Ink That Bleeds

Elias Thorne sat in his small, cluttered attic studio, the harvest moon spilling pale light through the dusty window. On his desk lay his newest treasure a black fountain pen with a gold nib, bought from a shadowy antique shop in Prague.

The shopkeeper, an old man with ink-stained fingers, had handed it over with a strange smile.
"This pen writes truths," he whispered, "and truths become reality."

Elias had laughed it off as a sales trick. But now, staring at the pen, he felt a twinge of excitement. He was a failing novelist, worn down by rejection after rejection. Tonight, he decided, he would start the thriller that would save his career.

The pen’s ink flowed like midnight water, smooth and dark. Elias wrote:

"The killer claimed his first victim, Mayor Harlan, in a freak accident on Elm Street. A loose manhole cover swallowed him whole during his evening jog."

He leaned back, sipping his whiskey. The words felt… alive.

The next morning, Elias woke to sirens outside. Turning on the news, he froze. Mayor Harlan had died the exact way he had written fallen into an open manhole on Elm Street.

It had to be coincidence.

But that night, he wrote again. This time:

"Detective Lila Voss dies, poisoned by her own coffee."

The pen felt warm in his hand, almost pulsing. Elias could picture her gasping for breath, clutching her throat.

By morning, the radio confirmed it. Detective Lila Voss was dead poisoned.

Elias’s heart pounded. The pen was no ordinary pen. Somehow, his words were becoming real.

At first, he tested it harmlessly. "Old Mrs. Finch passes away peacefully in her sleep." Sure enough, the paper reported her death the next day.

Then came the temptation. His literary agent, who’d been ignoring him for months? Dead from a sudden heart attack. A rival author? Struck by lightning. A critic? Killed in a car crash.

One by one, the obstacles in Elias’s life disappeared. And each time, the town grew more afraid. People spoke of a shadow killer, a curse.

One night, Elias dreamed of the pen’s past. He saw a 19th-century scribe whose writings sparked real wars, toppling kings and destroying lives. In the dream, the scribe tried to destroy the pen, but it survived waiting for another writer.

When Elias woke, he vowed to stop. He locked the pen in a drawer. But at night, it called to him. Write me…

He tried to write something good. "The killer is caught. Justice is served." But the ink twisted his words into something else:

"The writer becomes the final victim."

The next morning, news broke. Police had found Elias’s manuscript, which described the murders before they happened. He was the prime suspect. Sirens wailed outside his window.

Panicked, Elias snatched the pen. He tried to write an ending that would undo it all: "The pen breaks, the curse is gone."

But the pen bled ink like warm blood, staining his hands. Pain shot through his chest. Visions of every victim filled his mind their faces pale, their eyes accusing.

Elias collapsed. Pages scattered across the floor. His last sight was of his final line, written in dark, wet ink that looked too much like blood:

"And the writer bled out, alone, his story unfinished."

The pen rolled under the desk, still gleaming.

Far away, in the quiet antique shop in Prague, the old man at the counter smiled faintly. Somewhere, the curse had ended and somewhere else, it was about to begin again.