Click. Clack. The ancient brass typewriter shuddered under Silas Blackwood’s trembling fingers.
His office, a mausoleum of forgotten stage props and mildewed velvet, offered only the gaslight’s flickering solace. Shadows, long and skeletal, danced to an unseen waltz.
Takakakak—
Footsteps. Quick. Disjointed. They scraped across the floorboards just beyond the flimsy partition, a frantic scurry that set Silas’s teeth on edge. Right, then left, a silent predator circling, sniffing at the edges of his sanity.
He froze, every nerve shrieking.
Then, silence. Thick. Choking.
A cold sweat slicked his spine. Not again. This was the curse, wasn’t it? His own mind conjuring horrors from the ether, mistaking his imagination for actual specters.
Ugh… A wave of nausea hit him, bile burning his throat. He clutched his stomach, his knuckles white. The sensation was intimately familiar, the bitter taste of fear rising with the urge to empty his guts.
He wasn’t built for this. His talent, or rather, his affliction, was for creating genuine terror, not experiencing it. He orchestrated spectral phenomena, bent reality for an audience, but when the curtains drew back on his own life, he was merely Silas, a quivering heap of nerves.
So why, then, did he persist in a profession that daily threatened to send him into a gibbering fit? The answer was brutally simple: survival. Aethelburg’s cultural scene, once a vibrant bazaar of artistry, had curdled into a cutthroat arena. Artists clawed for scraps, and only those specializing in the ‘extreme’ could hope to garner attention. He was a master of the macabre, a purveyor of genuine fright, whether he liked it or not. He was trapped.
Silas leaned forward, fumbling for the drawer. His fingers closed around the small, amber bottle.
*Somnium’s Respite.*
Two pills, twice a day. Or as needed, the apothecary had whispered, eyeing his pale face with professional pity. Always with water, preferably with food. Silas, however, swallowed them dry, the bitter chalk dissolving on his tongue. He chased them with a gulp of stale tea.
“H-ah…” A shudder ran through him, a violent tremor he couldn’t suppress. His hand shot out, clamping down on his forearm, as if he could physically restrain the shaking from within.
The cost of those pills alone could feed him for a week. They were his only lifeline against the insidious condition, this unnamed neurological blight that doctors whispered about, their eyes skirting his, before shrugging their hands. It was eating away at him, they implied. A slow, agonizing decay of mind and body. He was merely delaying the inevitable, buying himself precious, terrifying time.
Silas shook his head. He glanced at the tarnished pocket watch hanging from a hook above his desk. One-thirty past midnight. Everyone else had long since departed the Grand Guignol Society’s decrepit headquarters. He was alone, left to sift through the damning critiques of their latest production.
*The Shadow Play of Bleeding Hearts*. His creation. His torment.
He pulled a sheaf of reviews towards him, their pages yellowed, ink stark and merciless.
**Recent Critiques (Mostly Negative) – 27 Scrolls**
*“A tedious exercise in cheap parlor tricks. Blackwood’s latest fails to elicit even a shiver. Refund requested after the first act. A true disappointment.”*
*“The Grand Guignol Society has clearly lost its touch. Predictable, uninspired. We came for terror, we received a mild headache.”*
He scrolled, or rather, thumbed through the pile, a leaden weight settling in his chest. ‘Mostly Negative’ felt less like a classification and more like a tombstone. Ticket sales had plummeted. The critics were crucifying them.
“This… this is bad.” His voice was a hoarse whisper, swallowed by the cavernous room.
If things continued like this, the Society would collapse. And he, Silas Blackwood, the maestro of the marrow-chilling, would be among the first casualties. No one cared for a dramatist, however gifted, when the coffers ran dry. Finding a new position in Aethelburg’s cutthroat artistic underworld? A nightmare all its own.
Swallowing hard, he tried to push down the rising panic. *No. Don’t think like that.*
The production was new. Perhaps word-of-mouth would turn the tide. Positive critiques would surely emerge. He tried to convince himself, a desperate mantra against the encroaching despair.
He reached for the pile again, shuffling to the top for a fresh perspective.
**Recent Critiques (Negative) – 41 Scrolls**
“…Well, rot and damnation.”
Each new critique, each scathing word, felt like a nail in the coffin. The negativity was a snowball, gathering momentum, as if the very cosmos conspired to bury him. Silas sat, staring blankly at the damning words.
By the time he snapped out of his trance, the stack of negative critiques had grown beyond his ability to ignore. He pushed them away, leaning back into his creaking chair, exhaling a long, shuddering breath.
“A flop. This play’s a bloody flop.”
The words hung in the air, heavy and final. Resignation began to set in, a cold, creeping certainty. *I’m going to lose my livelihood.*
He didn't need to be the Society’s treasurer to know the grim truth. They would all be swept aside—stagehands, designers, actors, the whole troupe. Few would be spared from this disaster.
“I hope the severance is enough for a decent pint,” he muttered, rubbing his burning eyes. He could already envision the chaos tomorrow: the Chief Director’s thunderous rage, the inevitable scolding, and finally, the dreaded ‘You’re fired’ before he was forced to pack his meager belongings.
Silas slumped forward, burying his face in his hands. The bitterness curled inside him, a stinging wound that refused to heal. Why him? Why was he always caught in this damned cycle, where every choice felt like a step towards ruin?
“I truly—”
*Ding—!* A sharp, bell-like chime sliced through the silence, making Silas jump. He froze, eyes wide, fixated on his desk. A shimmering, ethereal notification, like a phantom’s breath made visible, pulsed above the tarnished brass plate of his typewriter.
**[You’ve received a missive.]**
A missive? This wasn't a telegraph. Nor was it his personal correspondence. Was this some arcane scam? A ghostly virus? He’d heard whispers of such things in the darker corners of Aethelburg.
Instinctively, he reached to swat it away, to dismiss the impossible phenomenon. But as his hand hovered, the spectral message pulsed again, brighter.
*Ding—!*
**[The Dramatist’s Engine]**
**Would you like to activate?**
**▶ [Yes]**
**▷ [No]**
His brow furrowed. What in the blazes was this? A cruel joke, perhaps, conjured by his exhausted mind? He was already simmering with rage over the reviews; now this absurdity?
Before he could even ponder a choice, before his hand could descend, the apparition pulsed once more.
**[The trial period will now commence]**
*Click!*
“Wait, what?” Silas gasped. When had he clicked ‘Yes’? He hadn’t touched a thing. The spectral notification hung motionless, yet the phantom click still echoed in his mind. How…?
The glowing text shimmered, reforming.
**[We eagerly anticipate your work, Dramatist Silas Blackwood.]**
He froze. It knew his name? His skin crawled. Something was terribly, impossibly wrong.
Instinctively, he reached for the brass plate of his typewriter, as if to anchor himself to reality. His fingers brushed the cool metal, and he snatched his hand back sharply.
Cold. It wasn’t the general chill of the office. The typewriter, the very air around the desk, was radiating an unnatural frigidity. He stared at his trembling hand, then at the glowing inscription. This… this wasn’t possible.
And then—
*Ding—!*
**[Are you prepared?]**
A grinning, stylized face, drawn in stark, glowing lines, popped into existence above the text. Its eyes were wide, unblinking circles.
Silas blinked. The face twitched.
Its smile stretched unnaturally, impossibly wide.
Twitch.
The glowing lines bled, turning a malevolent crimson.
Twitch.
Its vacant eyes were replaced with two burning, blood-red crosses.
Twitch.
Suddenly, a wave of dizziness slammed into him. His vision blurred, the room tilting violently. His body grew heavy, a dead weight in the chair.
A cold breath, like the grave itself, ghosted over his ear.
He froze, every hair on his body standing on end. Shivers, not of cold, but of profound dread, ran down his spine. It was right there. Right next to him.
His skin tingled as a voice, far too close, a dry, papery whisper, slithered into his ear.
“*Good luck~*”
The world went black.