Phantom Scribe

By Kade Alton

Ethan thought he controlled his stories, but the truth was far darker. Haunted by the Phantom—a shadowy presence born of his regrets and choices—he is pulled into a world where his creations take on a life of their own. As reality and imagination blur, Ethan must confront the chaos he unleashed and the secrets of his past.

With every step, the stakes rise. Ethan journeys through guilt, redemption, and the dark power of storytelling, battling to rewrite the narrative before the Phantom consumes him entirely.

A gripping tale of creation and destruction, consequences, and the eternal struggle between light and shadow. Perfect for fans of dark, emotional stories laced with mystery and suspense.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kade Alton
• Release date: Dec 22, 2024
• ISBN: 9798230659488

Book preview

Chapter 1: The Rainy Encounter

Ethan Harper's fingers hovered over the worn keyboard of his ancient laptop, the cursor blinking in steady, mocking rhythm. It had been days since he'd written anything worth keeping. The last few months had been a blur of rejection letters, empty promises, and the creeping sense that his dreams were slowly suffocating under the weight of his own mediocrity. At twenty-eight, he had expected more. Instead, he was a ghost—just another disillusioned writer, destined to be forgotten before he could even make a name for himself.

The coffee mug beside him was half-empty and growing colder by the minute. He didn’t mind. Cold coffee was a fitting companion for the cold, unyielding silence that enveloped his apartment. The room, cluttered with abandoned manuscripts and unopened bills, smelled faintly of mildew—a testament to the too-many nights spent staring at blank pages, hoping for something that would never come.

His gaze drifted to the window, where the rain lashed against the glass, blurring the world outside into a wash of grays and muted colors. The storm had been relentless for hours, but it felt almost comforting—a reminder that, like the weather, he too was stuck in a perpetual cycle of dissatisfaction.

Ethan sighed and turned back to the screen, fingers poised but unwilling to press down. The next sentence had to be perfect, he told himself. But of course, nothing was perfect, not his writing, not his life. He slouched further in the chair, his eyes wandering once more to the window.

The sound of the doorbell ringing snapped him out of his stupor. He frowned. Who could it be?

Standing up with a groan, he shuffled toward the door, his feet dragging across the hardwood floor. The bell rang again, persistent, almost impatient. He wasn’t expecting anyone—his social circle had become as sparse as his writing output.

He opened the door, half-expecting a neighbor with some mundane complaint about the noise or his ever-present pile of overdue books. But there was no neighbor standing in the hallway.

Instead, a soaked figure, shrouded in a heavy raincoat, stood in the doorway.

Can I help you? Ethan asked, his voice hoarse from too many days of silence.

The man was older, perhaps in his forties, with an air of quiet confidence that didn't quite match the dreariness of the evening. He gave Ethan a knowing look, his eyes sharp despite the wet hair that clung to his forehead. There was something unsettling about the way he stared at Ethan—like he could see right through him.

I believe this is yours, the man said, holding out a leather-bound book.

Ethan blinked, confused. Excuse me? I—

The man interrupted with a slight smile. It was left at the bookstore. I thought you might want it.

Before Ethan could respond, the man turned and walked away, disappearing into the storm without another word.

Ethan stared at the book in his hands, its cover worn and weathered, the color of the leather darkened with age. The gold lettering on the spine was nearly illegible, but the faint imprint of words lingered. There was something oddly compelling about it, something that stirred a deep, unfamiliar curiosity in him.

He stepped back into the apartment, closing the door with a soft click behind him. The rain battered against the window, but inside, it was quiet—eerily quiet. Ethan placed the book on the desk, his fingers brushing against the cover. It felt strangely warm to the touch, as though it had been waiting for him.

Why would someone leave this for me? he muttered, the question lingering in the air.

His mind raced with possibilities. Maybe it was some odd coincidence, some well-intentioned mistake. But even as he dismissed the thought, a part of him couldn’t shake the feeling that this book—this strange, forgotten thing—was meant for him. As if it had been calling to him.

Ethan opened the cover, the pages crackling under his fingers. The first few pages were filled with elegant handwriting, the ink dark and flowing, as if the words themselves were alive. But it wasn’t the content that caught his attention—it was the way the words seemed to pulse, just faintly, as if they were shifting and changing before his eyes.

He leaned closer, his breath catching in his throat. Something in the air had shifted. The room felt heavier now, thick with a kind of expectation.

Before he could stop himself, his fingers traced the words on the page.

The ink bled across his skin, as if it had seeped into his very soul.

And then, something strange happened.

The next line of text appeared.

Not on the page, but in his mind.

He knew, even before the door opened, that this encounter would change everything.

Ethan’s heart skipped a beat. He looked down at the book, then back to the door, as if expecting the man to reappear. But the hallway outside was empty.

The book had started writing itself.

Ethan slammed the book shut, his pulse racing. This was ridiculous. He had to be imagining things, right?

But as he stared at the cover, he couldn’t ignore the sensation that something was drawing him in—something ancient, powerful, and beyond his understanding.

He glanced at the clock. It was late, too late to make sense of any of this. But a part of him couldn’t resist the pull. He opened the book again, and this time, when the next line appeared, he didn’t hesitate.

The story was only just beginning.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, Ethan Harper had the distinct feeling that his life was about to change forever.

Chapter 2: The Unfinished Story

Ethan stared at the book, his fingers trembling ever so slightly as they brushed against the ancient leather cover. The weight of it was palpable, like a secret too heavy to carry, and yet, it beckoned him. The words—no, the story—had already begun to invade his mind, spiraling around him like a creeping fog. His pulse raced, and for a moment, he wondered if he should throw the book aside, lock the door, and pretend nothing had happened. Pretend that he was still the same Ethan Harper who had spent years chasing empty words, just another wannabe writer in a sea of forgotten voices.

But he couldn’t.

The room seemed to close in around him, and the hum of the city outside faded into nothing. It was as if the book had claimed the space, drawing him in. He couldn’t look away. His mind kept drifting back to the words, the strange lines that had formed in his head, as if they had always been there, waiting for him to hear them. And now, they were coming. They were already on their way.

Slowly, he opened the book again, the pages cold to the touch. The words had rearranged themselves, different now, yet still pulsing with an energy that vibrated against his skin. Ethan’s heart thudded harder with each passing moment.

He was no longer sure if he was holding a book or something far more dangerous.

The story was only just beginning.

He read those words again, and something inside him flinched. It wasn’t the simple truth of the sentence that unsettled him—it was the weight of it, the certainty with which it had appeared. The sensation that, somewhere deep within the words, a hidden truth awaited him. A truth that could change everything.

He glanced over his shoulder, his breath shallow. The apartment felt suffocatingly still, every creak of the wooden floors underfoot amplified in the silence. But nothing was out of place. The stack of unfinished manuscripts on his desk sat like silent witnesses to his indecision. The half-empty coffee cup sat still, the dark liquid now cold and unmoving. Outside, the rain still beat against the window, relentless in its cold fury, a mirror to the turmoil inside him.

Ethan ran a hand through his hair, feeling the sweat beginning to form at the back of his neck. The book sat there, still, waiting for him to continue. But how could he? How could he simply ignore what had happened? What was happening?

And then it happened again.

A flicker. A subtle shift in the ink.

Ethan blinked, but when he looked down at the page, the words were different. No longer was there a vague, cryptic warning. Instead, the story had deepened. He read:

He didn’t know why he’d opened the door, but the moment he did, he felt something shift. Something ancient and powerful had slipped through, and it was watching him now, waiting for him to act.

His breath caught in his throat. A sick, gnawing feeling crawled up his spine. He hadn’t written that. He had felt it, but it wasn’t his thought. It was the book. It had written itself again. His hand, against his will, reached for the pen on his desk.

But there was a resistance now, a strange hesitation, as though something inside him fought against the words, as though something deep in his chest had recognized the weight of what was to come. He put the pen down, his mind a swirl of confusion and fear. Was this real? Or was this some kind of sick delusion?

The question lingered in his mind like a dark cloud. The story wasn’t just a story anymore—it was his life.

He stood up abruptly, pacing the room, the weight of the book pressing against his chest. His stomach churned, and for the first time in a long while, his mind felt alive—buzzing, racing. He needed to escape. But escape from what? The story? The book? Or from himself?

And then, a thought gripped him.

What if this was his chance? His real chance to write something that mattered, to finally break free from the chains of mediocrity that had defined his life. He wasn’t a failure—he wasn’t just a failed writer. Maybe, just maybe, this book held the answers he had been searching for. Maybe it could give him the story that had always been just beyond his reach.

A reckless thought, but one he couldn’t shake.

With a trembling hand, he opened the book again. He tried to ignore the pounding in his chest as the next line formed before his eyes:

Victor had been watching him from the moment he entered the room, his sharp eyes never leaving Ethan’s face. And now, he was waiting for him to make the choice. A choice he couldn’t yet understand.

The room seemed to grow colder, the air thicker, as if the words were reaching out and tangling around him. He had the strange, irrational urge to look over his shoulder. He wasn’t sure why—there was no one in the room, and yet... there was that feeling again.

It was as though the words were no longer confined to the page.

Ethan dropped the book with a sharp gasp, as if the words had physically burned him. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t let himself be swallowed by the fiction. He knew better than anyone that chasing a dream this wild would only end in disaster. He had seen it happen before. Writers losing themselves in their own creations, consumed by the world they wrote about until it swallowed them whole.

But still, part of him wanted to keep going. The words beckoned him. He couldn’t stop now. He had come this far, hadn’t he?

Victor. Who was this Victor? A figure from the manuscript—or something more?

The book pulsed again in his hands, and with a strange, almost involuntary motion, Ethan opened it once more.

This time, the page was different. The handwriting had changed. The ink was darker, thicker. It almost seemed to bleed through the pages.

The Custodians were watching. The game had begun.

Ethan froze. The name echoed in his mind like a whisper in the darkness. The Custodians. The story was shifting, mutating, expanding, wrapping itself around him with invisible threads. He could feel it now, that creeping sensation that he wasn’t in control anymore.

He wasn’t just reading the story.

He was part of it.

And he didn’t know how much longer he could escape.

The world outside, the rain, the city—it all seemed to fade into the background as Ethan became consumed by the pages before him. The ink seemed to crawl across the paper, alive, seeking to pull him deeper into the web of its mystery.

The story had only just begun.

And he was already losing himself in it.

Chapter 3: A Touch of Magic

Ethan Harper had never believed in magic.

At least, not the kind that could turn a person’s life upside down, reshape reality, or make ink spill from the pages of an old manuscript and bleed into the fabric of the world itself. He was a writer, yes—but he was a realist. He understood the weight of words, the power of a well-placed sentence to create, to shape, to alter perception. But magic? It was nothing more than an illusion, a trick of the mind. He had dismissed it in every form—be it in books, movies, or whispered rumors. He had no room for it in his world, where the only truth lay in what could be seen, measured, and written.

But standing there, with the book still open on his desk, Ethan couldn’t deny what was happening. The words—those dark, pulsing words—had become more than just ink on paper. They had become a force. The air around him was thick with it, as if the very room itself had shifted, the atmosphere charged with something unfamiliar. Something dangerous.

He could feel it in his bones.

The words had begun to move again, swirling in his mind like tendrils of smoke, snaking their way into his thoughts, shaping them, molding them. His heartbeat quickened as he reached for the book, unable to resist its pull, even as his rational mind screamed at him to stop, to put it down and forget about it. But it was too late. The words were already inside him, and there was no going back.

The page he had left open was different now. It had shifted again, as if the book itself had decided to rewrite its own narrative. The letters were darker, bolder, more insistent. The sentences had an edge to them, like a warning.

The air in the room had thickened. Ethan could feel it now—something was coming. A presence that had been lurking at the edge of his awareness. And then, as if summoned by his very thoughts, it appeared.

Ethan’s fingers froze over the page. He hadn’t written that. His own thoughts had never taken such a dark turn. It was as though the book was breathing, living, its words born from some unknown, twisted source. But it wasn’t just the writing that was different. He felt something. Something in the air, like a prickling against his skin. His breath caught in his throat. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.

He turned toward the window, instinctively, but the storm outside had quieted. The rain, which had been relentless just moments ago, had softened into a mere whisper, as if the world itself had taken a breath. The city outside was still—a stillness that felt wrong. Too still. A shadow moved in the corner of his vision, but when he turned, there was nothing there.

Except for him. And the book.

His hand trembled as he reached for the pen again, his mind screaming at him to step away, to walk out of the room and forget the book, forget everything. But the words, the power in them, were too alluring. He couldn’t walk away. He needed to understand. He needed to know what was happening, why it was happening.

As his pen touched the paper, the room seemed to shift again. The walls seemed to breathe, the air thick with an unspoken pressure. He could hear it now—whispers, low and unintelligible, curling around him like smoke. His vision blurred for a moment, and when it cleared, he wasn’t in his apartment anymore.

He was somewhere else. Somewhere dark.

A vast library stretched before him, its shelves towering high, disappearing into shadow. The air was musty, thick with the scent of old paper and dust. The faint rustling of pages echoed in the distance, as if a thousand books were being opened at once. Ethan’s heart pounded in his chest, a mixture of fear and exhilaration flooding his veins. He wasn’t sure how he had gotten here, or why, but the sense of wonder—and dread—was palpable.

The book in his hands felt heavier now, its leather binding warm and almost... alive. The words had stopped writing themselves, but they lingered in his mind, filling every corner of his consciousness. He could hear them, feel them, like a constant hum beneath the surface of reality.

And then, a figure appeared before him.

At first, Ethan thought it was a trick of the light—just a shadow, a fragment of his imagination. But no. The figure was real.

Tall, with dark, sharp features, and eyes that gleamed with an unsettling knowledge. He wore a long, dark coat that swept the floor like a cloak, and his presence was commanding, as though the very space around him bent to his will.

Ethan Harper, the man said, his voice a low, soothing murmur. It felt like it echoed inside Ethan’s skull, vibrating with a strange power. You’ve found it, haven’t you?

Ethan couldn’t speak. The man’s gaze pierced through him, as if reading every thought, every hesitation. He swallowed hard, his throat dry, and nodded, his mind reeling. This couldn’t be real. It couldn’t be happening.

But there was no denying it. The book. The whispers. The strange, overwhelming presence that seemed to fill the room.

The man smiled, but it wasn’t a warm smile. It was a knowing one, the kind that chilled you to the bone. You think you understand, he continued, but you don’t. Not yet.

Ethan’s mind raced. Who was this man? Why was he here? And why did he feel like he was drowning in the weight of the questions, in the suffocating knowledge that something was very wrong, that something had shifted, and it was too late to turn back?

The manuscript you hold, the man said, his smile never faltering, is not just a story. It is a doorway. A link between worlds—between the past and the future, between fiction and reality. And now, you are part of it.

Ethan staggered back, the book slipping from his grasp and falling to the floor with a soft thud. No, he whispered, his voice shaking. This isn’t real. This can’t be real.

The man stepped forward, his movements fluid and unnatural, like a shadow slipping through cracks in the world. He reached down, picked up the book, and held it out to Ethan.

You’ve already begun, he said softly. And now, there is no turning back.

As Ethan’s fingers brushed against the cover, a shock ran through him—a jolt of electricity that numbed his senses, a rush of power that made his skin burn. The words on the pages flickered, shifting once more, and Ethan felt something crack inside him. It was as if the book itself had claimed him, binding him to its story, to its world.

And in that moment, as the figure before him faded into the darkness, Ethan realized the truth:

This wasn’t just a story.

It was his story.

And the magic had only just begun.

Chapter 4: Whispers from the Pages

The