The Curse of the Lost Scribe

Marianne Fawkes had ink in her veins. The quill in her hand quivered, poised above the empty parchment that stubbornly refused to be filled. Her father, a scribe of the old ways, had cautioned her: some stories should never be written.

But Marianne never heeded warnings.

Her small attic room on the outskirts of Boston, Massachusetts smelled of damp parchment and candle wax, the flickering light casting restless shadows. She dipped her quill into the inkwell, the tale forming in her mind, a whisper from the past demanding to be told. With a steady hand, she wrote the title: The Lost Tome of Elias Gray.

The ink seeped into the parchment unnaturally, spiraling inward as though drawn by unseen hands. Marianne's breath caught. She had heard the rumors—scribes who dared to pen the name of Elias Gray met strange fates. He had been the King’s scribe centuries ago, his words shaping wars and forging realities, until he vanished, leaving behind a cursed manuscript that none dared read.

Yet here she was, resurrecting his story.

As her quill scratched across the parchment, the room chilled. The candle sputtered, throwing grotesque shapes upon the walls. The ink bled, forming words she had not written:

Marianne Fawkes, you trespass where ink must not flow.

Her heart pounded. She tried to pull her hand away, but her fingers refused to obey. The quill moved of its own accord, scrawling in a frantic rhythm. Each word burned into her skin like a brand. Visions flooded her mind—Elias Gray, hunched at his desk, fingers blackened with ink, his mouth sewn shut with silver thread.

A whisper brushed her ear, soft as turning pages. "Finish the tale, or take my place."

Marianne gasped. The ink on her skin twisted into letters, spelling out a single command: Write.

Her father’s warning rang in her mind, but it was too late. The curse had found another scribe.

As dawn crept over Boston, Massachusetts, Marianne’s attic stood silent. Only the parchment remained, covered edge to edge in ink dried into the shape of two words: Help me.

Days passed, and whispers of Marianne’s disappearance spread through the city. Some claimed she had left without a trace, while others swore they heard scratching sounds from the attic late at night, like a quill dragging across parchment.

An old bookseller, familiar with the legends, ventured to the attic one evening, lantern in hand. The room smelled of ink and candle wax, but no sign of Marianne remained. Only the parchment on the desk caught his eye. With hesitant fingers, he turned it over.

New words had appeared beneath the original plea: Tell my story, or join me.

The bookseller’s hands trembled as he dropped the parchment. The ink, wet and glistening, began to spread across the wooden desk, forming elegant but ominous calligraphy.

Another name appeared beneath the cursed words. His own.

The candle flickered. The room grew cold. The quill, resting beside the parchment, lifted into the air, dripping ink onto the wooden floorboards.

A whisper caressed his ear. "Write."

Chapter 2