The imagination is a powerful thing. You can dream up worlds of great fantasy, create characters that you can easily fall in love with or hate. You can do anything and be anywhere your heart desires. But sometimes your imagination can play tricks on you. It can leave you believing things that couldn't possibly be real.
Being the author of a best selling book is one thing, but having an entire series that's sold more copies than you even dreamed possible is a feeling completely different. It is one that, ironically coming from a writer, is hard to describe. It's like all the hard work you put into a silly little something you enjoyed every moment of creating, suddenly sprouted wings and flew off to a crowded city of admiration.
Going around to book signings is something I enjoyed, though I wasn't much of a people person. Big crowds make me incredibly anxious, and the fact there were so many people supporting me on a dream I've attached myself to since I was a kid was about to bring me to tears, didn't help the situation. But no matter what life threw at me in the wake of my success wouldn't stop me from enjoying every moment of it.
Even the nerve wracking phone call I'd just received wasn't going to ruin my fun. I'd just got off the phone with my agent. She said I needed a new book in my series to be finished and mailed in by the end of the month. I was relieved because I still had three weeks left. I was also terrified because I'd have to write quickly and do a rewrite for a final draft before mailing it in. It would almost seem doable, if not for the fact that I had no plan for this book. I'd just got back from a short vacation I'd taken my family on from all the money I earned off my books. I had no time to plan.
I paced back and forth in my small writing room in my apartment, trying to come up with a concept. It didn't take long to come to the conclusion that this book would be a filler. I'd load the book up with a bunch of killings from my main character, the Unseen Killer. I'd then sprinkle in a little bit of a plot that I'd further explore in the next book.
My next thought was, who should be the first death? I figured in order to do some quick writing, I need to base it on people I actually know. I knew just who it'd be, my mother. She told me when we were on vacation that she wanted to be in a book. What better way to honor her than to make her the first victim in the newest book? She'd be ecstatic.
I sat down and began to write. I had her on front of the kitchen counter, making a quick snack for herself before bed. A peanut butter sandwich. She finishes spreading the peanut butter on the slice of bread when she hears heavy footsteps coming up from behind her. He brings his axe over his head and slams it down over her head.
After the graphic scene I'd created in the book, I figured I should call my mom. It was probably from the guilt I felt from killing her off. The phone rang for a few minutes before it went to voicemail. I hung up the phone. She must be asleep. I didn't want to keep calling and wake her up, so I followed suit and crawled into bed.
I awoke to my phone buzzing. I glanced over and turned the screen on, squinting hard to read what it said. I had several missed calls from my sister. I sat up and dialed her right back.
"Hey sis, what's going on?" I asked, my voice groggy from the slumber.
She responded in sobs. "It's mom. She's dead." She began crying louder.
I fell silent, tears beginning to stream down my cheeks. I couldn't help but think back to what I'd written the previous night. There's no way this had to do with what I wrote, I thought, this had to be a coincidence. A twisted one, but a coincidence all the same.
"Are you still there?" she asked, sniffling.
"Yeah, I'm still here." I replied. "Where are you?"
"I'm outside of her house," she said. "The police won't let me inside to see her."
I told her I'd be right there and headed out the door. I had to continue wiping tears from my eyes as I made my way to her.
After meeting up with her, I took her to get some coffee. She told me everything she knew about how she died, which wasn't much, between sobs. I kept reminding myself of the story I wrote. I know what I wrote didn't cause it, but I couldn't help but feel guilty for it. We shifted the subject of conversation to the good times we'd spent together and scrolling through the pictures we took on vacation and laughing. It made us feel a little better.
As we were about to go our separate ways, she asked me if she could stay the night with me. She was afraid that what happened to mom might happen to her. And she didn't want to be alone right now. I know I didn't either. We needed each other more now than we ever have.
It had been a few days since our mother's death. Her funeral was yesterday. My sister and I felt it was time to go our separate ways and continue our lives as normal. We had grown closer the last week. We agreed that if anything happens we'd call each other and let them know.
I was reminded that the deadline for my book to be finished was drawing nearer. I needed another person to kill off in my book. I knew exactly who I'd base it on. He was an old school bully in high school. We'd since made up and talk every once in a while online.
I wrote that he would be drinking a beer and watching television. Suddenly, he hears the door swing open behind him. He turns to see the killer swing an axe toward his head and it topples to the floor, along with his body.
It was a little twisted the way I wrote the killer to be. The way he kills his victims was simply by checking to see if their door was locked. If it wasn't he'd go inside, sneak up behind the person, and kill them. I know, it sounds like a cheesy way to get people to lock their doors. It wasn't always meant to be that way, that's the way the character kind of shaped himself.
I mean, this was an oddball book series in general. The main character was the killer. It was supposed to paint the picture of why the person kills. He's not supposed to be some kind of anti-hero, he's just the main character bad guy that somehow always gets away with it. That's why they call him the "Unseen Killer" because he never gets caught.
With all of this in mind, I drifted off to sleep, knowing that the book I was in the process of writing was shaping up the be the best one I'd written yet.
The next morning, I found myself thinking about Thomas, the guy I wrote about last night. After writing about my mom and her ending up dead, I was worried about him. I got onto my social media account and scrolled through his page with the intent to message him. I was about to click the message icon when I caught a glimpse of a post that someone had made and tagged him in. I skimmed through it and saw that he had died last night. Apparently he was murdered but nobody could prove it.
I staggered back and when I felt my back hit a wall, I found myself sliding down to the floor. I was lost in shock. This was impossible, how could the exact two people I'm writing deaths for, die on the same night I write about them? There's no way this could be a coincidence. I got in my car and made my way to the police station.
I stood before a cop at a police station, begging for them to listen to me. I told them about the stories I'd written lining up with two deaths. They rolled their eyes.
"So what are you trying to tell us?" the cop asked from behind his desk. "Are you suggesting that the killer in your stories came to life and killed these people?"
"No," I replied, scoffing. "I'm saying... I don't know. Maybe someone hacked into my computer and looked at the story as a motivation to kill people."
"Do you realize how ridiculous you sound right now?" he said, leaning forward, his elbows on the table. "What would the hacker be after anyway, trying to get your book promoted?"
I rolled my eyes and walked away. If they weren't going to listen to me, there's only one other thing I can try.
That night after getting home from grabbing food at the nearest burger joint, I propped open my laptop and began to write.
This time the story was about a man, sitting home alone. He was in the kitchen, typing away on his laptop. He heard the door creak open but paid no mind to it, he was lost in the story he was writing. He hears footsteps creaking behind him. He feels the wind off the axe as the killer raised it above his head.
I was about to type up the next line when I felt hot breath on my neck. I turned around and to my surprise, there was nothing.
"FINISH IT!" a voice boomed behind me. I knew this was it. The killer was behind me. The Unseen Killer. I now knew why he was never caught. He was invisible. I figured I could run and call the police, but how were they going to arrest someone they couldn't see?
I realized with terror, the only thing left to do was finish the story.
"The killer swung the axe down on the man's head with all his might, burying the hatchet in his head."
Being the author of a best selling book is one thing, but having an entire series that's sold more copies than you even dreamed possible is a feeling completely different. It is one that, ironically coming from a writer, is hard to describe. It's like all the hard work you put into a silly little something you enjoyed every moment of creating, suddenly sprouted wings and flew off to a crowded city of admiration.
Going around to book signings is something I enjoyed, though I wasn't much of a people person. Big crowds make me incredibly anxious, and the fact there were so many people supporting me on a dream I've attached myself to since I was a kid was about to bring me to tears, didn't help the situation. But no matter what life threw at me in the wake of my success wouldn't stop me from enjoying every moment of it.
Even the nerve wracking phone call I'd just received wasn't going to ruin my fun. I'd just got off the phone with my agent. She said I needed a new book in my series to be finished and mailed in by the end of the month. I was relieved because I still had three weeks left. I was also terrified because I'd have to write quickly and do a rewrite for a final draft before mailing it in. It would almost seem doable, if not for the fact that I had no plan for this book. I'd just got back from a short vacation I'd taken my family on from all the money I earned off my books. I had no time to plan.
I paced back and forth in my small writing room in my apartment, trying to come up with a concept. It didn't take long to come to the conclusion that this book would be a filler. I'd load the book up with a bunch of killings from my main character, the Unseen Killer. I'd then sprinkle in a little bit of a plot that I'd further explore in the next book.
My next thought was, who should be the first death? I figured in order to do some quick writing, I need to base it on people I actually know. I knew just who it'd be, my mother. She told me when we were on vacation that she wanted to be in a book. What better way to honor her than to make her the first victim in the newest book? She'd be ecstatic.
I sat down and began to write. I had her on front of the kitchen counter, making a quick snack for herself before bed. A peanut butter sandwich. She finishes spreading the peanut butter on the slice of bread when she hears heavy footsteps coming up from behind her. He brings his axe over his head and slams it down over her head.
After the graphic scene I'd created in the book, I figured I should call my mom. It was probably from the guilt I felt from killing her off. The phone rang for a few minutes before it went to voicemail. I hung up the phone. She must be asleep. I didn't want to keep calling and wake her up, so I followed suit and crawled into bed.
I awoke to my phone buzzing. I glanced over and turned the screen on, squinting hard to read what it said. I had several missed calls from my sister. I sat up and dialed her right back.
"Hey sis, what's going on?" I asked, my voice groggy from the slumber.
She responded in sobs. "It's mom. She's dead." She began crying louder.
I fell silent, tears beginning to stream down my cheeks. I couldn't help but think back to what I'd written the previous night. There's no way this had to do with what I wrote, I thought, this had to be a coincidence. A twisted one, but a coincidence all the same.
"Are you still there?" she asked, sniffling.
"Yeah, I'm still here." I replied. "Where are you?"
"I'm outside of her house," she said. "The police won't let me inside to see her."
I told her I'd be right there and headed out the door. I had to continue wiping tears from my eyes as I made my way to her.
After meeting up with her, I took her to get some coffee. She told me everything she knew about how she died, which wasn't much, between sobs. I kept reminding myself of the story I wrote. I know what I wrote didn't cause it, but I couldn't help but feel guilty for it. We shifted the subject of conversation to the good times we'd spent together and scrolling through the pictures we took on vacation and laughing. It made us feel a little better.
As we were about to go our separate ways, she asked me if she could stay the night with me. She was afraid that what happened to mom might happen to her. And she didn't want to be alone right now. I know I didn't either. We needed each other more now than we ever have.
It had been a few days since our mother's death. Her funeral was yesterday. My sister and I felt it was time to go our separate ways and continue our lives as normal. We had grown closer the last week. We agreed that if anything happens we'd call each other and let them know.
I was reminded that the deadline for my book to be finished was drawing nearer. I needed another person to kill off in my book. I knew exactly who I'd base it on. He was an old school bully in high school. We'd since made up and talk every once in a while online.
I wrote that he would be drinking a beer and watching television. Suddenly, he hears the door swing open behind him. He turns to see the killer swing an axe toward his head and it topples to the floor, along with his body.
It was a little twisted the way I wrote the killer to be. The way he kills his victims was simply by checking to see if their door was locked. If it wasn't he'd go inside, sneak up behind the person, and kill them. I know, it sounds like a cheesy way to get people to lock their doors. It wasn't always meant to be that way, that's the way the character kind of shaped himself.
I mean, this was an oddball book series in general. The main character was the killer. It was supposed to paint the picture of why the person kills. He's not supposed to be some kind of anti-hero, he's just the main character bad guy that somehow always gets away with it. That's why they call him the "Unseen Killer" because he never gets caught.
With all of this in mind, I drifted off to sleep, knowing that the book I was in the process of writing was shaping up the be the best one I'd written yet.
The next morning, I found myself thinking about Thomas, the guy I wrote about last night. After writing about my mom and her ending up dead, I was worried about him. I got onto my social media account and scrolled through his page with the intent to message him. I was about to click the message icon when I caught a glimpse of a post that someone had made and tagged him in. I skimmed through it and saw that he had died last night. Apparently he was murdered but nobody could prove it.
I staggered back and when I felt my back hit a wall, I found myself sliding down to the floor. I was lost in shock. This was impossible, how could the exact two people I'm writing deaths for, die on the same night I write about them? There's no way this could be a coincidence. I got in my car and made my way to the police station.
I stood before a cop at a police station, begging for them to listen to me. I told them about the stories I'd written lining up with two deaths. They rolled their eyes.
"So what are you trying to tell us?" the cop asked from behind his desk. "Are you suggesting that the killer in your stories came to life and killed these people?"
"No," I replied, scoffing. "I'm saying... I don't know. Maybe someone hacked into my computer and looked at the story as a motivation to kill people."
"Do you realize how ridiculous you sound right now?" he said, leaning forward, his elbows on the table. "What would the hacker be after anyway, trying to get your book promoted?"
I rolled my eyes and walked away. If they weren't going to listen to me, there's only one other thing I can try.
That night after getting home from grabbing food at the nearest burger joint, I propped open my laptop and began to write.
This time the story was about a man, sitting home alone. He was in the kitchen, typing away on his laptop. He heard the door creak open but paid no mind to it, he was lost in the story he was writing. He hears footsteps creaking behind him. He feels the wind off the axe as the killer raised it above his head.
I was about to type up the next line when I felt hot breath on my neck. I turned around and to my surprise, there was nothing.
"FINISH IT!" a voice boomed behind me. I knew this was it. The killer was behind me. The Unseen Killer. I now knew why he was never caught. He was invisible. I figured I could run and call the police, but how were they going to arrest someone they couldn't see?
I realized with terror, the only thing left to do was finish the story.
"The killer swung the axe down on the man's head with all his might, burying the hatchet in his head."
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