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Whispers of the Dark
#WritcoStoryPrompt29
I ran all the way home from the ground. The older boys had beaten me up good but I still had the strength to run as far as I could from them.
I knew my mother would be the next one to thrash me for getting beaten up, which was ironical, if you know what I mean. But I had no choice. I couldn't tell her the real reason the boys picked on me...
When I burst through the front door, the house was eerily quiet, a stillness that was only broken by the distant hum of the refrigerator. I could already feel the sting of my mother's disappointment in the pit of my stomach. I had to get out of there. My eyes darted around the cluttered living room until they settled on the small, wooden box that had belonged to my grandfather. It was tucked away in the corner, almost hidden beneath a pile of old magazines and dust.
I opened the box with trembling fingers. Inside, instead of the old coins and faded photographs I had expected, there was a thick, leather-bound book. Its cover was cracked and worn, but it felt strangely warm against my skin. The title was embossed in faded gold letters: *"Whispers of the Dark."*
I flipped through the pages, and each one was blank except for a small inscription at the top of the first page: "Write, and it shall be."
My heart pounded with a mix of fear and excitement. I grabbed a pen from the desk and began to write, my hand moving almost of its own accord. I wrote about the bullies—how they had cornered me, their sneering faces, their cruel laughter. I wrote of them trapped in a dark, endless corridor, pursued by shadows that whispered their darkest fears. I didn't stop to think about it. The pen seemed to have a life of its own, pulling me deeper into the story.
That night, as I lay in bed, the weight of my day's fears slowly lifting, I heard a soft scratching at the window. Groggy and half-asleep, I pulled back the curtain and saw nothing but the empty street. I went back to bed, trying to ignore the chill that crept over me.
The next morning, I woke to a strange quietness. I found a note on the kitchen table. It was from my mother, apologizing for not being there the night before. She had gone out with her friends and left me alone. My heart sank as I realized that my fears had become all too real. The bullies hadn't come back, but I could feel their presence lingering, like a dark fog.
I picked up the book again, and as I began to write, I felt the lines between reality and fiction blur. I wrote about a boy who sought revenge against those who tormented him, a boy who found a way to make them understand his pain. As I penned each word, the book seemed to hum with a strange energy, as if it were feeding off my anger and fear.
Days passed, and the bullies became increasingly agitated. They whispered about strange occurrences and unexplainable events. One by one, they were haunted by the very stories I had written. Their torment was not of my making but of their own doing, a consequence of the darkness they had sown in their hearts.
It wasn't long before they stopped bothering me altogether. They no longer had the strength or the will to be cruel. Their fear was palpable, a stark reminder of the power of the written word. And as for me, the book became a sanctuary. It was my own secret weapon, a way to confront the shadows that had once plagued my life.
But I learned a valuable lesson: be careful what you write, for the darkness within might just come crawling out, and when it does, it might not be content to stay confined to the pages.
© All Rights Reserved
I ran all the way home from the ground. The older boys had beaten me up good but I still had the strength to run as far as I could from them.
I knew my mother would be the next one to thrash me for getting beaten up, which was ironical, if you know what I mean. But I had no choice. I couldn't tell her the real reason the boys picked on me...
When I burst through the front door, the house was eerily quiet, a stillness that was only broken by the distant hum of the refrigerator. I could already feel the sting of my mother's disappointment in the pit of my stomach. I had to get out of there. My eyes darted around the cluttered living room until they settled on the small, wooden box that had belonged to my grandfather. It was tucked away in the corner, almost hidden beneath a pile of old magazines and dust.
I opened the box with trembling fingers. Inside, instead of the old coins and faded photographs I had expected, there was a thick, leather-bound book. Its cover was cracked and worn, but it felt strangely warm against my skin. The title was embossed in faded gold letters: *"Whispers of the Dark."*
I flipped through the pages, and each one was blank except for a small inscription at the top of the first page: "Write, and it shall be."
My heart pounded with a mix of fear and excitement. I grabbed a pen from the desk and began to write, my hand moving almost of its own accord. I wrote about the bullies—how they had cornered me, their sneering faces, their cruel laughter. I wrote of them trapped in a dark, endless corridor, pursued by shadows that whispered their darkest fears. I didn't stop to think about it. The pen seemed to have a life of its own, pulling me deeper into the story.
That night, as I lay in bed, the weight of my day's fears slowly lifting, I heard a soft scratching at the window. Groggy and half-asleep, I pulled back the curtain and saw nothing but the empty street. I went back to bed, trying to ignore the chill that crept over me.
The next morning, I woke to a strange quietness. I found a note on the kitchen table. It was from my mother, apologizing for not being there the night before. She had gone out with her friends and left me alone. My heart sank as I realized that my fears had become all too real. The bullies hadn't come back, but I could feel their presence lingering, like a dark fog.
I picked up the book again, and as I began to write, I felt the lines between reality and fiction blur. I wrote about a boy who sought revenge against those who tormented him, a boy who found a way to make them understand his pain. As I penned each word, the book seemed to hum with a strange energy, as if it were feeding off my anger and fear.
Days passed, and the bullies became increasingly agitated. They whispered about strange occurrences and unexplainable events. One by one, they were haunted by the very stories I had written. Their torment was not of my making but of their own doing, a consequence of the darkness they had sown in their hearts.
It wasn't long before they stopped bothering me altogether. They no longer had the strength or the will to be cruel. Their fear was palpable, a stark reminder of the power of the written word. And as for me, the book became a sanctuary. It was my own secret weapon, a way to confront the shadows that had once plagued my life.
But I learned a valuable lesson: be careful what you write, for the darkness within might just come crawling out, and when it does, it might not be content to stay confined to the pages.
© All Rights Reserved
