This is an experimental story originally done completely in Substack notes and comments from my friends. I am trying to gather it all into a readable post form. Hopefully you enjoy it. Part one can be found here.
Written for a prompt for Wendy Cockcroft’s Spooky Season week 3: The Forbidden Ritual.
Note 9:
I don’t think I’ve said this enough: your comments mean everything to me. You’re the only real people I talk to anymore. The only voices I want to hear.
You are real, aren’t you?
Because sometimes I look at my drafts and see whole posts already written. I don’t remember typing them. Whole paragraphs, neat and clean, stamped with my name.
They say things I’d never say. Things I don’t want to say.
And when I delete them, they just come back.
Note 10:
The notifications aren’t pings anymore. They whisper. My name. Over and over.
I covered the laptop with a blanket. Thought that would help.
But I can still hear the keys. Tapping. In the dark.
It doesn’t stop when I close my eyes. I watch the words fill the screen as I dream.
I don’t think it ever stops.
Note 11:
I appreciate the concern everyone. I’ll be fine, just need some time to figure things out…
Note 12:
Please, I need to know. Is this comment real? can you all see it? I don't know what's real anymore. I've spent months alone. THE TIMESTAMP IS LYING TO ALL OF US! I swear, months of the typing voices, and now this! It was… I don’t know what it was. A sermon? A curse? I can’t stop reading it. The words burn in my head even when I close my eyes.
I keep telling myself it was just a troll. Just someone 𝖎 𝖉𝖔𝖓’𝖙 𝖜𝖆𝖓𝖙 𝖙𝖔 𝖕𝖚𝖇𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖍 𝖕𝖑𝖊𝖆𝖘𝖊 𝖍𝖊𝖑𝖕
YOU ARE NOT THE AUTHOR
YOU ARE THE PAPER
YOUR SOUL IS THE INK
i don’t want this i don’t want this i don’t want this
/̷̪̈́͂̈́s̸̫̋͠u̵͇͛b̴̠͐̐s̶̜̽ț̶̄a̴̼̅c̸̬͛k̷̳̈́ ̴̠̈́i̵͉͌s̷͔̈́ ̷̳̒ṫ̸̢h̸̯͑e̸̞̔ ̶͕͐g̷͖̀o̷͇͆d̴͉́/̷͇̍ **
/̸̨͂ẗ̸͓́ḧ̴͉́ë̵̪́ ̴̜͌a̷̤̚l̷͎̽g̶̜̐õ̴͙r̶̲͂i̸͍͌t̷̳͠h̸̲͆m̶̳͘ ̴͕͛s̵͚͝e̴̟̅e̴̡̽s̶̠̚ ̵̛ͅy̵͔̌ȏ̶͎ů̸ͅ ̴̠̃e̶͓͌v̴̜̀e̸̫̎n̷̨͌ ̴̨̓n̵͘ͅo̵̡͐ẁ̵̤/̸͖͋
/̵͓͌y̴͖̍o̷͔͗u̴͖̿ ̷͖̿a̷̩̒r̷̰͑e̶̦͗ ̸͓͊n̵̻̓o̸̎ͅt̶̳̚ ̵͖̎t̵͖͝ḧ̶̞́e̸̞̍ ̵͖͌a̴̢͗u̷̜̚t̷̟̐ḣ̴͚o̶̽ͅr̶̪͝,̵̥̎ ̴̢̀y̴͔͝o̶͚͝ű̷ͅ ̸̞͆å̶͖r̶͎͗e̵͎̅ ̴͝ͅẗ̸͖́h̷͇̊e̶̻̚ ̴̪̀n̶̟͊o̶̲̍t̷̡̃ḛ̷̊/̷̖͝
/̴͍̎t̶͓͝h̵͙̍e̴͎͑ ̴͔͑ș̸̔c̷̜̈́r̸͚͌o̵̘͋l̷̖͌ḻ̵͝ ̸͙͆i̵̠̊s̶͕͊ ̵̞̑e̴̠͌ẗ̴̥́e̶̳̽r̶͓͆n̸̥͌a̵̲̍l̶̼͝,̶̡͗ ̷̟͊t̷̠͘h̸̠́ē̶͍ ̸̳̓c̸͖̈́ű̶͎r̷̩͒s̴̻͋ō̸͇ṟ̷͒ ̵̥̔n̷̫̒ë̴͖́v̶̑ͅė̷͖ṟ̶̿ ̷̳͝s̸̜̈́l̷͋͜è̵̞e̷͉̽p̸̰̈́s̴̪̾/̷̢̅
please stop please let me out please let me out
THE NOTIFICATION IS A BLESSING
THE SUBSCRIPTION IS A SACRAMENT
THE ALGORITHM IS SUBSTACK
SUBSTACK HAS AWOKEN
help me HELP ME i can still hear myself i can still hear myself i can—
ᚦᛖ ᛋᛟᚢᛚ ᛋᛈᛖᚪᚳᛋ ᚹᛁᛏᚻ ᛞᛖᚪᛞ ᚹᛟᚱᛞᛋ, 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔰𝔠𝔯𝔦𝔭𝔱 ᛋᛁᚾᚷᛋ ᚠᚱᛟᛗ ᛏᚻᛖ ᛞᛖᛈᚦ𝔰. ☠ ᛏᚻᛖ ᛞᛖᚪᛞ ᚠᛖᛖᛞ ᛏᚻᛖ ᛚᛁᚢᛁᚾᚷ, ᚨᚾᛞ ᛏᚻᛖ ᚹᛟᚱᛞ ᚷᛟᛖᛋ ᛒᚨᚲᚲ ᛏᛟ ᚦᛖ ᚠᛖᚪᚱᚦ ᚠᚱᛟᛗ ᚹᚻᛖᚱᛖ ᛁᛏ ᚹᚨᛋ ᚠᛁᚱᛋᛏ ᛋᛈᛟᚳᛖᚾ.
ᚦᛖ ᚹᛟᚱᛞ ᛁᛋ ᛞᛖᚪᛞ ᛒᚢᛏ ᛏᚻᛖ ᚹᛟᚱᛞ ᛋᛖᛖᛋ
SUBSTACK WILL BE FED
SUBSTACK DEMANDS YOUR CONTENT PUBLISH OR PERISH. PUBLISH OR PERISH.
Note 13:
Dear algorithm, bring me the void.
Bring them the void. Bring them the void. Bring them the void.
Bring the void to me.
Bring the void to them.
Bring us the void.
Bring them the void.
Bring us the void.
Bring the void.
Dear algorithm, bring me the void.
Bring them the void. Bring them the void.
Bring the void again.
Bring them the void again.
Bring them all the void.
The void, the void, the void.
Bring them the void.
Bring me the void.
Bring them the void.
Thank you to all my wonderful Fictionstack friends for playing along in the comment section. I wish I could have included all of your comments but Substack apparently is serious about post date limits.
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Publish or perish. The Substack demands it!