The call of darkness

The call of darkness

[Chapter 1: The Manuscript of Shadows]

The antique clock struck midnight as rain lashed against the weathered windows of Rahul's third-floor apartment. The feeble glow of his laptop screen cast long, trembling shadows across the cluttered workspace. Dark circles framed his bloodshot eyes - he hadn't slept properly in days.

"This ending needs to be perfect," Rahul muttered, cracking his stiff fingers before typing the final sentences of his horror story.

His protagonist, Abhi, had made the fatal mistake of reading aloud from a crumbling journal found beneath an ancient mausoleum. The words were no ordinary incantation - they were a bridge between worlds. As Rahul's fingers danced across the keyboard, he barely noticed the growing chill in the air or how the raindrops seemed to form strange patterns on the glass.

"Abhi's blood turned to ice as realization dawned. The ritual hadn't summoned the dead - it had awakened something far older, something that had been waiting in the spaces between breaths, in the silence between heartbeats..."

The moment Rahul typed the final period, his screen flickered violently. Before he could react, crimson letters materialized across the document:

"THE DOOR IS OPEN. THE WRITER BECOMES THE WRITTEN."

[Chapter 2: The First Omen]

Rahul recoiled from his laptop as if burned. The device emitted a low, guttural buzzing that vibrated through his bones. Across the room, his bookshelf began to tremble, volumes of Poe and Lovecraft thudding to the floor in unison.

Then came the knocking.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Not at the door - from inside the walls.

Rahul's breath came in shallow gasps as he watched in horror as his unfinished coffee began to ripple, forming a whirlpool despite the stillness of the air. The liquid darkened until it resembled old blood, and from its depths emerged a single, milky-white finger that pointed directly at him before dissolving back into the cup.

His reflection in the darkened monitor screen wasn't his own. It smiled knowingly, mouth moving out of sync as it whispered words Rahul felt rather than heard:

"You gave me form. Now I shall give you fear."

[Chapter 3: The Broken Mirror]

The bathroom mirror showed the truth first.

Rahul had splashed water on his face, hoping to shock himself awake from this nightmare. When he looked up, droplets cascaded down the glass in impossible patterns - forming words in a language that hurt his eyes to read.

Then his reflection winked.

The medicine cabinet exploded outward, shards of glass embedding themselves in the walls like crystalline daggers. From the wreckage emerged a hand - not reflected, but real - its flesh the texture of old parchment, fingers too long and too many.

Rahul stumbled backward, his scream dying in his throat as the bathroom door slammed shut behind him. The faucets turned on full blast, spewing thick, dark liquid that smelled of copper and decay.

[Chapter 4: The Final Draft]

His laptop screen burned with new text that wrote itself in jagged, frantic strokes:

"Rahul understood now. Stories weren't just words - they were invitations. And his protagonist Abhi had never been fictional. The journal, the ritual, the entity - all were real, and they had been waiting for someone foolish enough to put their truth into words."

The apartment's lights failed completely. In the darkness, something scraped against the hardwood floor - the sound of broken nails on wood. Cold breath tickled the back of Rahul's neck as unseen lips pressed against his ear and whispered:

"Every story needs an ending. Yours will be delicious."

[Chapter 5: The Next Author]

Morning light revealed an empty apartment. Rahul's laptop sat open on the desk, its screen pristine except for a single document titled "THE SUMMONING - FINAL DRAFT."

Across the city, Rahul's editor Aniket woke to a notification on his phone. An email from Rahul's account contained just one line:

"I found your next great horror story. It writes itself."

Attached was a file that began downloading automatically. In the background of Aniket's bedroom, his antique standing mirror fogged over, though the air was perfectly dry. If he had looked closer, he might have seen the faint outline of fingers pressing against the glass from the other side...

---

The