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The Author's Reunion
Written
By
Twan (Noxus35)
Written between 05/06/2024 & 05/10/2024
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In the warm and soft yellow, but eerie glow of his desk lamp in his study, on one late autumn eve, the world renowned and infamous author Stephen King sat behind his desk; hunched over his latest manuscript, carefully reading what he had created on paper.
The sounds of rain falling against and running down his window started mingling with the rhythmic clacking of Stephen's fingers on the round, black keys of his typewriter.
Each and every word seemed to flow from his mind, down his arms to his hands and came out through his fingers, spilling onto the paper like wet dark ink from an unseen well.

".... the creature loomed over him as he laid on the floor, his body started to quiver with fear. The creature stuck his nose out towards him, or something which resembled a nose or snout, and took one giant huff of air into its gigantic nostrils- he could smell the man's fear, even almost taste it as he let his serpentine tongue run slowly over his upper lip. The creature bore a striking dark and cold resemblance of something that Mike thought he had seen in his younger years when he walked through his parents mansion- strolling through the gigantic hallway, covered in custom made art but the old wooden walls behind each and every single one of the artworks seemed to have an untold story within each board itself, every vein unfolded a story of...", and that's it, Stephen couldn't think of another way to continue the story.
He was flabbergasted, something which had occasionally happened to him before- a writer's block, a literature wall in between the author's mind, and imagination and the old, but still very much active, Olivetti typewriter which stood in front of him on his desk.

As the clock slowly and steady chimed at the stroke of midnight, a disturbing and unsettling silence settled over the room, and the air grew stagnant and inexplicably colder.
Stephen paused for a couple of seconds, as cold shivers crawled up his spine, it wasn't from the chill seeping in through the cracks of his windowpane from the outside, but because he started to feel like he was being watched from within the darkness of the shadows.
The hairs on his arms stood up, goosebumps some might call them- he hadn't felt that sensation in a long time.
Not since he was a kid, when he read the stories that fueled and ignited his imagination which formed his stories over the years.
He looked around his study, carefully observing every shadow with cautiousness- his eyes catching only the familiar books on his shelves which stretched over the walls and engulfed his study like a warm blanket, a familiar and safe place for him- his sanctuary, within it the occasional shadows.
Yet, the sensation of dread persisted in his thoughts.
Dismissively turning back to his work, he tried to shake that unsettling feeling of his shoulders and from his mind, attributing it to the storm's waging outside his home, his literary influences and his own lively imagination.

But then, a low, raspy voice broke the silence. "It's been a while, hasn't it, Steve?"
The voice unmistakably resembled that of Randall Flagg, the malevolent drifter from his own tales. King’s eyes snapped up, looming just over his glasses and his stare focussed on the mirroring window behind his typewriter and there, leaning against the mahogany bookshelf, stood Flagg himself, most of his face covered in a veil of shadows while smiling his wolfish grin, unveiling his teeth and decked in denim jeans and a leather jacket- his serpent-like eyes piercing through the darkness.



Before Stephen could speak, another figure stepped into the dimmed light cast from his desk- a small boy with an otherworldly manner. "Hello there, Mr. King," said Danny Torrance from The Shining, his voice calm yet haunting and echoing through the study .
Stephen’s mouth went dry; Danny was no longer a small child but a teenager, his eyes were deep pools of wisdom, sadness and sorrow.
As if directly summoned from the darkest regions of his own imagination, more characters materialized. Carrie White, her eyes red-rimmed and dressed in a simple white and bloodstained dress, stood beside the fireplace, portraying a sad smile playing on her lips.
Right next to her, he noticed the towering figure of Pennywise the Dancing Clown who displayed his razor-sharp teeth, his sinister red balloons floating lazily against the ceiling. "Hiya Stevie", he spoke in a high-pitched and somewhat childish voice as he held a single red balloon and simultaneously waved at Stephen with his right hand. "Aren't you gonna say hello?"

King, though startled, felt an odd sense of paternal familiarity. "What brings all of you here?" he asked, his voice steady and determined to find an answer to his question despite the constant trembling of his hands.
"We are all parts of you, Steve," Flagg replied, "fragments of your mind, your imagination- you gave us life" his voice as smooth as oil. "We live through you, without you we wouldn't exist and tonight, we stepped out of the pages to remind you of that. You created the worlds, our worlds, from your fears- your hopes, and your darkest of dreams. And sometimes, those worlds get forgotten."
Pennywise giggled with a high resonance, a sound that sent shivers down Stephen’s spine as it would've done with countless of his "constant readers". "We just wanted to see our creator, our... God, if you will. Our father," he crooned.


King nodded slowly, while the understanding dawned upon him. This was more than just a small, mere hallucination; it was the complete, bizarre manifestation of his own creation, a bizarre and disturbing family reunion.
He looked at each one of them, from the tormented Carrie to the enigmatic Danny to the playful yet super dangerous and balloon holding deity Pennywise, feeling a mix of pride and dread.
"So, what do you want from me? What do you want me to do for you?" Stephen finally asked them with much courage.
"Just to be remembered, we don't want to be forgotten," Danny said softly. "We want to live on in the minds of those who read about us."

Flagg stepped forward, the charismatic and evil smirk never leaving his face. "And maybe we want you to inspire a few more nightmares, eh, Steve?", he spoke with a soothing tone. "Maybe include us subtly at first, and start your way back to us from there", Flagg said as he winked with his right eye which wasn't serpent-like anymore but more a bright colour of heavenly blue.
Stephen couldn’t help himself and smiled at them, a sense of awe filling him. He was their creator, but in turn, they had shaped him. He nodded solemnly. "I'll remember," he promised. "And I'll keep writing."
Pennywise's eyes gleamed with dark amusement as he spoke to Stephen, "Just remember Stevie, we like it darker. Much more than usual", and he stared into Stephen's soul.

From within his study Stephen could hear an engine start, each cough and splutter of the engine seemed to carry its own story as it settled into a steady rumble- a testament to decades of memories. As a lively tune could be faintly heard from afar, the unmistakable sound of rock 'n roll music managed to fill the study despite the loud rumbling of the raging weather outside. Its infectious rhythm cutting through the musty and tense atmosphere- for a small instance Stephen was transported back to a time when cars had fins, chrome and jukeboxes that played loudly in the diners.
The combination of the revving engine and spirited rock 'n roll music slowly faded away, as if the car was continuing its journey.

Content with Stephen's answer, his characters faded back into the darkness of the shadows, leaving Stephen alone with his typewriter and newly found inspiration, "Fine, you like it darker- much darker. Well, so do i."
And as the storm outside of his home had calmed down a bit, Stephen began to type again, the barrier between reality and imagination blurred and shifted again. Just a little bit with each letter that pressed down on the paper, the tap-tap-tapping sound of his typewriter resembled an echo of countless of readers heartbeats in the dark.