INK&BLOOD

Chapter 1

As I sat by the window, gazing at the night sky stretched above me, the stars glimmered faintly, and the moon hung like a lantern, casting its silvery glow over the lake. The gentle night breeze embraced me, soothing the solitude I craved. My pen moved swiftly across the paper, its ink bleeding into words as I tried to weave together a new plot for my latest book. I was a well-known author from Ravenwood, a picturesque old town nestled near Ravenshore Lake. Writing was my escape, my world. Yet tonight, something felt different.

The silence of the night was interrupted by the sound of footsteps outside my cottage. I froze, the pen slipping from my hand. The steps were familiar, but somehow... unknown. My eyes darted to the window, and under the dim glow of the streetlight, I saw him,a tall figure, standing eerily still, something clutched in his hand. He was staring straight at me. Not at my cottage, not at the window. At me.

A chill crept down my spine. My pulse quickened. I write about this kind of thing all the time,unnerving, mysterious figures lurking in the shadows. But this? This felt too real. Maybe I was imagining it. I had been overworked lately, buried in plots and endless writing. Yes, that was it. My mind was playing tricks on me. I shook my head, trying to dismiss the nagging feeling crawling up my throat.

But something inside me wouldn't let it go. I felt that gut-wrenching sensation,the one you get when you know something is horribly wrong. Against my better judgement, I glanced out the window again. He was still there. Still staring. And then, the streetlight flickered and went out.

The worst possible moment.

When the light returned, my heart nearly stopped. The figure had moved closer,closer to my cottage. His face was still obscured by the darkness, but now I could see what he was holding. My breath hitched. In one hand, he held a book,my book. The corners were soaked in something dark and wet. Blood. And in the other hand, a knife, gleaming in the pale light, dripping red.

Terror washed over me. My hands trembled as I slammed the window shut, heart pounding so loudly I thought it might burst from my chest. I backed away from the window, but the image of that blood-soaked figure wouldn't leave my mind. He was getting closer. I could feel it.

The lights went out again.

I ran to my bed, clutching my blanket and pillows as if they could shield me from whatever was lurking outside. My mind was racing. I needed to know if he was still there, but the fear paralyzed me. When the light flickered back on, I couldn't help but look again.

The street was empty.

Except for a body,a corpse lying on the pavement in front of my house.

I gasped, stumbling back from the window, my entire body drenched in sweat. My heart was hammering in my chest, and I felt like a child again, hiding from monsters under the bed. But this time, I wasn't sure if the monster was real or something far worse,something I had written.

It hit me like a punch to the gut. Deja vu.

I had seen this before,not in real life, but in the pages of my own work. I ran to my bookshelf, tearing through the rows of books until I found it. 'Whispers of Nightmare' the first novel I ever wrote. My hands shook as I flipped frantically through the pages, searching for the beginning, for the part that now seemed all too familiar.

And there it was. The first chapter. Written in my own hand, years ago.

Everything that had just happened. The figure. The blood. The corpse. All of it, inked onto the page.

I stared, my heart pounding in my ears. Someone was turning my ink into blood. And they were already done translating the first chapter.