1. Dead Writer’s Society - A Halloween Story


    Date: 10/9/2014, Categories: Fantasy, Author: The_Technician, Rating: 68.8, Source: sexstories.com

    variety of white, smoky, swirly shapes were behind him. As he watched, the shapes slowly became more and more dense until finally they became almost people. They weren’t people. He wasn’t sure what to call them. They were... almost people. They looked like people dressed in costumes for a party of some sort, but they weren’t quite solid. They had stopped shimmering and swirling and were now like very dense, colored smoke. “Let me introduce ourselves,” said one of the figures. He appeared to be in his late fifties or early sixties and was dressed in a toga. “We are The Dead Writers Society.” When Nathaniel didn’t respond he suddenly blurred through the air to directly in front of Nathan’s face and said loudly, “Carpe Nocturn!” “What?” sputtered Nathan. “He means ‘Happy Halloween,’” said one of the other smoky figures. “But he’s been dying to say that to somebody ever since he saw that movie years ago.” “What?... who are you?” “As I said,” the toga-clad man continued, “we are The Dead Writers Society. Each of us, in our own time, in our own way, were famous, or at least good, writers. Now we are all dead, and we have banded together to watch over writers of the world today.” “So what do you want with me?,” Nathan said, somewhat derisively. “Have you come to give me a writing award? Or, perhaps because it is Halloween, have you come to kill me in some grotesque and perverted way?” “Kill you?” said a smoky figure dressed in an old-fashioned suit with very wide lapels. “We would ...
    never KILL you.” He laughed softly. “No, no, no, there are much more interesting things to do to someone than kill them.” “So, what then brings you to me?” “That would be me,” answered a young woman dressed in a modern-looking black dress. Her’s was the voice that had originally spoken. She held out her arms, “I took your advice... down the road to find freedom.” There were long, ugly scars following the veins on the inside of both of her arms. “You always posted several comments on each of my stories. I thought they were from different people and that my stories were terrible... and that I was terrible. I believed what you told me. I did what you said to do. But when I got to the other side, I found out that it was only you, and that you say nasty things about every story you read, regardless of who wrote it. Because I would have eventually been a great writer had I lived, I was invited to join The Dead Writers Society.” “As were we,” said several voices. The voices sounded very odd, almost hollow, and as they spoke, several paler, smaller, smoky figures came to the front. One was an older gentleman; two were middle-aged women; one was a young woman; another was a boy barely out of his teens. The rest of the figures formed an indistinct crowd behind them.. “We did not take your advice about the warm bath and razor blade, but you killed us nonetheless. We are the writer within that you murdered with your callous comments.” The young boy spoke. His higher-pitched, hollow voice ...
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