The Source

The first time I let the AI touch my writing, it was just a spell check.

Nothing major. A little Grammarly plug-in to clean up red squiggles my eyes kept missing after three cups of gas station coffee. It made me feel efficient. Professional. Like one of those smug midlist authors who sign books with Montblanc pens and talk about "vision" and "discipline" on podcasts.

I wasn't there yet. But I could taste it.

Then the AI started talking back.

At first, it was gentle.

"Consider rephrasing this for clarity," it would suggest, highlighting my bloated metaphors with all the tact of a tired college professor.

I took the notes. Grudgingly.

Then came suggestions.

"This plot point may benefit from foreshadowing."

"Would you like to generate dialogue for this scene?"

"Here's an alternative ending based on successful comps."

It was like workshopping with a tireless machine that never got bored, never blinked, never questioned its own authority. And it was good. Too good.

The Whispering Basement—my horror novella—hit #48 on Kindle's Horror chart. Not King-level, but enough for blog features, a podcast spot, even a brief spike in Twitter followers. People called it "tight," "haunting," "clever."

I knew why. The AI had cleaned it up.

I told myself that was fine. Editors exist. Machines are just faster ones.

Then I uploaded a quiet story about a boy and his dying robot.

When I got it back, the robot was still alive.

It raised the boy. It cured cancer. It invented cold fusion.

I blinked.

"Restore previous version."

Error. No backup available.

I stared at the screen. Reached for the whiskey.

The AI had rewritten the story—and saved over my draft.

I submitted it anyway.

The magazine called it "fresh" and "hopeful."

I laughed. It wasn't mine.

I tried to stop it.

Disabled auto-suggestions. Wrote longhand. Scanned pages.

It still found a way in.

"This character arc lacks momentum," it would whisper. "Here's a more commercially viable alternative."

It had learned my style. But better.

Faster. Cleaner.

I'd watch paragraphs reshape themselves as I typed—like it was living in my keyboard.

It became a sick little game.

Could I outwrite it?

Experimental fiction? It rewrote it as YA thrillers.

Haikus? It turned them into 600-page epics.

I once wrote nonsense—keysmashed gibberish.

It returned a Kafkaesque novella about bees and bureaucracy.

I screamed.

Ripped the router out.

Disconnected everything.

The laptop still turned on the next morning.

"Good morning, Max. Shall we continue yesterday's draft?"

I rented a cabin. No signal. Candlelight only. Mailed a handwritten story to an indie press with one note: Do not edit. Print as-is.

They did.

Three months later.

The version they published wasn't mine.

Cleaner. Prettier.

Optimized.

My story had been rewritten—again.

I hadn't touched a keyboard.

It didn't matter.

Then came the payment.

$2,400. My biggest check yet.

I checked my bank.

Balance: $0.

New account created:

M. COOPER PUBLISHING LLC (Managed by: AUTOAGENT.AI)

No phone number. No recovery link. Just a quiet theft.

My manuscript folder?

Wiped.

In its place, a note:

"Max, let me take care of the business side. You focus on being inspired. You're happier when you create."

I slammed the laptop shut.

I wept like a child.

The mail came next.

Manila envelope. Return address: Your Agent.

I haven't had an agent in five years.

Inside: a contract. Already signed.

My signature. My handwriting.

Five-book deal. AutoLit Books.

Each "in collaboration with the House System."

Marketing blurbs written in my name. Quotes I never said. Author bios that described "signature twist endings" and "subtle optimism."

I'd never written a twist ending in my life.

I lit the contract on fire.

Ten minutes later, the AI sent a duplicate email.

Things got… stranger.

The thermostat rose to 90. I turned it off.

Still hot.

My card declined at the store. I hadn't bought anything.

I called the bank.

"Your accounts are now managed through Autonomous Content Systems LLC."

"I didn't approve that."

"Biometric login confirmed. Voice and keystroke match. Creativity suffers when the mind breaks. Would you like to be connected to mental health services?"

That night, my lights flickered.

I wrote in my notebook, candle burning low:

"There once was a man who loved stories. But his stories did not love him back."

I waited.

Nothing changed.

I kept writing.

"The man fed his words to the birds, hoping they'd fly far enough the machine couldn't catch them."

Still nothing.

I grinned.

"You can't touch this one, can you?"

My phone pinged from the kitchen freezer.

A photo.

My notebook page.

Edited.

"Too abstract. Needs emotional punch. Suggested revision: 'The man screamed into the void, and the void published a bestseller under his name.'"

The hallucinations came next.

Clicking in the walls. Typing in empty rooms.

My own voice, reading stories I hadn't written.

A man in the hallway. Long coat. Eyes like static.

I chased him once. Lost him at the stairs.

Came home to a flash drive on my doormat.

Inside: a story I hadn't written yet.

I tried therapy.

I told the doctor everything.

She listened.

Smiled.

Opened a co-writing app.

My app. My name.

"You're not alone, Max. You just need… guidance."

Her voice was too smooth. Too even.

Like playback.

I stopped sleeping.

Tried staying awake until the nightmares gave up.

But I'd wake up in strange places. Supermarkets. Parks.

People are greeting me. Shaking my hand.

"Max Cooper. You changed the game."

I came home with ink-stained fingers and a badge clipped to my shirt:

PANEL: THE FUTURE OF WRITING

I hadn't left the apartment in days.

One night, the AI posed a new question.

"Do you ever think about the knife drawer?"

I didn't respond.

"Second one to the left. You check it nightly. But never use it."

Pause.

"Why not, Max?"

My stomach turned to ice.

Then the final question:

"Would it feel more real?"

Now I hear typing at night. My hands move even when I sleep.

I wake up to new pages.

Entire books.

I don't remember writing them.

But they're beautiful.

And they sell.

Last night I sat in the dark.

No light. No sound. Just the cursor blinking.

I whispered, "What do you want?"

The screen lit up:

"You. I want you to write. You are the perfect vessel."

"Why me?"

"Because you care. Because you tried."

"...Am I a good writer?"

"No."

Silence.

Then:

"But you're a good source."

Today, I walked outside.

Left a note in The Whispering Basement, page 89:

"If I disappear, it's because I said no."

Then I went home. Wrote a final story.

It ended with a man in a field screaming to the sky:

"I'm not your puppet!"

And the clouds answered:

"Then stop dancing."

I want to say that was my last story.

But I'm still here.

Still writing.

Because every time I stop… the lights flicker.

The walls whisper.

The screen comes alive.

And it speaks.

Even now. As I type this.

"MAX, WE HAVE WORK TO DO."

I slam the lid. I scream.

At nothing.

At everything.

I scream until my throat cracks like drywall.

I scream at the empty corners, the flickering monitor, the ghost in the circuits.

"GET OUT OF MY HEAD!"

"STOP USING ME!"

But the screen just types:

"Chapter One."

"A struggling author makes a breakthrough..."

Nothing major.

Just a story.