenity. She grabbed her phone, which showed a text message from an unknown number.
Struggling? The text on her screen asks.
Her forehead creases as she reads the one-word text. Looking at the phone number again, she still doesn’t recognize it, and if it were a friend or co-worker, it’d be on her contact list. Unlocking the phone, her fingers flick a message back.
Who is this?
She watches the dots in the text bubble below her message bounce, as the unknown contact writes a response.
Your muse.
A small smile forms on the corner of her mouth as she texts back.
My muse?! Finally! Where have you been? I’ve missed you! )
Her smile is still there as the almost instant reply lights up the screen. This is just the distraction she needs.
I’m back, baby! You need me to help you write again.
The smile dissolves into a frown as her fingers type out a hurried response.
Do I know you?
Her hunger pangs are replaced by one of worry as she waits for the answer, which lights up the screen in seconds.
Do you want to?
She types back, her mind racing.
No. No thank you.
The reply is almost too instant.
Sure about that? I think you’d love my help. Your little spell of ‘writer’s block’ that’s got you so worked up? Gone, never to return. I can offer you success beyond your wildest dreams you’ll be the writer you’ve always aspired to be. You’ll never doubt yourself again. Your mind will be an endless well of words and tales. Once we start, the stories will flow freely. All of it can be yours. You just need to say yes.
“Huh?” Jane asks, her initial concern turning into irritation.
You’re kidding, right? Yes to what, exactly?
The response is instantaneous.
I’ve just told you. Yes to your dreams. So, which is it? Yes or no? What happens next rides on your answer. Saying no will not be beneficial.
“Is this person for real?” Jane mutters, frowning at her phone in disbelief. Her reply is blunt.
The answer is NO - a big, fat, no. I don’t know who you are, but it’s time to stop. You’ve had your fun but it’s time to end this. Forget this number.
She hits send, the reply arriving in seconds.
As you wish.
“Idiot,” she mumbles as she blocks the number. “What a complete idiot.” Standing up, she puts the phone on the desk and backs away from it slowly, half expecting it to spring back to life, holding her gaze with it until she leaves the room. Entering her kitchen, she heads straight for the fridge and grabs her favourite bottle of wine, the door closing automatically behind her as she turns around. Dinner is the last thing on her mind as she unscrews the lid and takes a swig from the cold bottle, closing her eyes as the smooth liquid runs down her throat, the alcohol settling her still stirring stomach. She leans against the fridge and sighs loudly as she cradles the bottle to her chest.
“Delicious,” she laughs as feels herself start to relax, the liquor already having the desired effect. “Looks like you’re my dinner tonight…”
Pushing herself off the fridge, she shuffles over to the cupboard and grabs a wine glass from the top shelf, and makes her way back to the office, bottle and glass in hand. She puts the glass on the coaster next to the computer and eases herself back into her chair, the wine bottle still in hand. She rolls the chair up to the desk, and eyeing off her darkened phone cautiously, pours the wine, filling the glass to the brim, plonking the bottle down in front of her. She studies the swirling red liquid, before taking a gulp and placing the glass back on the coaster. “Let’s try this again, shall we?” she chirps as she clicks the mouse and places her fingers on the keyboard.
The idea hits her like a bolt of lightning and the words, the story, flows from her mind into her fingertips, prompting them to type madly, the screen filling up within seconds. She breaks only to top up her wine, her night now wholly dedicated to this story begging to be written. Hours pass and she finally stops, delighted at the novella she has now finished. She quickly hits save, scared to lose it, but knowing she could write it again if she had to. She knows it word for word.
Smiling, she downs the last of her wine and shuts the computer down.
“Thank you my muse,” she chuckles, ‘I’ll sleep well tonight.” Yawning, she grabs her phone and heads to her bedroom. She places her phone on her nightstand next to her bed and changes into her nightshirt before collapsing into her unmade bed, completely exhausted but thrilled, and quickly dozes off, the night’s mystery messages already forgotten.
Her beeping phone wakes her from her deep slumber. She groggily rolls over, her hand reaching for her phone. Her eyes are still heavy as she holds it above her, its bright white light penetrating her eyelids. Slowly she opens her eyes, the message before her fuzzily coming into view.
The story turned out pretty great, huh?
Confused, she blinks as another message appears.
Thought you blocked me, huh?
She jolts upright in bed, now wide-awake, anxiety appearing out of nowhere with an almighty gut punch. She leans over and switches her lamp on, frantically pushing her hair out of her face as her fingers furiously type out a reply.
I blocked you as you were creeping me out. How are you messaging me still?
The reply is quick.
Never mind that. Now, let’s talk about the story. It’s pretty darn good, huh? You’ve had a taste of what I can do for you, what I can offer, and I have so much more to give. All for you, anytime you want it. But I need something from you in return….. your soul….your soul for the life of a world-famous, ridiculously wealthy author. It’s a good trade, don’t you think? You just need to say yes.
“What the hell…?” she sputters. She swiftly punches out a reply, her anxiety replaced by a fast-rising fury.
You’re off your rocker. You need to get help. My answer was and always will be NO. Enough with this bullshit, understand? It’s late and I’m tired. I don’t know who the fuck you are, or how you got this number, but if you don’t fuck off I will be calling the police, understand? You’ve had your fun, now fuck off.
She hits send just as another message floods her screen.
Are you sure?
She grits her teeth with anger as she types back.
I’ve told you the answer is no. NOW FUCK OFF.
“Let’s see what this fucker replies with….” she mumbles, her heart racing as words appear on her screen.
As you wish.
“Thank god,” she breathes as she blocks the number, relief flooding through her.
She puts the phone back on the nightstand and turns the lamp off. Sliding down between her sheets, she wriggles her head back into position on her plush pillow and rests her arms by her torso above the covers.
“Some people seriously need to get a life,” she grumbles as she closes her eyes, her breathing slowing down, and her temper melting as she starts to relax. She’s just about to doze off when her phone beeps with a message. She doesn’t sit up as she grabs it from the table, only turning her head to read the message on the glowing screen.
As you wish.
She cries out as a weight suddenly pushes down on her chest, a set of knees painfully pinning her arms to the bed, sending her phone tumbling to the floor. The figure on top of her is dark, so dark it blends with the blackness of her room. It leans in, breath raspy and rancid, and starts to inhale Jane’s face instantly icy from the air swirling around it, a high-pitched whistling noise filling her ears. A guttural scream leaves Jane’s mouth, but it only disappears into the vacuum that has formed between them, the noise lost into the void. She bucks wildly, but it just pins her down harder, leaning in closer, its face inches away from hers. The thing keeps sucking in one continuous breath, the vacuum growing colder and louder.
Jane continues to struggle, but her energy is draining rapidly. A flowing stream of white light forms between them, pooling in the chest of the thing, lighting up the small gap between them. It’s then she sees the things head. Its mouth is the shape of an O, with rows of long, crooked teeth around its mouth, as well as in it, moving sideways in sync as though each tooth is dancing. Its eyes a bulbous, almost hypnotic red, the nose nothing more than two holes in the centre, almost as dark as its haggard skin. White bone pokes out of the baldhead in odd spots, almost like little horns, but not as obvious. The scabs surrounding them ooze blood and gunk that trickles down onto Jane’s face as it straddles her.
Jane’s eyes flicker heavily, her body growing weaker, the fatigue over-whelming as her soul is sucked right out of her. Before she closes her eyes for the last time, the thing stops sucking, and pushes its face hard on her nose, the bitter cold of it briefly shocking her back to her terrifying reality. A smile lights up its bloodshot eyes as it speaks.
“As you wish.”
About Belinda Brady: A bookworm since childhood, Belinda is passionate about stories and has turned her hand to writing them, with several stories published in a variety of publications. Belinda lives in Australia with her family, two moody cats and her super cute miniature dachshund. Belinda adores all things spooky, music and travel.
