The Writer's Shadow

I thought I controlled the story. I wrote the worlds. I created the rules.

Last month, that changed.

I was working on a new book, a psychological horror. The story followed Daniel, a writer. He started hearing whispers. His characters appeared in his mirrors.

The idea felt vivid. Too vivid.

I wrote for hours, late into the night. The scenes came easily. My desk lamp flickered sometimes. I blamed the old wiring.

Then one night, I saw it.

Daniel had written about me.

He described my desk. The mess on it. The coffee stain on my papers. Even the way I tapped my pen.

I froze. I hadn’t written those words.

I deleted them. I told myself I’d imagined it.

The next morning, the words were back.

This time, Daniel wrote about my dreams. He described the figure by my bed. The whispers it spoke.

I deleted the passage again. My hands shook.

After that, I stopped sleeping. Shadows felt heavier. Every corner seemed to watch me.

The story kept changing. New words appeared. Daniel’s thoughts felt sharper.

One line made me stop breathing: “You think you’re in control, don’t you?”

I quit writing, but it didn’t matter. The story grew on its own.

Last week, Daniel predicted the blackout.

The lights flickered once. Then, darkness swallowed my apartment. My laptop stayed on, glowing faintly.

A single line appeared: “I’m coming.”

Since then, I’ve heard footsteps. My reflection feels wrong. It lags, as if deciding what to do next.

This morning, the story was gone.

A new document replaced it.

The title read: The Writer’s Shadow.

I didn’t write it.

But the ending isn’t mine anymore.