Finis historia

Evelyn stared at the blank page on her laptop, her head in her hands, staring at the keyboard, praying for some divine spark to ignite her creativity—or at least the first sentence. The blank page mocked her as she watched the cursor blink. The words wouldn't come, and they hadn't for days. She's done everything she normally would to inspire her next psychological thriller. Baking, drinking, numbing with casual dates on dating apps, even visiting her mind-numbingly boring sister and her 3 kids in Omaha. But nothing. She'd been suitable for the past five years, not having to resort to her other methods. One in particular.

And if she wasn't embarrassingly behind in getting this story out, she wouldn't even think about doing what she knew needed to be done tonight. She was stuck, bad. Everything sounded cliche, uninspired, or too gory. She had the premise - a seemingly harmless elderly woman who, in the boredom of old age, turns out to be a cold-blooded killer – but the story refused to take shape.

Her gaze drifted to her bag on the floor, where she knew the black candle sat unlit since the last time she used it. With her head still in her hands, she tilted, grabbed the candle, placed it on the desk, and blew a breath. Watching the particles of dust under the lamp fly around. She promised herself that she wouldn't use it again. That she would write all of her stories for the rest of her life on her own. Knowing full well, even then, she would do it at least one more time. But as the deadline loomed, the pressure mounted. She was using the last of her residual check from the previous book on this little cabin in the woods to escape the city, the noise, the stench of a New York City summer, and her editor. Sighing, she looked at her phone; another voicemail had been left an hour ago from said editor, already hearing the same threat she always used this close to a deadline. Dropping her as a writer and reminding her where she was before she was found, bartending at some armpit of a town in the midwest. It usually did the trick to get something moving in her creative brain, but not this time. She took in another heavy sigh, accepted her fate and her decision, and reached for the matches by the candle.

The ritual was fairly simple, something she stumbled upon years ago in an old dusty tome at a bookstore in Scotland. She thought it was a joke at first, but when she was broke and desperate enough, knowing she had one chance to impress this editor, she gave it a whirl. She didn't understand why it worked, only that it did. The muse would come, and the story would flow.

 She gathered the black candle, the small scribble of paper from her wallet with the incantation, the aged scotch she bought decades ago, and a dash of wormwood she had gotten from a kid in Brooklyn who usually sold her pot, who didn't ask questions. Seeing her 'contingency' plan in front of her, she huffed out a frustrated breath, knowing she had come up here to do just this. She would always write this story this way, even if another side of herself had better intentions.

As she lit the candle, the flame flickering to life, Evelyn whispered the incantation. A familiar feeling started to reverberate in her body, and a chill crept down her spine. Shoving her fear down, she poured the scotch and wormwood into a glass, shooting the bitter concoction down in one gulp. For a moment, nothing happened. She almost hoped nothing would, knowing what was to come next. She waited, anxiety and excitement tightening in her chest.

Then, there it was; the air in the room shifted. The shadows deepened, and a presence filled the cabin. Evelyn turned slowly in her chair, her breath catching in her throat and stifling a scream. 

In the corner of the room stood a little old woman, her back slightly hunched, her perfectly coiffed silver hair coils sitting on top of her head in a tight bun. She wore what you'd expect any little old woman to wear: a floral dress that might've been in fashion a few decades ago, sensible shoes, and she was clutching an ancient purse. Her eyes, black, sharp, and calculating, with a slight sparkle that frightened Evelyn, locked onto her own clear blue eyes.

"Hello, dearest," the old woman said, her voice sweet and unassuming, with a slight accent that Evelyn couldn't place.

Evelyn swallowed hard. "Agatha Blume."

The woman smiled a pleasant, almost grandmotherly expression that didn't reach her eyes. "You've done well these last few years, but it was smart to summon me, dear. I've been waiting."

Evelyn nodded. Her mouth was dry, but her palms were wet. She knew the rules. Agatha was the muse for this story, the embodiment of the killer she had envisioned that changed with every tale they wrote together. But there was always a price. Evelyn had learned that the hard way.

Standing from her seat, she noticed how frail Agatha looked, knowing it was a guise and that she should not underestimate her. She walked into the adjoining room and motioned for them to sit near the little fireplace.

"Do you have a story for me?" Evelyn asked as she sat, her voice trembling slightly.

Agatha's smile widened, and she took a seat next to Evelyn. "Oh, yes, dear. I have the most delicious tale for you. But you know how this works, remember? To tell the story, sweet Evelyn, we must live it. Together."

Evelyn felt the scotch sitting like lit gasoline in her stomach. "I know."

Agatha placed her small purse on the floor, looked around the cabin, and then looked back at Evelyn as if she had all the time in the world. "Shall we begin?"

Knowing it was too late to back out now, Evelyn nodded; her heart was pounding. The story had to be written; this was the only way she knew how.

Agatha raised her hand and tapped Evelyn's temple. With a jolt, the first scene unfolded in her mind, vivid and clear, as if she were watching a movie. From somewhere far off, Agatha began to narrate the story in her sweet, lilting voice, guiding Evelyn through each twist and turn. 

In the story, told from the perspective of the little old woman, she lures the unsuspecting victims with her harmless demeanor, inviting them to her quaint, tidy home for tea. And then, when they least expect it, she strikes—quiet, efficient, almost not human-like, and deadly.

In a daze, Evelyn walked back to her laptop and began typing furiously while Agatha stood behind her. The words flowed effortlessly, and the story came to life—each chapter more terrifying and gripping than the last. She felt what the victims felt: the fear, the helplessness, the pain. 

As the hours passed, a sense of dread grew in the pit of her stomach. She knew what was coming, and the fear she felt was no longer from the unknowing victims in the story but from the pit of her stomach.

The final scene. It had to be written. It had to be lived.

Agatha paused, her sharp eyes gleaming with anticipation. "Now, dearest, we've come to my favorite part, the end. The grand finale. Are you ready?"

Evelyn's hands trembled on the keyboard. "What happens?"

Agatha leaned in, brushing hair away from Evelyn's face like a grandmother, and whispered with a slight giggle. "You die."

The words sent a bolt of terror through Evelyn. She had expected this, but the reality of it was just as gruesomely horrible as the last. In each of her previous books, she had experienced her character's death as if it were her own - she felt the pain, the terror - only to wake up the next morning with a perfect manuscript ready to be sent to her editor. But this time, something felt different. Agatha's presence, her muse's presence, felt more solid, more menacing. Was it enough for her muse to have these impermanent deaths? She knew the answer without asking, no. 

"How?" Evelyn managed to ask, her voice barely audible with fear.

Agatha's smile reached her eyes this time. "Like all the others in the story, a cup of tea. But this time, this cup is laced with something special. Instead of paralyzing and maiming you, I offer you a less violent but just as permanent death, dearest. We are friends after all."

Evelyn's breath quickened. She had written the scene herself - Agatha's final victim, a young woman who had grown suspicious over the recent missing person's spikes in the community. She had been invited over for tea and conversation. She knew it was not just jasmine tea brewed for her but the deadly nightshade, delivering a slow, painful death.

"Seriously?" Evelyn whispered.

"Of course, dearest. You know the rules. To create, you must pay. In this case, you must pay through experience. You wanted the story, and now you have it. As well as several others. But it's time to pay the piper, so they say."

Evelyn's mind raced. She could end this now. Blow out the candle, delete the story, and end the ritual. But she knew it wouldn't work. The story was a living, breathing thing; there was no turning back now. Or could she?

Staring out the window into the dark forest, she could hear Agatha moving around the cabin's tiny kitchen. She was humming a soft tune as she prepared the tea. Evelyn sat, paralyzed with fear, as the old woman poured the steaming liquid into a delicate china cup and brought it back to the desk.

"Drink up, dearest," Agatha said, nudging the cup closer to Evelyn. "It is your masterpiece, after all."

Evelyn stared at the cup, her mind racing. She knew she had to drink it and complete the ritual. But as her fingers closed around the warmed handle, a thought from the back of her mind catapulted the surface.

"It is my masterpiece," Evelyn said. This was her story, her creation.

She looked up at Agatha, who watched her with a slightly confused smile. "What if I change the ending?" Evelyn said, slamming down the teacup.

Agatha's sweet, grandmotherly face shifted to something sinister. "You can't do that, dearest. The story is set."

Evelyn smiled. She could rewrite the ending, altering her fate. She knew it was a gamble, but she had nothing to lose. She knew this death would not just be one in the story that she would wake up from. Something was different this time; her muse wouldn't let her live after calling on it so many times. 

With a shaking hand, she reached for the keyboard and began to type. The words came slowly at first, then faster, as she rewrote the final scene. The young woman—herself—didn't drink the tea. Instead, she fought back. The young woman confronted Agatha, exposing her for what she truly was: a killer. The young woman overpowered the old woman and forced her own poison upon her. In the story, she watched as the old woman died, choking, alone, weeping.

As Evelyn typed, Agatha's expression changed from smug confidence to pure hatred, then to fear. 

"What are you doing?" The old woman hissed, her sweet voice turning cold, sharp, and screeching.

Evelyn didn't stop. Typing furiously, her heart was pounding in her chest. In the story, she could hear Agatha's screams echoing in Evelyn's ears as she wrote the final words; the candle's flame flickered wildly, burning to the base.

With the final keystroke, Evelyn finished her story. She looked up, breathless, at Agatha.

The old woman stood frozen, her eyes wide with terror. "You can't do this," she whispered. "I'm your muse. I love you."

Evelyn shook her head, voice steady and confident. "No, not anymore."

Agatha screamed as her form began to waver, her image flickering like the dying candle on the table. She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. In a flash, she was gone, leaving only the scent of jasmine tea and nightshade in the air.

Evelyn sat back in her chair, her heart still racing. The cabin was silent; the candle's flame was extinguished, leaving behind a puddle of cooling black wax. She glanced at the cup of tea, untouched and growing cold.

For an hour, maybe more, Evelyn couldn't move; she couldn't believe she had done it. But as the adrenaline ebbed away, a sense of calm settled over her. She had written the story, lived it, and survived it.

To her surprise, Evelyn woke the next day to find the completed manuscript on her desk. A neat, tidy pile of freshly printed papers sat on her desk, just as it had always appeared after a night with the muse—and this time, with her ending. The story was hers, truly hers, and it was perfect.

She smiled as she packed the manuscript and texted a picture of it to her editor. She finally felt free. The muse was gone, and with it, the horrible price she had paid for her craft. 

Evelyn smiled, packed her little rental car, and headed back to the city. As she drove, she smiled with pure glee. Glancing in the rearview mirror, her stomach dropped. In the back seat, among her bags, sat a fresh black candle, ready to be lit again.