Anonymous sender
An author having a night-time writing session is disturbed with a cryptic email.
Sitting at a desk, with darkness behind my windows. Hitting the keys and staring at the screen until my eyes burned. That is how I spent my nights. Trying to write a story that could change the world.
As the time goes by and the later it gets, my writing only gets worse. More typos and sometimes my sentences just stop making any sense in the middle.
I was prepared to call it a day and just roll over to my bed when a ping came from my computer.
You don’t expect an email at 3:10 at night.
Certainly not one that says.
“Your next story”
Curiosity got the best of me and I opened the email.
The sender: iknowyou@unknown.com
What the fuck is that?
The subject: Your next story.
The email started off simple, yet cryptic.
On these pages, you can find your next story. I hope you will find it entertaining.
I had no idea what he meant but I wanted to know, a click of my mouse ruptured the silence in the room and attached file opened at me, bathing me in the white light of the Word background.
It seemed like a script about two dozen pages of it.
ACT I
Born in May 98. He was a child of many talents. One in particular STEALING!
Whoa. That is off to a rough start. But hey I was also born in May 98 so this might be good.
As a child, he didn’t amount much to anything besides winning a couple of writing trophies and contests with STORIES THAT HE FUCKING STOLE!!!!
Wait… I also won a lot of writing contests… what the actual… Wait…
My eyes darted down the page. It took my slow sleep-deprived brain a minute before I actually realized what am I looking at.
The story was about me. About my accomplishments and my personal life as well.
Getting a journalism degree…
Writing his first book and becoming a bestselling author.
BUILDING A LIFE OF FAME ON A LIE.
That is where ACT I ended. Saying that I built my fame and my success on a lie. I pushed back in my chair.
What lie?
I looked over at my shelf, where my first novels were proudly displayed. I wrote them right after finishing high school, they were fictional stories made about my life but…
This doesn’t make any sense.
There was nothing more to the document so I hit reply.
Yo! Whoever you are. This is not very funny. I have no idea what you are talking about and I don’t have time to play games with you.
I smashed the send button and got up from my desk. Prepared to leave it behind but the ping came almost instantly.
Seriously?
My chair was still spinning and I didn’t bother sitting down. There was a new email.
RE:RE: Your New story
But you know what I’m talking about. You didn’t give me any feedback on my story. Was it greatly written? What does it feel like when someone takes your life and puts it on paper for everyone to see?
I could feel my insides tightening, heat going into my head.
Listen here you dipshit.
I furiously hammered down on my keyboard.
I didn’t take anybody’s life! I wrote fiction about my own experiences!
He didn’t answer this time. The new email came empty, with an attachment.
I wanted to discard the email and just go on with my life, but my curiosity didn’t let me.
ACT II.
Chills ran over my body. I could feel the hair on my arms standing up.
The second act was mostly about my current life. Especially the last couple of weeks. The author even got my license plate right.
He went to get groceries last Monday with his wife. Shared a nice lunch in the Italian restaurant across the street before he went home to work on more of those horrendous lies!
The last line of the document was from this morning…
Okay, this is enough.
I hit reply again.
You’ve been stalking me, you sick fuck? Do you have any courage to tell me, what this is about? Who the hell are you?
Nothing.
I kept on walking from one side of my tiny office to the other. Blitzing through my books, trying to make sense of this. There was something eluding me. Something that just didn’t make any sense.
Who did I steal a story from? There are a couple of stories about my bullies, about the people around me growing up, but they are adjusted with different names and everything…
No reply. I shook my head. My head still in a turnmoil, what did I ever exploit?
Were there some personal stories that weren’t told by me? But those didn’t harm anyone and it’s not like anyone else would tell them.
Ping.
I threw the book I was holding on the ground and immediately fell on my chair, my hands shaking and sweat breaking at my back I opened up the email.
There was just one sentence, that made my heart stop.
You are going through the wrong book.
I was on the second floor of my house. There was no way, anybody could see me inside.
What the fuck… what the fuck!!! What the hell is happening!!
Ping
Another one came. Just an attachment again. No text.
ACT III
If Act II ended this morning, what could possibly be in Act III?
I didn’t let myself breathe until I read the first words.
Today he went on a shopping spree to get some new clothes for an upcoming book signing.
He spent about 236 dollars of his STOLEN FORTUNE.
My eyes slowly drifted to the shopping bags unpacked in the corner of my room. The amount was exact.
He ends his evening as any other. Sitting in front of a shining screen. Exploiting the lives of people around him. Taking advantage of them as he did of me…
As he writes more lies. He doesn’t bother to check if he locked the doors properly and he certainly doesn’t notice a person standing behind him…