I Wrote a Story That Came True. Then I Couldn’t Stop Writing

It started with a joke.

I was bored, tired, and too wired to sleep. A prompt came across my writing group:

Write a piece of flash fiction where something you write becomes real.

Cute, I thought. So I scribbled down a weird little story about a man slipping at a gas station. Broke his leg. A crow lands beside him. Everyone just stares.

I named him Thomas. A random name. A fake person. Just a funny post to kill 15 minutes.

I hit “publish” and went to bed.

The next morning at work, people were whispering by the vending machine.

Did you hear about Thomas in accounting?

He slipped on oil at the Chevron on 9th. Broke his leg.

Total freak accident. And this weird crow wouldn’t fly away.

My stomach turned cold.

Thomas in accounting.

Chevron on 9th.

The crow.

Word for word.

I laughed it off. Maybe I’d heard something subconsciously and made it into a story. Coincidence. Right?

But that night, I tested it.

Experiment 1: The Red Rose

I wrote about a woman finding a red rose on her windowsill. A perfectly fresh one, dew still clinging to the petals.

I live on the third floor. No garden, no vases, no neighbors that nice.

Next morning?

A red rose.

On the windowsill. Fresh. Wet with dew. Exactly as I’d written.

Experiment 2: The Lost Cat

I typed a story about a lost orange tabby showing up at my door, meowing until I fed it tuna.

An hour later:

Meow. Meow. Meow.

Orange. Tabby. Hungry.

I named her Echo.

By the end of the week, I stopped questioning it.

I was a god with a keyboard. A magician with Wi-Fi.

I started small: weather changes, finding $20 bills, a text from a friend I missed.

But then I got… curious.

Experiment 7: The Stranger

I wrote a story about a man knocking on my door at 3:17 AM. Three knocks. Then silence. If I opened the door, he’d be gone, but a note would be left:

“Keep writing.”

That night, I sat by the door with my phone in one hand and a baseball bat in the other.

3:17 AM.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

I opened it.

No one there.

Just a white note on the ground.

“Keep writing.”

I didn’t sleep that night. But I didn’t stop either.

I should have.

The stories started writing themselves.

One night I blacked out at the keyboard, woke up to find a story already published under my name. I read it with shaking hands.

“A man reads about a stranger, then receives a knock at 3:17 AM.”

I stared at the screen.

The story had published five minutes ago.

Then:

Knock. Knock. Knock.

It got darker.

I tried writing nice things again happy endings, laughter, peace.

But the words wouldn’t let me.

Every time I wrote something good, the file corrupted. Or glitched. Or rewrote itself mid-sentence.

She smiled as the sun rose,

turned into

She smiled as the sun burned everything she loved.

I stopped eating. My eyes twitched constantly. My hands cramped from overuse.

But I couldn’t stop.

Because the moment I tried even for a day things went wrong.

My neighbor went missing. The cat wouldn’t stop staring into corners. My power flickered every time I closed a document without saving.

And worse?

The stories started including me.

“He wakes up, checks the mirror, and sees something else blinking from the other side.”

It happened the next morning.

I wrote one last story.

A man writes a story that controls reality. He becomes trapped in his own words. He begs the reader not to finish reading, because finishing is what seals the fate.

That’s what you’re reading now.

I didn’t write this.

Not all of it.

Not anymore.

Something else is typing now. I feel my fingers moving, but they’re not mine.

The words want out.

And they’re using me, using this story to get through.

So if you’re still reading… stop.

Right here.

Do not scroll down any further. Don’t finish this paragraph. Don’t read the final line.

Because if you do—

you become the writer next.

✍️ Writer’s Note:

This isn’t fiction.

This is the story I couldn’t stop writing.

And now, it’s yours.