Luna lines

Leave me alone Josh! I said in an alarmed tone as I was pushed against the wall. My face contorts in pain as my elbows collide with the wall.

Shut the fuck up! We both know you want me, enough with all this sly acting. Josh says with a sneer on his lips as he leans closer to me.

The pungent smell of alcohol emanating from him is enough to make me puke if I wasn't already disgusted by him.

Life in Willowbrook Town is slowly becoming unbearable for me. The people's cruel nature was slowly getting to me. Their wicked words and derogatory statements cut through the pieces of my fragile heart.

What's worse is, I'm in no way to be blamed for my predicament. I was abandoned by my parents and family just a few months after I was born. The townspeople gave me away to the orphanage where I was brought up.

The townspeople get it into their heads that because I grew up without my family, I don't deserve any respect or love. Almost as if it was my fault that I was abandoned.

It got better for a while. When my novel blew up and became a bestseller, they started warming up to me. Their fake smiles, however, dwindled with the fame.

As soon as the publishers started leaving, sending rejection letters upon rejection letters, the townspeople returned to their true nature.

I went out of my house to pick up my mail, and then decided to make a quick stop at the grocery store, only to come across Josh, whose only purpose in life had been to torment and disturb my life.

"Even if you were the last man on earth, I wouldn't touch you with a nine-foot-long pole." I said in a moment of anger, almost regretting my choice of words instantly.

Josh's expression turns mean right before he grabs me by my arm, his hand forming a band around it.

"What is going on here?!" The staff member on duty asks the moment she turns around the corner to the aisle where I'm currently being held captive.

"Nothing. Run along!" Josh says in an annoyed tone to the lady.

The staff whom I now recognize as Ria, steps closer to us, her expression one of pure determination.

"I'm going to have to ask you to leave, sir." Ria says in a harsh tone as she glares at Josh.

Josh stared heatedly back at her, and for a minute, I was scared that he wouldn't budge, but then suddenly he let go of my arm, but not before squeezing it painfully one more time.

He gives me a warning glare before storming off, but not before shoulder checking Ria.

When he leaves, I turn towards Ria, words of gratitude at the tip of my tongue, but she doesn't wait another second before hurrying back to her position at the counter.

I hesitated for a second, wondering whether I should follow after her to thank her or whether I should make a hasty retreat out of the store.

If I stayed here any longer, I was at risk of coming in contact with another person who wouldn't hesitate to hurt me and I didn't want that.

I hurried out of the shop towards the back door. I count my steps as I make my way home, admiring the clear blue sky. Just as I step out onto the street, I find Josh leaning on my front porch, waiting for me with an intense expression on his face.

I beat a hasty retreat, running back in the direction I came from.

My eyes fill with tears, as I realize that, once again, I'm being forced out of my comfort zone due to the evil nature of the people around me.

I find myself walking in the shadows, cutting through alleys with no particular destination in mind.

Just when I'm about to give up and head to the police station to make a report, a small shop catches my eye. An antiques shop.

The Vintage Vaults.

The name sounds so unique and beautiful, and I don't know if that's exactly what pulls me into it. I try to reason about the fact that I really need to go home, but it's almost like my thinking faculties have been colonized by a strange power drawing me into the shop.

"Welcome to the Vintage Vaults!" A bright sunny voice called out from behind the counter, pulling my attention to a man who seemed to be in his early sixties.

"Hi!" I responded in a shaky tone, unsure of what to say in this situation.

Do you want to look around the shop? See if maybe there's something you want to buy? The shopkeeper asks with a nice and stable smile on his lips, probably sensing my hesitation.

"Sure." I said with a tight smile, grateful to him for taking the lead.

I followed him through the narrow aisles, trying to steady my breath. The place is crowded with all sorts of oddities, each one more mysterious than the last.

We stopped in front of a tall grandfather clock, its wood dark and polished, almost glowing in the dim light.

"This clock," the shopkeeper says, his voice low and almost reverent, "belonged to a countess who swore it stopped ticking the moment she took her last breath."

I stare at the clock's face, the hands frozen in place. There was something eerie about it, a heaviness in the air that pressed down on me.

Next, we arrive at a row of mirrors, each one framed in intricate designs that seem to twist and curl like vines.

"These mirrors," he continued, "are rumored to reveal not just your reflection, but the true essence of your soul."

A shiver ran down my spine. The glass in the mirrors seemed to shimmer, almost as if it was alive, and I quickly looked away, feeling an uneasy flutter in my chest.

Finally, he leads me to a small, dusty table in the corner of the shop. My eyes are immediately drawn to the object resting there-a dark, ornate inkwell. The moment I see it, something deep inside me stirs, a connection I can't explain.

"What about this?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

"Ah, that inkwell," he says slowly, almost as if he was choosing his words carefully, it once belonged to a writer whose words could alter reality itself. But be careful," he added, his voice dropping to a grave tone, "not all stories end the way we imagine."

Despite the warning, I just couldn't resist. I can feel it, an almost magnetic pull. "I'll take it," I say, the words escaping before I can second-guess myself. I just know-I need this inkwell. It is meant for me.

"Thank you very much." I say with a broad smile on my face as the shopkeeper packs up the inkwell.

I've always been attracted to antiques - things dating as far back as my birth. There's just something so rich and beautiful about the history of these items that I can't help but take them for myself.

All my novels are usually historical fiction. My characters' love for each other transcends through time.

I stepped out of the antiques shop, and I couldn't help but wonder why I hadn't taken note of this shop before. I'm not too shocked though, considering the fact that I rarely leave my house. I'm always holed up inside my house.

I breathe easier when I get closer to my house and realize that Josh is no longer anywhere close by. I don't waste any more time outside though, for fear that an evil bigger than Josh will jump out of the shadows and attack me.

I lock the door behind me, rushing towards my writing desk where I carefully place the inkwell on top. I stared at it for a few minutes, waiting for something magical to happen.

With the kind of force that compelled me to purchase the inkwell, for a second I believed that it had some supernatural powers.

There's just something about the inkwell - something mysterious and scary as well as something else that I just can't place my hand on.

I run my fingers over the intricate symbols carved into the surface. I don't know if I'm hallucinating, but I definitely feel a strange energy humming beneath my touch.

A part of me is nervous, maybe even scared, but another part-a deeper, quieter part-feels drawn to it, like this is what I've been waiting for.

I pull open the inkwell, the faint scent of ink wafting out and around me. I dip my pen into the ink, watching as it turns a deep, rich black.

I hesitate for a moment, unsure of what to write, but then the words begins to flow. At first, it's slow, a trickle of thoughts and ideas forming on the page, but soon it's like the ink has a life of its own, guiding my hand across the paper.

The story unfolds before me, vivid and intense, unlike anything I've written before. It's dark and Gothic, filled with shadows and secrets, and at the center of it all is a werewolf named Lucien Blackthorn.

Lucien Blackthorn is everything I've never dared to write. He is a brooding, enigmatic figure who finds himself trapped by his own nature. He is a werewolf who has to navigate the murky waters surrounding his heritage.

He is torn between the darkness inside him and the faint glimmer of redemption he believes is out of his reach. Not proud of the things he's done, he finds himself believing that he doesn't deserve salvation.

The more I write about this enigmatic character, the more real he becomes. With every stroke of my pen, his world takes shape in my mind as though I'm not just imagining it but seeing it play out as a movie right before my eyes.

The ink glides effortlessly across the paper, the words pouring out of me as though I'm merely a channel for something stronger and more powerful.

My heart rate spikes up, and I find it hard to breathe as my story deepens, the plot thickening and twisting with each page.

There's a small part of me that wonders how the words are coming so easily, and why the story seems to be telling itself. Since my last novel, which made waves, I've found it extremely hard to pen down anything successful.

Time slips away, and the night grows darker as I continue to write. I find myself completely immersed in the world I'm creating.

But then, something extremely strange happened. It's very subtle at first, and if I weren't so tuned to my surroundings, I would have missed it. A prickling sensation goes through my body as though someone's watching me.

I paused for a second, fear erupting in my mind as I glanced around my apartment. The room is dim, lit only by the soft glow of my desk lamp, but everything seems normal. Although the sensation lingers, I

manage to shake it off, chalking it up to my imagination running wild.

The feeling of being watched intensifies, but I can't stop now. The story is too strong, too compelling, and I'm too deep into it to pull away. Then, I hear it-a faint rustling, like fabric brushing against something solid. I froze, my breath catching in my throat. The room is deathly quiet, but the air feels thick, oppressive. I slowly lift my head, scanning the room again, and that's when I see it-a shadow, darker than the rest, standing just beyond the reach of the lamplight. My heart leaps into my throat as I stare at the figure, trying to make sense of what I'm seeing. It can't be real, I tell myself. It's just a trick of the light, a figment of my imagination. But the shadow moves, stepping forward into the light, and my breath hitches in pure, unadulterated terror. Lucien Blackthorn. In flesh and blood. His dark eyes met mine, holding my gaze with a commendable intensity. I pushed my chair back, nearly knocking it over as I scrambled to my feet, my mind reeling. This isn't happening. It can't be happening. Characters don't just step out of stories, they don't just appear in the real world. But there he is, standing before me, every detail exactly as I imagined-no, as I *wrote* him. "Who are you?" I managed to choke out, my voice trembling. Lucien tilts his head slightly, his gaze never leaving mine. "You know who I am, Emma," he says, his voice low and smooth, just as I'd imagined it. "You created me, after all." My heart races, pounding in my ears as I struggle to process his words. "This isn't real," I whisper, more to myself than to him. "You're not real." He takes another step closer, and I instinctively back away, nearly tripping over the edge of the rug. "And yet, here I am," he replies, a hint of a smile playing at the corner of his lips. "Thanks to you, I exist."

"Stay back!" I said in a scared tone as I scurried away from him. Right before my very eyes, his eyes seemed to change color, glowing in the dark. I feel myself slowly becoming paralyzed with fear. My legs give out beneath me, and I crumple to the ground, pulled under by the darkness.

The first thing I notice when I open my eyes are the bright lights, and the second thing I notice is the strange figure sitting on the chair beside my bed.

"You are still here?!" I murmured in shock as I recognized the person sitting on the chair as Lucien Blackwell.

Where else would I be? Lucien asks with a smirk on his lips, and if I didn't know better, I would say he's laughing at my predicament.

"I don't know! Stuck in my imagination or something! How are you real? I asked in a frustrated and completely baffled tone as I stared at him the way one would stare at a lab rat.

Lucien continues to watch me calmly, as if he's already accepted this impossible reality. "The Inkwell." He says simply, nodding to the object sitting on the desk, its surface gleaming in the light.

I blink, still half-convinced that this is some bizarre dream. "The inkwell?" I echo, my voice wavering between disbelief and fear.

Lucien nodded again, his expression softening just a fraction. Yes. The inkwell you found in that quaint little shop. It's no ordinary object, Emma. It carries power, ancient and beyond human understanding. When you wrote my story, it gave me form, substance...life.

I stared at him, my mind reeling. The inkwell, the one I had been so drawn to, the one the shopkeeper had warned me about, is responsible for this? "But that doesn't make any sense," I whispered, more to myself than to him. How can something I wrote become real? How can you be here?

Lucien leans back in the chair, his dark eyes never leaving mine.

Because you willed it. The inkwell responds to the desires, the intentions of its owner. You created me, Emma. And now, here I am.

I can't wrap my head around this. Just hours ago, I was sitting at my desk, pouring my soul into a story that felt more real than anything I'd written in years.

The words had flowed from me as if possessed, as if the story had been waiting for me to find it. But I never imagined.... this.

"I need to wake up," I muttered, squeezing my eyes shut and shaking my head. This is just a dream. A really vivid, really strange dream.

When I opened my eyes again, Lucien was still there, a small, amused smile playing on his lips. "I assure you, Emma, this is no dream."

I glanced around my apartment, half-expecting the walls to start melting or something equally dreamlike, but everything remained stubbornly ordinary.

Except, of course, for the impossibly handsome werewolf sitting beside my bed. What....am I supposed to do with you? I asked, feeling utterly lost.

Lucien tilted his head slightly, considering my question. That depends on what you want, Emma. You brought me here, and now our fates are intertwined. You could choose to write me out of existence, but I suspect that's not what you want.

His words sent a shiver down my spine. Write him out of existence?

Is that really within my power now? The thought is both exhilarating and terrifying.

"I don't even know what I want," I admitted, pulling the blanket tighter around myself.

I didn't ask for any of this. I just wanted to write...to feel like myself again.

Lucien's gaze softens, and for the first time, I see a hint of sympathy in his eyes. I understand. You were searching for something, and the inkwell gave it to you. But magic always comes with a price, Emma.

My heart skips a beat. "A price?"

He nods gravely. The inkwells magic is powerful, but it's also unpredictable. It's tied to your emotions, your deepest desires. You may think you are in control, but the more you use it, the more it takes from you.

His words send a shiver down my spine, but before I can respond, the lights in the room flicker-once, twice-then go out completely, plunging us into darkness.

Lucien? I called out, my voice shaky as I fumbled for the lamp on my bedside table. My fingers finally found the switch, but the light didn't come on.

I'm here, Lucien's voice reassures me from the darkness, but there's an edge to it now, something that makes my pulse quicken with unease.

Before I can ask what's wrong, a strange, otherworldly noise echoes through the room-like the rustling of paper mixed with a low, ominous hum. It's coming from the direction of the desk, from where the inkwell sits.

Get away from it! Lucien's command slices through the dark, urgent and laced with fear. But I'm frozen in place, my eyes locked on the faint, eerie glow now emanating from the inkwell. The room fills with an unnatural energy, thick and heavy, making it hard to breathe. Then, out of nowhere, a gust of wind whips through the room, strong enough to knock over the chair by my desk and scatter papers across the floor. I stumble back, heart pounding in my chest, as the inkwell begins to pulse with light-bright, blinding, and utterly terrifying.

Emma, move! Lucien's voice cuts through the chaos, but before I can react, something slams into me with the force of a truck, knocking the breath from my lungs. I'm thrown to the ground, the world spinning around me, as darkness swallows everything whole. The last thing I hear before losing consciousness is Lucien shouting my name. Then, nothing.