They'll Never Know

My eyes open at 5:07 am. I breathe in, trying to comfort my nerves, but to no avail. Today is the day. I make breakfast and leave it on the counter as I realized there's no use in eating until this gets done. I get in the car and drive, putting tremendous trust in the GPS. The knot in my stomach grows tighter and tighter with the decreasing distance to the post office. I send in my first professional non-fictional book today, something way out of my comfort zone. There was always something magical about writing for me. When I was younger I would make up stories without thinking, and my mother would write them down. Over the years she finally gave them all to me, thousands of ideas from my imagination as it grew into what it is today. As a child, the ideas came as fiction. As I grew, so did my interest in genres. I began writing about real stories, murders, or encounters with the paranormal. But I never imagined that I would be writing about a personal experience. There was no way I could keep this to myself, no. No. I had to warn other people about the monstrosity that I found. So, I did. I wrote a book about the endless horrors that would come and stay with you, even if you saw it. If you considered for a second trying to see it in a manner of disbelief, you would be dead. Of course, that is what inevitably happened. The book came out, and no one believed the words on the pages, no one listened to the warnings, they all took it as a joke. As a dare. I understand I was new, not to be taken all too seriously, but it was the truth, and no one even considered that it might have been real. All thanks to those damn movies, if you ask me. Those damn horror movies about fictional poltergeist, getting it into people's heads as "just the work of brilliant minded writers, and entirely fictional" Would they ever know that it was real? Or would they live in blissful ignorance? Was I to blame for all of the "mysterious" deaths on the news? No, I wouldn't accept that. This is the work of mankind alone. Maybe no one will figure out that this true story was a true, story. I had to grasp the attention of the readers, what better way to do that then to entice them with something unsolved that they can solve themselves? People will do incredible things to be famous, like go on a hunt to find a forbidden monster. Leave it up to the natural curiosity of the human race to get themselves killed. All that was left to do was to live up to human imagination, I mean how hard could that be? For an entity not of this world, I found the task exceedingly easy. I find that human beings are.. (well, let's use interesting as our word) in their ways of finding something out for themselves. When their survival instincts kick in, they end up ignoring them. This method has proven to be an idiotic form of getting information, disregarding their safety and well-being. However, this method has also proven to be effective in some areas. It makes my task dangerous, that's guaranteed. They're relentless, and if I go into hiding, they will undoubtedly find me. That's why I'm confronting them, you see. Facing them head-on, challenging them to a battle they will surely lose. But, I digress. I'm getting off track, so allow me to redirect your attention back to the readers that are currently tracking down this "monstrosity" of mine. My writing style goes deep into sensory descriptions, so it's no wonder why they're so entranced by this creature. They practically know everything about it, but there's still a lack of knowledge there. Just enough to motivate them to keep going. But, at the same time, not enough to fully satisfy the mind. As they get closer, allow me to provide some background on my kind. I wasn't always "bloodthirsty" or even a "humanoid not of this world". I'm simply of a different mind from all of these obedient sheep following their shepherds blindly. More aware, therefore, more powerful. The others like me would be considered rare nowadays, but it doesn't sadden me. I'm used to isolation, I was a loner for thousands of years, but even I will not grow weary at the sound of my people dying. But the time for my tragic backstory is over, dear reader. They've grown close enough. As my readers near the so-called lair of this so-called monster, I can smell the uncertainty in the air around them. But, as they always do, they trudge onwards. They would never expect me as their monster they've been seeking, but that's what they're about to find. As they enter and lay their eyes upon me, they let out a sigh of relief, thinking this was just a normal person's home instead of a lair for a monstrosity. However, as you can imagine dear reader, they're dead wrong. As they approach to confront me, I let my kindest grin shine through. Then, my best laugh. They look at each other for reassurance, their fake confidence laughable. I start to cackle, as they try to run but find themselves frozen. They pass out from fear, and why wouldn't they? That's the last stage of my process, and it happened every time. In little time, I had all of them sorted out and in separate bins. I wrestle in my mind about what to do with them, but I remain unsure. At the end of the day, they were just links in the deadly curiosity chain of the human race. Eventually, I'll have to make a book about all of these people dying because of the "monster", but I wonder if it will make any money. After the first book, there's always something left to be desired for writers in the way of compensation for their work. Oh, well. I might as well wrap it up for my career, as they'll surely find me out. I liked the way the book came out, so I might try it again. Besides, if my book didn't make me enough money, maybe the body parts will.