The Holder of Inspiration

In any city, in any country, go to any mental institution or halfway house you can get yourself to.

That's the formula, isn't it?

Well, I can honestly tell you that you won't be finding ME in any such place. Where I dwell is a lot more specific. Of course, I'm unsure if you'll be looking for me at all. No one has visited me yet. Maybe, after I write this, someone will. I'm not looking forward to finding out...

I live in a town named Salem. Granted, there are a lot of Salems out there, but you'll only find me in a specific one. I'm not telling you which. Anyway, the place is in the historical district, an old Victorian brick house, called an Italianate, I think, with a wrought-iron fence out front. Knock on the door if you see that there's at least one car in the driveway, that means someone's home. I can't guarantee who will answer, but ask for... For... I don't want to do this. I didn't want any part of this. I didn't mean to stumble upon that website, I didn't mean for anything...

I don't even know half of what's going on anymore...

Maybe I should start from the beginning. I... want to get this out there.

I've always thought that I was... different. It sounds cliché, I know, but...

I thought maybe there was something mentally wrong. With me. I've... always had a different thought process than other... people. But, I've never been placed in a special class, I've never gotten any special treatment. But... there are things that I've said. That I've done. That always get a strange reaction out of people. The way they look at me... Like I've done something wrong. Out of place. Horrible. They politely, awkwardly, continue the conversation, ignoring what just came out of my mouth. Typically, when I've spoken my mind about something, shared an opinion, they look at me like I've broken some unspoken rule. They never say anything about it, but their eyes... I can always tell that something's off.

It's not that I was stupid. I was an A-B student, I did well in school. I had friends, maybe not extremely close friends, but friends nonetheless. But I always ended up saying something WRONG. Doing something WRONG. I felt like a failure. An outcast. I was always trying to fit in, trying.

I TRIED. I just wanted to be NORMAL.

NORMAL.

ORDINARY.

HUMAN.

I... need a break. This is... I can't...

I'm back.

It's been a couple of days since I started writing.

Anyway, it was my senior year of high school. I was... as you say, derping around on the internet one day. I discovered what is known as CREEPYPASTA.

I was never allowed to watch horror movies, so this was the best scary stuff I could find. I found that some stuff was a lot less... scary just when reading it, other stuff... let's just say I had a little trouble getting to sleep at night.

I found a popular creepypasta directory. And stumbled upon a story called "The Holder of the End". I was drawn in. I discovered "The Holders Series" and was entranced. But then I forgot about it for a while.

Not that long ago, I remembered it and continued to read more. And more. And more. It became kind of an obsession.

Until I realized. I had no desire to become a Seeker. But. There was a "but". Something that I couldn't shake out of my thoughts, something nagging me. But they were just stories, right? Creepypasta meant to freak people out but not to be taken seriously. Right...?

A couple more days have passed. I've been... busy. I need to tell you, the one reading this, something about myself. Something I've tried to share with others, but no one ever seems to understand.

I made a realization a long time ago, before I had ever even heard about the Holders. There are multiple dimensions, much closer than anyone might think. They're around us, all the time.

Think about your favorite movie. Television show. Video game. Book. Anything with a story to tell. Ready for it?

They're all real. They're all portals, doorways, windows to the other dimensions, we just can't interact with them. But we can observe. Those "characters" you get so attached to? They're real people. They exist. Somewhere. Somewhere where we can't TOUCH them. No matter how fantastical they may seem, they are real.

(Here's the real kicker.)

And we created them. Or so we think.

Authors, designers, musicians, artists... They all have this unique ability, one that can't be taught nor learned. Creativity.

Everyone has a sort of... world in their head. It could be just an alternate reality of the life they're already living, or it could be something completely different. They can interact with this world, they may make THEMSELVES into a character, or they could be an omnipresent force watching over everything. Sometimes, it's like they're living in two worlds at once, and they begin to get confused... Which one is reality? A good writer can get down his or her world on paper and share it with others, but only the best succeed in expressing their message, their story. I know from first-hand experience. I'm an author.

I thought it was like a step above having an imaginary friend. I loved... still love, the word that I've created for myself. I wish with all of my being that I could truly live here because what I've come to know as reality has become rather... torturous.

The people who live in my world are my greatest friends. Allies. Enemies. Lovers.

HE lives in my head.

I long... I lust...

I tortured myself knowing that he would never be real.

But that's beside my point.

(... I should mention at this point that I am female.)

People would just think I was daydreaming, isolating myself, being lazy...

My world isn't perfect, but perfection would ruin the story. It's a whole hell of a lot better than HERE though. It was my escape. My paradise. Lost...

The thing about my world was that it was actually made up of several stories, each connected somehow, but still separate.

I tried to write them down. I didn't want to lose them. But things kept getting in the way. Luckily enough, my world is as vivid as ever. I'm not sure if that's a good thing.

I've come to realize that these worlds were NOT created by us, but that we discovered them. They're invisible to everyone else until we decide to make them out of something tangible, paper and ink.

Ink...

I need to stop again. To take a breather. I'm getting all worked up about this... Can't...

It was after I read a lot of the Holders series.

I... cut myself. Not on purpose. Accident. Deep.

I noticed something. Odd.

I'd never cut myself that deep before.

I could see INSIDE.

There was a layer of red, that was normal. But there was this black, oily substance now leaking from my arm, from under the layer of red. I... touched it. Curious. Horrified.

Ink.

Ink.

INK.

Oh my god.

My worlds...

My persona could...

No.

NO NO NO IT WASN'T REAL IT COULDN'T BE REAL NONONONONONO MISTAKE I'M SORRY NO NONONONONONO IT COULDN'T BE NO IT CAN'T BE REAL.

Or could it...

Does that mean...

HE could be real?

Another thing about my world. I could observe it. But I did create a character for myself. A persona. She could do whatever she wanted. She was ME. I could watch her or I could be her. She wasn't the main character though, that would make things too easy. But she was still the author. She could control the world whichever way she wanted. She could control this stuff called INK, which she described to the other characters as "the blood of all the worlds". Manipulate the ink, manipulate the worlds. She could write the word "SWORD" in the air with this ink and a sword would appear out of nowhere. However, whenever another character touched the "ink", it melted them as if it were acid. She... I was the only one who could touch it. She BLED ink. It was her lifeforce. She could make a small cut on her wrist and wield it like a weapon. She was the author, after all.

Sometimes... the ink would manipulate HER. When she was in extreme pain or agony, it would take her over. Envelope her body, mutating her until she was a massive, hulking, dripping hell-creature. This was called the Ink-Beast. It would go into a rampage, destroying everything it touched, and embodiment of everything the author feared. Of course, after the author settled down, the ink would be sucked back into her bloodstream and she could fix everything, writing the world back into existence on the empty canvas left around her.

The Ink-Beast was not evil, nor was it good. It was a thing of legends. It was a story within a story. The Ink-Beast would come out whenever I was in extreme pain or agony in reality. Like when I was fighting with my parents. Or someone I cared about got hurt or even died. The Ink-Beast would leak out of my persona and rampage. As an embodiment of everything I couldn't do in reality.

My persona was named Achelois. It's a Greek name, meaning "She who washes away pain." I don't think it's very fitting.

It was real. The ink was real. I could see it in my cut, underneath the "normal" red blood. The Blood of the Worlds. I stared at it for a long time, frozen. I reached in and grabbed some of the sticky strands, and tied them back together. I watched my arm heal before my eyes as the strands of ink were shakily woven back together. That was some of the better power of the ink.

I had been considering writing something for the Holders series, thinking I could easily make something up. Ha.

Funny that it should be the first thing that popped into my head after I realized that the... ink was real. Coincidence?

I had a strange dream last night. I've never had a dream about my world at night, it's always been strictly made up of daydreams. What happened in that dream is personal, but it explained a lot. Have you noticed when part of a story is left out, your imagination takes over and makes it so much more terrifying? Ha. HA.

That dream is partly why I'm writing now.

Have you ever noticed that when you're truly immersed in a good story, it's as if you're living it alongside the characters? As a writer, it's hard for me to do that in my own writing. It just looks like words on a page. I can't let myself in, I only see the mistakes or what parts I don't think I've communicated well enough.

I WANT YOU TO SEE MY WORLD THE EXACT WAY I SEE IT IN MY HEAD. I WANT YOU TO SEE IT.

FEEL IT.

HEAR IT.

SMELL IT.

TASTE IT.

BUT IT DOESN'T MATTER WHAT I WANT

I DON'T LIVE IN A MENTAL INSTITUTION OR HALFWAY HOUSE

BUT BOY DO I BELONG IN ONE

I MEAN, WHO WOULDN'T AFTER TRYING TO LIVE IN TWO WORLDS AT ONCE

WHEN YOU BLUR REALITY, NOTHING SEEMS REAL

NOTHING

SEEMS

REAL.

You don't want to know what I saw in my dream last night.

BUT IT'S NOT ABOUT WHAT YOU WANT EITHER.

THE INK-BEAST IS A MONSTER AND I AM THE IN-BEAST

DOES THAT MAKE ME A MONSTER?

I THOUGHT I WAS

human.

Maybe that just means that humans are monsters. Funny, we're so afraid of what we are. We even say that monsters don't exist. I guess we were wrong...

In a town called Salem (the name means "peace", but that's of little importance), go to the historical district and look for an Italianate-style house with a wrought-iron fence out front. Knock on the door if there are cars in the driveway because cars are a sure sign that someone is bound to be home. Ask for... "The One Who Writes". Even if whoever answers the door tries to turn away with a curious look, insist. She'll be bound to hear you asking for her.

What happens next is unsure and dependent on circumstance. Be patient and kind and don't make a fuss. You don't want to awaken the Ink-Beast, which will take the form of whatever you fear the most, dripping in a thick black substance that will melt your flesh on contact. You only have a window of a couple of months to procure this Object before the Holder leaves. She is going away and leaving no address, no trail for you to follow. If you fail to find her in time, you will have unleashed a dreadful monster into the world with no morals or restraints.

Ask the Holder any question, she will answer every one the same. The pen you will receive is an Object of number 606. I advise you only use it as a writing utensil in the most dire of circumstances.

Be sure to bid HIM greeting for me.

Tell HIM... that I love him. I'll never be able to tell him myself. It's the least you could do after killing me.

I hear a knocking on the front door as I finish writing this. I'm absolutely terrified, but I will swallow my fears and go to see who my parents are now talking to. They sound confused. I haven't told them about any of this. I wonder if they will miss me. I wonder what happens to the Holders when they die. Do they die, or are they immortal, always returning for the next Seeker? I guess I'll find out soon enough...

(Inky: AliasTangent trying to reach Salem. Hold firm.)