Hey folks,

So, I’m going to do something a little different. The story I have to share with you today is true. It’s actually still happening, and I’m more than a little unnerved.

This morning I got up and went to work as usual. While I was there I took a look at the weather and saw some heavy snowfall coming my way, so I decided to head out early before the roads got bad. I locked up and drove through white-out conditions before making it home safely. Once inside, I went straight to the kitchen and wolfed down some food, then took a shower.

Feeling refreshed and watching the snow gradually accumulate, I figured this would be the perfect time to do some writing. No distractions, no obligations, just an abundance of free time that comes along about as frequently as a blue moon viewed by a colorblind astronomer.

So I dug in. I fired up the wood stove, I put some coffee on, I cracked the old laptop open. Now, I’ve got a ton of saved documents; some are titles, some are drafts, some are stories that will probably never see the light of day. Well, as I sifted through them, my eyes caught one that had been saved this morning.

“Please Stop”

I racked my brain, trying to recall if I’d ever used that title before. Nothing came to me. Besides, I hadn’t written anything this morning. What was this? Naturally, I opened it.

There was only one sentence, and reading it only confused me further.

Did you ever think about the consequences?

By then, I was getting uneasy. I knew I hadn’t written this. My mind went racing until I realized there were more words appearing on the page.

When you wrote these stories, did you ever think about the people in them?

I was being hacked… or something. Someone was fucking with me, and I don’t respond to that well. My fingers jabbed at the keys.

I don’t know who the fuck you are, but you don’t scare me

I had more to say but a new line was already being typed.

We will

Fuck off

He sat in the armchair by the wood stove, balancing a laptop precariously on one knee, typing with one hand and holding a mug in the other…

My heart jolted.

…Little did he know he was being watched- stalked, hunted.

I whirled around, peering through my windows.

THIS ISN’T FUNNY. PLEASE STOP

…The tragic characters he wrote about had discovered a way get back at the one who had created their tortured existence. So they set to work, writing a story about their antagonist. Though endings can be tricky, and they got hung up trying to decide what ill-fate they should bestow him.

Stop. This isn’t real

Eventually, they realized that every draft they wrote existed somewhere. And no matter how many endings they came up with, they always made sure that he would suffer.