Have you already been reading Creepypasta tonight? If not, I urge you to select some stories and read them before reading this story. Let yourself become nervous. Might I recommend those with a psychotic killer or vicious monster?
Done? Good. Now sit back and relax. Take some deep breaths and calm down. Rest assured in your safety; there is no Slenderman, Jeff the Killer, or Rake.
At least, not as you know them.
Take a moment, reader, and think about the people who write the Creepypastas. While you’re at it, take a moment and think about any horror authors. Why do people write horror stories? Do they get some sick satisfaction from it? Is it a fetish? Are they just insane? Perhaps, some are, but I think there’s another reason.
Have you ever heard of Robert E. Howard? Those of you who are interested in fantasy stories might be. For those of you in the dark, Mr. Howard was the man famous for the creation of Conan the Barbarian. Yes, long before Schwarzenegger played the character, Conan’s adventures existed in the realm of written words.
At the age of 30, Howard took his own life. People have speculated for years what might be the cause of his suicide. Theories have ranged from clinical depression to a mental breakdown caused by his mother’s failing health. All we know is that on the morning of Thursday, June 11, 1936, Robert E. Howard got into his car, removed a pistol from his glovebox, and shot himself in the head.
Why would I mention this? Use your imagination for a moment, and imagine fictional characters as living beings, not so much organisms, but entities. They exist and they think; only interacting with people so as to subtly plant the tales of their exploits into the minds of writers. Why? Because that is what they have been created to do.
These entities are usually benevolent, but as is the case with all creatures that possess free will, some are not.
Suppose one of these not-so-benevolent entities were to decide, one day, that his stories needed to be told. They would select an author and quietly plant the idea in that person’s head. But the story they plant is a dark one. A sick one, or at least, one that the author does not wish to tell. It disturbs the author. It scares him that his mind would be capable of creating such an idea (for he does not know that the idea is not his own). Disgusted, he pushes the idea out of his mind and tries to forget.
The entity will not be shoved aside so easily. It returns and plants the idea again. And again. And again. He puts ink to paper and writes his story. The ideas never leave him alone. He writes and writes and writes. He can’t stop. He must get the stories out of his head somehow. And so, he writes and, in doing so, prolongs the life of this entity.
Of course, this is just our imagination.
Those who are tortured by their own thoughts are a strange lot. Some can take it. Some run away and disappear. Some seek the aid of medicine. Some, like Robert E. Howard, choose to end it all.