The Crayon Man's Mark

I can still hear the echo of my mother's voice calling me in for dinner, a sweet serenade that cascaded through the air like a gentle melody. Her voice was a soothing balm, a radiant glow that enveloped my senses in a cocoon of warmth and security. But now, the memory of that warmth is a ghost, haunting me in a place where the sun never rises, where shadows stretch endlessly.

Here, there is no sky—just a suffocating ceiling of yellowed paper, each sheet wrinkled and oozing ink like tears, creating a claustrophobic canopy overhead. The ground beneath me is a chaotic tapestry of old sketches, a mosaic of countless faces twisted in terror, their mouths agape in silent, eternal screams that echo in the void of silence.

I tread upon their mute agony, each step a reminder of their despair. I find restless sleep on their fractured smiles, the jagged expressions cutting into my subconscious. I let their names slip from my memory because forgetting is the only mercy I can offer in this relentless purgatory. Sometimes, if I remain perfectly still, I can sense the Crayon Man's gaze fixed upon me, an unblinking, omnipresent stare that pierces through the darkness. He never sleeps, never blinks, lurking nearby like a malevolent shadow. He wields his black crayon like a weapon, carving new voids into my very being with each sinister stroke.

I bleed in vibrant hues now, colors that burst forth like fireworks against the night sky. The pain is indescribable, a torment beyond language, an anguish that gnaws at the very core of my existence. He's stripping away fragments of my soul—hope, memories, dreams of what might have been—peeling them like layers of tender skin. With each completed drawing, a piece of me dies, screaming louder than the last, a cacophony of despair that never fades. It is relentless, a sinister cycle that never ceases.

The others are here too—those who followed in my wake, their presence a constant reminder of our shared torment. They've been silenced, their mouths sewn into grotesque, childlike grins, a macabre mimicry of innocence. Sometimes they crawl, their hands reduced to scribbled claws, desperate to escape across the endless sea of paper, their movements a futile dance of desperation. But the Crayon Man only chuckles, a sinister sound like crayons snapping beneath water, and drags them back into his nightmarish realm, a twisted puppeteer in this theatre of horror.

He never releases us. We are his playthings, his creations, his eternal captives, bound to his will. And if you are reading this—if your eyes have scanned these words—then he is already reaching for you, his presence creeping into your world. Tonight, you'll feel it: the itch behind your eyes, the disintegration at the edges of your dreams, the brittle snap of something sinister just beyond your door, waiting to pull you into his grim domain.

You can attempt to flee. You can try to scream. But it will make no difference. The moment you grasped this page, you invited him into your world. Now, you are entwined in his masterpiece as well, caught in the web of his creation. And here, we never cease coloring. Not even when we plead for it to end, our cries echoing into the void, unanswered and eternal.