Eldritchian Ghost Writer
And "Sharon: The Styx Ferrywoman"
Some failed eldritch horror decided to be a writer rather than annoy someone into madness, and I’m its muse. It lives in the apartment next door. Every night, a green glow shines through the door, and every morning there’s a new page of writing about my life on my front door.
Well, when life gives you demons…
“Your last chapter is shit! The post flopped!”
A sound beyond human comprehension came from behind the door.
“You shouldn’t become a writer if you can’t take criticism.”
It responded with the sound of a thousand screeching demons.
“Then post it yourself! Oh, right , seeing you leads to madness… Anyway, I got you your bucket of fish heads.”
It whispered the soft, buzzing song of a thousand insects.
“Yeah, finding an ethical sponsor is already hard. So one who sends you fish heads…”
Sharon, the ferrywoman of the river separating life from death, asked if I had brought a boat engine.
“I have the coins they put on my eyes to pay you.”
“The ferry is subdivided by the realm of death, and I’m a public servant. We care for you. And none of you care enough to buy me an engine. You’d rather let me paddle.”
“Very nice of you.”
“Get in the boat!”
I obliged.
“Welcome aboard the Styx River ferry. Do not rock the boat. Do not sing sailor songs, or I will throw you into the Styx.”
“And die a second time?”
“You can die only once.”
“So nothing to fear?”
“There’s always something to fear.”
“Row, row, row your boat…”
Sharon slapped the top of my head with her paddle. We finished the ride in dead silence.