The worst part of the day was almost over, and Ian sighed in relief. He had spent hours working through emails and writing reports for his boss. Working from home was a blessing—it meant that he didn’t have to leave the house, that he could afford a house to begin with, and that he rarely had to talk to anyone directly—but spending eight hours a day working on something that didn’t directly progress his own interests always left a sour taste in Ian’s mouth.
He wouldn’t normally be this stressed out, but Ian had been having really bad writer’s block lately. Spending the evenings writing short fiction stories helped keep his spirits up and gave him something to actually live for in the short-term, but the creative well had run dry. Every time he sat down to hammer something out, his mind went blank. As someone who specialized in speculative fiction, it shouldn’t have been that hard to come up with something, anything, but no dice.
Ian had tried to make up for it by watching a lot of TV shows and going through his small collection of fiction books again. Surely, something would spark an interesting idea that he could spin into a competent story. He had never had a dry spell that lasted this long and it was absolutely killing him; his whole life had become about work and that was no way to live.
He coughed.
Well, something was killing him. Something was affecting his health, at least. Ian knew for a fact that he hadn’t caught anything from someone else, since he hadn’t left his house since the last time he bought groceries. It was wasn’t that Ian was a germaphobe, though.
Ian struggled to relate to other people, so being in a crowd made him feel out of place. He had no idea why, but the idea of being human didn’t exactly inspire comfort. Ian sometimes wished that he’d been born something else, but that was stupid: there weren’t any other options besides being human.
In truth, a lot of his fiction was inspired by that feeling of being slightly off from the rest of the world, of struggling with the idea of being human at all. Perhaps going outside and actually talking to people would help reignite his pilot light. Ian groaned. He dreaded the idea of leaving his nest and actually venturing out into the cold, hard world for the explicit purpose of interacting with people.
Ian had to come up with something to do before he pulled his hair out in frustration. That was it, then: tomorrow, or maybe the day after, he would go out and talk to people in person. Surely there was someone nearby who could tolerate him for a whole conversation.
That night, though, Ian was going to treat himself. He changed into some pajamas and leaned back in his chair, pulling up a video. Ian always kept an eye on what new horror media was coming out: movies, books, comics, ARGs, web serials. A good scary video in particular always got his blood pumping. Ian went to pour himself a glass of wine and started the first video.
An hour later, he stood at his bedroom door, cursing himself for the indulgence.
Something was out there. Ian strained his ears, but couldn’t make out a sound. It would be just out of sight of the door, though. He was sweating a little. Why had he done this to himself? Ian knew what watching horror did to him! Stupid overactive imagination! There was nothing out there!
He placed his hand on th door handle, heart dropping a little. The thermostat was just down the hall. All he had to do was turn it down for the night. It was silly to think that something was out there. His throat tightened all the same.
As long as he acted normal, everything would be alright. Panicking would trigger whatever was in the shadows to attack. He told himself: act normal, walk slowly, don’t let your breathing give away how scared you are.
Ian turned the handle and opened the door.
It was dark in the hall. He stepped out and, not turning his head, reached out to flick on the light. There was nothing out there. Ian took a deep breath and walked over to the thermostat to hit the button. Swiftly but steadily he backed up until he was in the doorway again and shut the door.
He didn’t even believe in the supernatural. Ian would just love to be able to watch a video he enjoyed without his brain insisting that something was out to get him. Was this paranoia? It wasn’t like he actually believed something supernatural wanted to hurt him.
Summoning all the courage that he had, Ian flicked off the bedroom light and climbed into bed swiftly. He wrapped himself up in covers, leaving only his head exposed, and closed his eyes. With his body on high alert, it would be a while before he actually fell asleep.
Ian woke up covered in sweat and breathing heavily to find sunlight streaming through the blinds. He sighed and peeled the covers off of him, pulling himself out of bed and shivering. Nightmares were rare, but they really got to him. What did he remember from this one? Not much, actually. That was odd; normally he was really good at remembering what happened in his dreams.
Accidentally knocking the empty glass of wine off the desk gave Ian a start. He was a little jumpy this morning, but quickly went about his morning routine: a quick shower, a small breakfast, no monsters hiding around the corner. It was so much easier to stay rational during the day; monsters couldn’t get to him in the daylight.
It was easy for Ian to get lost in his work and the hours started to fly by. The cold hard numbers kept his head clear of supernatural horrors for most of the day. There was always something for him to focus on while he was on the clock, always someone he needed to contact or whom he was waiting for a response from. Still, it was a relief when he finally logged out for the day.
After a little dinner by himself, Ian returned to his room and started browsing the Internet. He was once again looking for any idea that he could spurn into a story. There had to be at least one thing out there that he hadn’t covered in a story already.
Ian wasn’t attached to any particular genre; he’d done fantasy, he’d done science fiction, he’d done realistic fiction, he’d done surreal fiction, and he’d done horror. Being so diverse had always hindered his popularity a bit, but it gave him the creative freedom that he needed to stay motivated. Hopefully, stretching his limits like that would one day help him make enough on the side to justify calling it a writing career. A small writing career, but a writing career nonetheless.
Nothing was grabbing his attention, no matter where he looked. Ian sighed and turned to news articles, the last refuse of a desperate writer; he always did his best to ignore the news whenever possible to avoid becoming depressed. The odds of him finding something that interested him here of all places was—
Hold on.
What was this?
There was an article about space, specifically something called the “global lights,” which the article described as an atmospheric phenomenon where aurora would be visible across most the world. Scientists were calling it the “aurora universalis,” presumably because they were not very creative. It was going to be a once-in-human-history event caused by deep-space magnetic waves passing over the earth.
Ian had written science fiction before, but always very soft science fiction. He didn’t know much about space or magnetic waves in particular, nor had he ever seen the northern lights before. This would actually be a really cool event to see, and in only a few weeks! If he hadn’t been looking for story ideas, Ian would have missed this entirely!
He read the article again, then once more. This idea of something passing over the earth and creating lights in the sky was tickling his imagination. Was this what he had been looking for?
His dream from the night before came to mind. Ian still couldn’t remember very much of it, but there had been a woman and a strange castle larger than any building Ian had ever seen before. The images from the dream and the global lights didn’t have anything in common, but his imagination was insisting that he link them together.
Ian pulled up a blank word document and ideas started flowing like water from a burst dam. This was the easiest he’d ever had putting a story idea together! When he had the most basic sketch of an outline down, Ian opened a new document and just started writing whatever came to mind.
I’m going to lose my mind, he wrote, grinning to himself. I’m not sure if I’m more afraid of that or the possibility that nobody will ever know what’s going on with me. My name is Stephen Williams, I’m a thirty-four year old plumber and something is seriously wrong with my life.
A first person POV should help to draw the audience into Stephen William’s life and make them empathize with him more, as would making him a normal person with a relatable career. Starting with a declaration that he’s losing his sanity would keep people hooked. Ian wasn’t the kind of writer who started with the status quo; he much preferred to begin where the action started.
The story continued, For the past week, I’ve been dreaming of a castle in the far distance on a dark world of towering trees and red skies. Last night, I arrived at the castle itself, only to be greeted by a towering feminine figure who made me fall to my knees and weep for God’s gentle comfort.
Ian was embellishing a little, of course: there had been no lead up to the nightmare he’d had, and in the dream he’d actually been quite calm and relaxed. The details were fuzzy, but the lady had seemed quite normal, if imposing. A story needed to be exciting, though.
It continued with the lady inviting Stephen into her palace of wonder and horror. Stephen could tell that something was wrong; the lady seemed human enough but something was just a little… off about her. At no point did Stephen feel completely at ease like Ian had during the dream.
He wasn’t sure how to end the chapter, though. Ian leaned back in his chair and tapped his chin. The global lights, the thing that had inspired the story to begin with, hadn’t been introduced. How was he going to incorporate that?
With a flash of inspiration, he finished: The last thing I remember before waking up was the lady telling me about her plan: she was going to use the upcoming global lights to open a portal to our world—to Earth—and step through to claim domain over it. All I could do was listen in horror. God help us all if this comes to pass.
Ian did a quick editing pass and fixed a few typos; in his rush to get the story on paper, he had made quite a few. Once that was done, he opened up a browser to post the chapter. It took a bit of fiddling, but he had a story: The Lady who Lives in my Nightmares. It was only the first chapter, but it was the first thing that he had pumped out in literally months and Ian was so happy with himself.
He wasn’t sure how or if he would continue the story. There were other unfinished projects that wanted his attention, and Ian had no real idea on where to take this one. Besides, everyone knew that horror was at its best when it left a bunch of unanswered questions. Whatever audiences could fill in on their own was going to be way scarier than having answers. Ian had seen so many good horror premises destroyed by stories feeling the need to explain everything. Less was definitely more.
At least something good had come from that nightmare. Ian was probably going to have to stop watching horror videos before bed before his heart finally gave out on him. Now that he was out of his writing slump, he’d probably have less time to watch videos, anyway.
It was getting late and there wasn’t time for a large dinner. Ian rummaged the fridge for a bit before pulling out a microwave meal and shoving it into the the machine. He leaned against the counter while he waited, occasionally glancing over his shoulder. It felt like the house was settling unusually frequently today, but it was probably nothing.
He was sure that it was nothing.
Ian sat down with his meal and wondered if he needed some kind of external support to get over his fear. Therapy, maybe, or hypnosis? Ian hadn’t felt this frightened of his own shadow when he was living with other people, but trying to share a house with other people had caused him so much stress in the past that he’d rather not revisit it. Part of him wished that he had a girlfriend that he could live with, but that would require going out and meeting people and that simply was not on the table at this moment in his life.
Once the meal was done, Ian turned down the thermostat and hurried to his room, shutting off the lights as he went. He didn’t believe in the supernatural, but there was no reason not to be extra safe in the dark. Pulling off his clothes for the day, Ian climbed into bed and did his best to fall into a restless sleep.
The night was spent tossing and turning in bed. Several times, Ian had woken up to hear heavy breathing, only to realize after a few moments of panic that it was his own. It was his own, right? He cursed his overactive imagination and shut his eyes tight, burying his face in his pillow.
Where was his heroine to rescue him from the shadows that haunted his every waking moment?
When he properly awoke for the day, Ian pulled himself out of bed and yawned. There had been no nightmare in his sleep, for which he was grateful. Ian took a quick shower, made himself breakfast, and sat down to get started on his eight hours.
Throughout the day, he couldn’t help but think back to the story. Was it doing well? Were people enjoying it? Had Ian’s hiatus taken so long that nobody was interested in his stories anymore? It would be irresponsible to ignore his actual day job in favor of checking up on the story, so Ian simply suffered instead.
The very moment he’d clocked out for the day, Ian pulled up his browser to check on the story’s statistics. There were a few comments. They were all positive! People were actually enjoying it! Several comments were from people who were glad he was still writing after all. People seemed to want to know where the story was going next.
Ian couldn’t help but pump his fist a little. Finally, something was going right for him! He could feel that this was a turning point; he was going to get his life back on track!
How long could he make this particular story last, if he stretched it out? Ian had some interesting dreams, and if the story continued to have a dream-like quality to it, Ian could certainly continue to milk them for ideas. He’d improvise a few more chapters and then wrap the whole story up with a nice, tidy little bow.
Ian was feeling really happy with himself.
Really like story
Hope you continue to write this
Extremely relatable content.
Thanks for the chaps!
Author sus 👀