The Author was not used to being attacked in his own home. Mainly because nobody had dared to try.
He was seldom attacked at all, but the rare instances where he would happen to face one always occurred out in the open, where everyone could see him be humiliated. Of course, he was never one to be made a fool of in public, not when he possessed a great power that nobody knew of. The miscreants and stupid youths of the nearby town were the sole ones responsible for the attacks, and he knew just how to deal with them. It was comforting, almost joyful, to think of the parents urging their kids not to bother the man in the woods, telling tales of the last person who went insane when they came near him. Nobody knew exactly what drove the person over the edge, as the events of that day were a little unclear, but hushed whispers insisted they saw the youth collapse screaming on the ground as spiders crawled out of his mouth.
The Author was left alone after that particular incident. And he liked it that way. Nobody tried to force him to assimilate with the rest of the town, nobody pulled ridiculous pranks on April 1st, and – most importantly – nobody interrupted him when he was writing. It was just him and his wooden pencil, his house of wood, in the woods, nothing but wood all around him. It was the first thing he smelled when he woke up each morning and the last thing he saw before he fell asleep at his desk each night. It was a sense of familiarity, of reliability, that he cherished dearly.
But one night he woke up and smelled nothing.
Immediately worried, the Author scrambled to turn on his desk lamp so he could see what might be causing this sudden loss of safety. He flipped the switch, and for a moment thought it wasn’t working, because he could still see hardly anything. He flicked it on and off a couple times, growing more anxious as the room remained resolutely dark.
Finally, the lamp turned on – but gone was the warm orange glow, and in its place was a blinding beam of white that gave a disheartening, noir-film filter to the house. Abandoning the lamp, the Author shut his eyes against the harsh black-and-white and blindly attempted to find his notebook and pen, fumbling around his desk to find the smooth leather cover and the polished ink barrel that would help him make some light of the situation.
He wasn’t aware of the high-pitched ringing, not until it became so loud he couldn’t hear his own panicked breaths.
He clamped his hands over his ears, but it was useless. It drove into his skull, a hammer beating about the inside of his mind. He could almost feel his ears bleed. The Author wanted the noise to stop, he wanted his notebook so he could make it stop, find the person responsible for this and make them experience things they’d never forget…
The room shook – he could feel the floor reverberate beneath his feet. His eyes flew open as he heard someone speak to him from behind.
“My my, how nice it is to finally meet you in person.”
The Author turned to face the intruder. He was expecting some mocking teenager, or else he was hallucinating, seeing and hearing things that weren’t there (he really needed to stop staying up so late to finish his stories). What he wasn’t expecting was a man in a crisp, sharp suit, with scruffed hair and a gaze that rubbed him the wrong way. The man was surrounded by a slightly glitchy, monochromatic aura and he held himself with an air of power and confidence as he surveyed the Author. Taking note of the hands on his ears, the intruder sighed.
“Ah, I should have known it might hurt. Terribly sorry about it.”
The Author’s breathing relaxed a little as the ringing softened. He noted, however, that it was still there in the back of his head, loud enough for him to be sure of its presence. From what he could gauge of this man, he was fairly sure that if he didn’t cooperate, the ringing would rise in volume until his ears really did bleed. This man was strange and appeared very dangerous, and the Author did not trust him at all. If only he had his notebook…
“Forgive me for the cliche,” he began. “But who are you exactly?”
“Oh, of course. Allow me to introduce myself to you, esteemed Author.” The stranger smiled and gave a polite bow. “My name is Darkiplier. You may call me Dark.”
The Author was confused at the unexpected flattery, and how this man knew his name, but he brushed it off.
“And why are you here?”
“To offer you something more valuable than you could imagine.” replied Dark. “Your stories are wondrous, special. They have a certain element to them that really brings them to life. You possess a unique power, one that many would fight, maim, or even kill for. Out there, somewhere in the world, your stories are coming alive. But you can’t see them physically come to life, can you? You can’t be there when they happen, can you?”
“Of course I can!” snapped the Author. “I can interact with my characters, I can see what’s going on, I can change events entirely! I’m the flippin’ author, for God’s sake!”
There was a howling noise, and something flashed beside Dark. To most people, it would have been almost unnoticeable. But the Author had incredibly keen eyesight, and he saw Dark in two places at once; standing straight and staring at him intensely, yet also curling his fists and yelling with fury. Dark’s composure quickly masked the outburst, and he continued to speak.
“Perhaps. But you fail to see the other side of this. Other than your characters, does anybody else know of your stories? To the world, your tales are simply strange or out-of-the-ordinary events that take place unexpectedly and without reason. As such, they cannot be traced back to any verifiable source. They can’t be traced back to you. Your writings aren’t publicised to anyone, and you hole yourself up in here with nobody to help you through the tough times, nobody to notice your hard work, nobody to see the beautiful things you create. Do you really want to spend your life that way? Alone?”
“The only thing other people have brought me is more misery,” the Author answered. “So I mess with them to make them respect me and leave me alone.”
“Then perhaps you have spent your time with the wrong kind of people.”
Dark stepped forward and spread his arms. “I can give you new resources to work with. I can give you the attention your stories are entitled to. When people hear your name, they’ll be filled with fearful respect. Your stories will grow, and you will grow as a storyteller. It’ll be your choice whether or not you take the claim for your work, but regardless, you’ll be sure to receive exactly what you deserve.”
The Author hesitated. Solitude was what he prized almost as much as his writings. Yet, while he loved the privacy, there was still that part of his mind that wanted to see what others thought of his works. Maybe, if what this man said was true, he could finally receive feedback. He could become a better writer. But he needed to be sure this man was telling the truth, find out his intentions first.
“And what about you?” asked the Author, surreptitiously searching for something behind his back. “If I’m to agree to this, what do you get out of it?”
“Why, it’s simply a favour,” Dark replied smoothly. “Done out of the goodness of my heart. A gift to someone I’ve respected for a long time. Surely you can see that.”
“Funny,” stalled the Author, feeling a pang of joy when his fingers closed around the spine of his notebook. “From what I can make out, you don’t seem to have a heart.”
Dark’s shell cracked again, deeper this time, and when it stopped his eyes were filled with a newfound impatience. The Author could feel the ringing return, clouding his thoughts. He dropped the notebook and covered his ears once more. As he slumped to the floor and his body began to tremble, he heard Dark speak through the ringing, as if he were inside the Author’s own head.
“Don’t test my patience.” he spat. “I can assure you that you won’t get the happy ending you desire if you continue to be a nuisance. You need me. You’re useful to me. We can do great things together.” His voice softened, smooth as velvet, and the Author felt an uneasy calm settle inside him. “You have potential, and it’s only leaking through the cracks, in small amounts that nobody will see. I can unlock your powers, show you the limits you can reach, the boundaries you can break. We can be a team, with nobody to stand in our way.”
“All you have to do is let me in. It couldn’t be more simple.”
The Author looked up at Dark, at his welcoming smile, his outstretched hand. He felt compelled to trust him. Promises of support, resources, recognition swirling around in his head. All reason crushed by the ringing, by his own desires…
He reached for Dark’s hand, took hold and shook it. The deal was sealed. He didn’t see Dark’s triumphant smile, nor his shell begin to crack. However, the Author could see what wasn’t behind Dark. The light cast by his lamp covered the entire room, and he could see it illuminating Dark, yet the wall behind him was blank. And as he noticed this, his blood ran cold.
“You haven’t got – You – ” he stammered, hands clammy. “You’re a – ”
Dark clamped a hand firmly over his mouth. The Author choked back a scream as Dark’s shell shattered. An unholy roaring drowned out everything. The room was shaking again, the wood was splintering from the pressure, the ringing was heightened, his ears were bleeding, he couldn’t breathe, and as he began to fall unconscious he could only stare at the place where something was supposed to be behind this – this thing that stood before him.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Cold air, warm waters…
Nothing but water, water everywhere.
Mountainous waves, crashing down, bubbles foaming, flooding his mouth.
Cold air, warm waters…
Nobody anywhere, help nowhere.
Everything to destroy him, nothing to help him.
Cold air, warm waters…
Crying, hot and salty tears, tears of liquid, of metal…
An ocean of tears, flooding up from wells of pain…
Cold air, warm waters…
Oxygen, he needs oxygen, he tastes salt, he tastes oxygen…
Cold air, warm waters…
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Gasping, spluttering, coughing; he woke on the ground.
He could feel small, crunchy things – leaves. He could smell wood and sap – trees. He was in the woods. But he had no memory of leaving his house. Why was he not in his house?
The Author tried to stand, but he swooned and stumbled, still light-headed, still unable to see. He heard a rough snap as his foot broke something in two. He picked it up and ran his fingers over it. Wooden boards, boards from his house. His beautiful house was ruined, ruined by –
Darkiplier.
He stood again and began to walk, but tripped and fell once more. Why couldn’t he see anything? He was awake, wasn’t he? Where was his notebook? Why were his cheeks wet? Since when was he crying? The tears were warm, and tasted salty.
And metallic. He choked.
Blood.
He frantically reached up to his face to touch his eyes. His fingertips met ragged strips of cloth, tied around his head. The cloth was wet. He couldn’t see. He knew now. He’d never truly see anything ever again. Because of his stupid, selfish mistake.
And he screamed into the void, a string of curses, regrets, fears, because all he had left was his voice.
But even that wasn’t enough to save him from the man with no shadow.
Based on this ask that inspired me to no end. What with Mark’s big project coming up soon I figured why not post it now in case he crushes my headcanons…
Oh this is so good! I love your writing style so much! And this idea! Poor Author bab.
We really should do a writing collab together
Penned Umbra
Published
A Glitch Named Anti 