The Cursed Pen

The night was deep, with a ghostly full moon hanging in the sky. At the edge of the city was an old shop near an abandoned library with a faded wooden sign with the inscription "Mystical Antique."

Rudra, a young writer who must fight creative blocks, hiked into the store. The smell of dust and old parchment filled the air. His eyes searched the shelves until they landed on an old blackened pen that had been placed in a glass house.

I pulled it a little above the pen.

"How much is that?" asked Rudra. The

shop owner, the elderly man known only as Batehwar Dada, squinted his eyes. "This pen is not for sale," he said in a quiet voice. "Why not?"

The old man heard before he said: Anything written in this pen will be... real." Rudra laughed. "Cursed Pen? It sounds like something from a horror novel!"

But the old man didn't smile.

Ignore his warning, and Rudra insisted on taking the pen. Sighing, Batehwar Dada finally handed it over as if he couldn't stop the inevitable.

Tonight, the first word

Rudra sat at her desk and tried to test her pen. The moment he took it, a strange cold ran through his body. It felt like it was difficult, as if it was filled with invisible forces.

"We write horror stories," he thought, laughing. He began writing:

"Dark Nights. Forgotten Cemetery. Suddenly the old co-lid creaked. His dilapidated body was raw with bright red eyes, and his bone fingers scratched the wood. It turned my head and went to the door..."

A sudden gust of wind was blown through his window.

Rudra frowned. Was that a coincidence?

After that, the curtains fluttered violently. Outside, streetlights flickered, and one after another died.

Then - knock on the door.

Rudra's heart was smashed.

He slowly approached the door and opened it. There was no one there.

But... a muddy footprint was led into his apartment.

The terrorist launches Pulse Race

. He retreated, his breath flattened.

Then he heard it.

Weak, moaning.

It was behind him.

Rudra turned around, but the room was empty. However, the atmosphere felt difficult.

Then a wooden floor broke underneath it.

A skeletal hand pierced through the board, and his bone fingers grabbed his leg.

Rudra began screaming, but the handle was cold and firm. Deep, whispers from my throat filled the room. Rudra understood no language, but the meaning was clear.

"You brought me here..."

"Now you can't undo it."

Panic passed through him. pencil!

He grabbed his hand and scribbled. Everything returned successfully. "

The moment it was finished, my hands disappeared and tears on the ground sealed.

The air quieted again. The power of the monastery was real.

Spook lasts for days. He closed the pen and refused to use it again.

However, a nightmare began.

Every night he would stand at the foot of his bed, dreaming of a shady character whispering in a hollow voice.

He heard scratch noise on the wall.

After - as he turned his back he could feel his eyes while looking at him.

444 One night, as he sat in his living room, the screen on his laptop flickered.

The

keyboard has started typing. "Why did you stop writing?"

Rudra's neck was dry. He closed his laptop. Then - whispering, directly into his ear.

"Write again, Rudra. Or we write for you."

He ran away from his apartment and grabbed the air.

Desperate Solution

The next morning he rushed to the antique business. "Dada! Help me!"

The old man sighed.

"I warned you. You were using a pen, right?"

Rudra nodded desperately. "And now, I can't stop it!"

Bateshwar Dada's face.

"The Pen doesn't just create stories. Open the door. So every story written will become reality, and these realities do not want to be left behind. "

Rudra's voice trembles." What do I do? "

The old man placed a trembling hand on his shoulder.

"You must write the last sentence. You must finish correctly. "

Rudra recorded the cursed pen at the end. He heartily wrote: The moment the words were completed, the pen was torn apart and changed hands. Bateshwar Dada smiled weakly. "It's over now."

Rudra sighed.

Rudra was exhausted, but relieved, in the final turn

of the night. His apartment was quiet and peaceful.

He was sitting at his desk, staring at the empty spot where the pen was. That's over.

or so he thought.

Because when he reached for his laptop, his fingers stroked something.

pen.

The same as what he destroyed.

And this time, there was a note next to it. "The story never really ends, Rudra. You're just waiting... a fresh start. "

Room

It was cold.