The dark night of the soul…. Struggling writer Simon Ryan’s life has gone to Hell.
Shadows are pouring into his reality and his words are not his own anymore. He has been chosen to become a scribe for some of the worst creatures of the Underworld – the ones whose sole purpose is to torment human souls – The Dark Muses.
As Simon writes he falls deeper into the abyss and before long he has no sense of what is real. With the help of another scribe, old and mutilated, Simon comes to discover that his writing can mould people and places – that he can write things out of existence.
To become a scribe he has to pass a test and the Muses offer him a chance to rewrite his horrible past. All Simon has to decide is how the story ends…
I awaken to find my sheets flooded with blood. Beside me, in the half-light is a body stripped of flesh and viscera; the thighbones and teeth shine with a sickening brightness. I cry out and try to remove myself from the bed, scrambling to get the soaked sheets off my naked skin.
As the horror rises and falls in my stomach, my mind tries to interpret the grotesque scene. My eyes don’t want to look away and my mouth is mute; my tongue slack and, when I try to reanimate it, a vile taste seeps to the surface. The metallic sensation is unmistakable. I almost trip on the way to the bathroom where I promptly throw-up in the toilet. The foulness from my stomach burns my eyes and brings on a second wave of nausea – pieces of flesh, red raw from mastication, float in the bowl. Within the putrid mess is a chunk of a woman’s breast.
Oh, no, oh, God. I run back into the room and force myself to look at the remains on my bed. Christina’s two-piece suit lies on the floor, along with her bra and panties, stained with flecks of blood.
My stomach erupts onto the floor again, providing more proof of the unthinkable act I perpetrated upon my agent.
As I shudder with a feverish terror, images replay in my mind – my lust towards Christina and her breast bleeding onto my tongue. I’m about to gag once more when I glimpse a shadow in the corner of my eye.
‘I didn’t think you had it in you, kid,’ says Schiller, emerging to take in the sight of Christina’s inner most secrets.
I can’t talk. I just stare at Christina. Schiller hauls me to my feet and sits me down on the side of the bed. I feel Christina’s lightened frame shift on the bed.
‘You’re only supposed to write about this shit – not live it!’ he tells me.