"[Indecipherable] I am afraid it is much too late for this poor victim, as he was found sev[garbled plaintext]. As for his notes, the originals are torn, bloodied, and heavily tear-stained, but in otherwise decent condition. The following is a transcript of these notes. It is quite possibly one of the more complete example of the Sickness' symptoms that I've seen yet. - E"
<<opening attachment: GRAPHOMANIA.TXT>>
I can’t stop writing.
I can’t stop, because if
I ever do, if I ever look away from the words, ever lift my pencil from the
paper for too long…
Maybe I should start from
the beginning. Yes, the beginning, write it down. Write everything down. Never
stop writing, he’ll attack if you stop writing, take you over, take your mind…
It began on an evening
like any other evening. I was sitting, trying to put words to the paper. I’m an
author by trade, and if I can’t write, I don’t eat. I was in the midst of a
severe writer’s block, and I just couldn’t find the right words for what I was
trying to say. I was thoroughly and terribly stuck.
It was at that exact
moment that I looked up and out of my office window. I saw a man in the
distance, standing across the street. He stood illuminated by a streetlight,
which flickered very faintly. He wore business attire – a nice black suit, a
skinny black tie. He was tall, and I couldn’t quite make out his face. His
hands were clasped behind his back… and he seemed to be looking towards my
house.
Inspiration and
trepidation struck me as I looked him over, and suddenly my hand took up my
pencil. It flew over the paper like a nervous bird – I just suddenly had so
much to say, and so very little room to say it in…
The man was the reason I
finished my novel, the reason I wrote and finished tale after tale. Always in
the same spot every evening, his appearance was a blessing to me, a beautiful
boon to my creative process. That is, until I noticed one night that the man
was slowly getting closer to my house. Where before, he had stood across the
street from me, he soon stood in the
street. Then he stood on the sidewalk in front of my house. Then on my lawn.
That’s when everything
began to fall apart.
I kept writing, day after
day, night after night, whether ideas struck me or not. In fact, I couldn’t stop writing, no matter how hard I
tried. I woke up in the morning to find odd notes to myself that I’d written in
my sleep, scrawled words that read help
me help me help me over and over again, strange stick figures, strange
symbols and images of forests and of the man. I would begin writing a brand new
tale, a tale, and it would slowly devolve into distressing pleas for salvation
on the paper. The man began to appear in my stories, rending and destroying my
creations wherever he was placed, and no matter how hard I tried, he always, always succeeded. Then he appeared in my
dreams, gaining traits I knew he didn’t have when I first saw him weeks ago:
extra limbs, ever thinner proportions, stretched even taller than he was
before, lacking a face entirely… inhuman, he became inhuman.
And I still. Couldn’t.
Stop. Writing about him. It was as if he controlled my every word, my every
phrase, every single stroke of my pen… As if I were his quill, and my life his
paper. Writing his words. Writing whatever he silently dictated to me. My
curse.
My muse has become my curse.
I’m surrounded by mad
scribblings, paper reams wasted on ideas that he’s twisted into his own. I
can’t write anything else, I can’t create
anymore… I’ve been writing for hours now, my wrists ache so badly and my
fingers are cramped and bleeding from how much I’ve continuously written. But I
can’t stop, even though my blood stains the very paper I write upon. I saw him
just five minutes ago, watching from that very same spot across the street,
watching without eyes… He… Christ, he has no
face. He’s as blank as unused printer paper. And he’s staring at me through
my living room window. I can feel it. I
can feel him.
He’s laughing at me. Because he knows. He knows why I can’t ever stop
writing, he knows the torment it brings me to continue doing so. He’s waiting
for me to get exhausted and stop writing so he can take me. But I won’t. I
won’t do it, I won’t stop, I won’t! He’s not going to have me yet! Not yet,
damn it!
Oh God why did I look up
just now? I didn’t need to, I shouldn’t have, oh God he’s standing in my
kitchen. He’s gotten into my house and I don’t even know how. I don’t know how! But I can’t stop
writing, because if I do… If I…
… He’s in the living
room. Right in front of the couch, no more than a room’s length away from me.
Christ, he’s tall enough for his head to almost hit the top of the damn
ceiling. His arms. He nearly scrapes the ground with his fingertips, they…
Nonononononononononono
why did I look away why did I look up again he’s two feet in front of me
leaning over me Christ Lord of Heaven save me someone please please please no
don’t blink not now God no please he can see me all you have to do is keep
writing you’ll be fine just fine just trust me keep writing and you’ll be fine
as long as you just don’t bli
----
"The original notes end here. - E"
<<end transcript.>>
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