The Ink Witch

The antique shop on Gallowmere Lane wasn’t on any map, and yet Isla Mason found it on a day when the sky was as gray as wet newspaper and her spirit felt even soggier.

She was supposed to be writing her second novel. Her publisher had been kind—at first. Now, the emails had turned from encouraging to cold. The advance had nearly run dry, and Isla hadn’t written a page in three months. Everything she tried felt like a shadow of her first book—a pale echo with no heartbeat.

As she wandered into the dim, dusty little store, the bell above the door jingled with a sound that reminded her of dripping ink.

"Looking for something?" asked a voice that felt older than time itself.

Isla turned. The woman behind the counter was all angles—sharp cheekbones, sharp eyes, and the sharp scent of ink and lavender. Her hair was white, twisted into a bun that defied gravity.

“I’m a writer,” Isla said, not sure why. “Or… I used to be.”

The woman studied her. Then, without a word, she turned and disappeared behind a curtain. A moment later, she returned and placed something wrapped in violet velvet on the counter.

Isla unwrapped it slowly. Inside was a fountain pen—black, sleek, with silver vines etched around its body and a nib that shimmered like moonlight.

“This,” said the woman, “is not an ordinary pen. Ink it with your blood. Write. Watch. But understand: all things have their cost.”

Isla tried to laugh. “Blood? Is this some kind of writer’s ritual?”

The woman’s expression remained unreadable.

“It finds the story buried deepest in you,” she said. “The one you’re most afraid to tell.”

Isla bought it. She didn’t know why. Maybe because it was beautiful. Maybe because she was desperate. Maybe because part of her—some ancient, reckless part—believed in magic.

That night, she pricked her finger and watched a single drop of blood fall into the pen’s reservoir. The ink turned black as midnight. She felt something shift in the air, like the room had taken a breath.

She began to write.

Her first story was simple. A childhood memory: the red bicycle her parents could never afford.

She went to bed exhausted.

The next morning, the red bicycle was leaning against her apartment wall.

She stared at it for a long time, too afraid to touch it. The rust on the handlebars was exactly where it had been in her memory.

Her next piece was bolder. A short story about her sister Emily, who had died in a car crash when Isla was sixteen. In the story, Emily survived. Isla imagined them older, still close. Drinking tea on rainy days. Laughing.

The next day, she heard a knock.

It was Emily.

Same blue eyes. Same wild laugh. Alive.

Isla cried for an hour. Emily didn’t remember dying. Said she’d just gotten back from a long trip. Said their parents had sent her by train.

And Isla didn’t ask questions. Not yet.

The stories flowed after that. Publishers started calling. Isla’s name trended online. A screenplay deal followed. But with each tale she spun, the consequences began to pile up.

A man from her romantic short story showed up, charming at first, but turned obsessive within days. She had to rewrite him away—something that required burning the page and bleeding into the pen again. The room had shivered when she did it. He disappeared.

Emily stayed. But she began to change. Her laugh grew hollow. Her memories became... strange. Sometimes, Isla would catch her staring out the window at nothing for hours, mumbling words Isla didn’t recognize.

The pen demanded more. Every new story took more from her—longer nosebleeds, sleepless nights, the tremble in her hands. She began to hear whispers when she wrote, voices in the ink, clawing to be let out.

She returned to the shop.

But the shop was gone.

The storefront was boarded up, the windows shattered. A faded "For Lease" sign hung where the bell had once been.

That night, Emily confronted her.

“You wrote me back,” she said. “Didn’t you?”

Isla hesitated.

“I missed you,” she whispered.

Emily stepped closer. “But I’m not really her, am I? I’m... something else.”

Isla wept.

“I wanted one more chance,” she said.

“There’s always a cost,” Emily said, voice distant, already fading like mist. “Some stories should stay buried.”

And then she was gone again.

The pen sits in a velvet box on Isla’s writing desk now, unopened. Her fingers itch for it every night.

Sometimes, she writes with a normal pen. It’s harder. Slower. The magic’s gone.

But the words—her real words—feel warmer now. Honest. Heavy with loss, yes. But hers.

And when people ask what happened after her second novel, she just smiles.

“I found my voice,” she says. “The kind you don’t summon with blood—but with truth.”