The End...

"...The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. One final gust of wind crashed into the already swinging panes as if it were stones being tossed around and not just air and leaves. The glass shattered, the flame flickered, and finally, the light went out. The End."

Steven leaned back in his chair, letting his bones sink into the ancient wood that was years beyond needing to be replaced. A pained sigh escaped his lips as the final piece of his story fell into place on the page. He felt a cruel relief as every part of his spine relaxed into place. Relief because he was finally done for the night. Cruel because it would have to begin again tomorrow. He looked at the alarm clock that was always stationed next to his typewriter. A copper-colored cube beginning to rust around its handle, despite the care the clock has received for the last 187 years.

Yes. 187 years exactly. The day Steven's great, great, great, (etc.) grandfather had to buy a damned alarm clock to keep track of the demon that's been after this family for one hundred. And eighty. Seven. Years. The clock read 11:57 p.m. He had pushed it tonight.

Steven pushed back the sensation to cry and puke thinking about tomorrow, telling himself it was simply the exhaustion catching up to him, and set the infamous alarm for 4 a.m. That would have to do for tonight. Hopefully, the story would be enough, and maybe he'll get to live another damned day. Steven's eyes began to close before his head even hit the pillow.

***

"...The man let out a pitiful cry as she took him. It was all at once a sweet release and a final confrontation with everything he feared. This was the embrace of death and its cruel paradox. This was his final stand. The End."

This morning had been one of the more difficult ones for Steven, but one of the benefits of an alarm clock that was over 180 years old is the snooze button hadn't been invented yet. Steven had no choice but to face the reality of another day - although some would call Steven's reality a delusion. A paranoia.

Steven sat in front of the black typewriter which always seemed to remain in pristine shape. Even as the clock faded with time, the typewriter always seemed to be in perfect condition. Well, except for the letter Q that was missing - A contribution from Steven's father that never seemed to be mended. Steven could never write about Queens or Quests or Quail. Not that missing the letter Q impacted the genre Steven was forced to write about each day.

When the typewriter and clock first showed up on Steven's doorstep, he feared the challenge of not having all 26 letters of the alphabet at his disposal. He had tried ordering a replacement for the key, but the key disappeared that night, and Steven suffered the consequences of trying to mend his father's mistake.

It was okay, though. Steven quickly realized that queens, and quests, and quail don't pop up in horror stories too often. And since that's all he's allowed to write, attempting to mend the key again was a moot point. He had heard of family members of the past who tried to write anything other than horror and had been met with fatal consequences because of their rebellion. Steven wasn't quite ready to risk that yet. He still had too much to live for. Too much to protect.

10:19 p.m. the clock read. Steven rejoiced at the extra hour, and let his mind wander thinking about everything he could do in an hour. Everything he could do if he didn't have an obligation to Tomorrow.

Instead of spending his hour whimsically, as Steven had come to believe normal people did, he grabbed a bag of granola from the pantry and ate it as he fell asleep.

***

"It's cold talons wrapped around His throat, and He prayed it would squeeze faster, kill Him quickly. It was the merciful thing to do. But that's why He knew the thing wouldn't do it. It wanted to make His death as painful and slow as possible. To him, this was a cruel and tragic end, but to It, this was justice. The End."

When the typewriter and alarm clock first appeared on Steven's doorstep, he had three consecutive moments of realization, each causing the pit in his stomach to grow larger and larger and larger.

The first realization Steven had was selfish because it was him realizing that it was now his turn. It was his turn to uphold the legacy and the curse of the men in his family. Writing a horror story every night - being punished on the nights when the story wasn't good enough, being killed if there was no story at all.

It was this train of thought that led to Steven's second realization. The only reason this typewriter, this clock, and this curse have been delivered at his feet is that something must have happened to his father. Steven rushed over to his father's house before the true gravity of the situation crept in. He pictured the worst: a broken spine that caused his father to not be able to move, let alone write his story for the day; a deadly fall that resulted in his father bleeding out alone and scared. Steven replayed horrific images in his mind as he sped to the house and ran to the front door.

When he stepped foot in the entryway and saw his father's hanging body, still swaying, and the unnaturally sharp angle of his neck, the only words that slipped past his lips were "you selfish bastard." He called the police to collect the body and left before they arrived. He had work to do - stories to write. His time would start tomorrow, and it was a life sentence with no chance of parole.

It was on the drive back from his father's house that Steven had his final realization: He would be better than his father - He wouldn't quit, wouldn't take the easy way out and dump his trauma onto his child - his daughter, although that in itself raised more questions Steven couldn't afford to find the answers to.

11:36 p.m. He set the clock for 4 a.m. and didn't even remember falling asleep.

***

"Death is like a beautiful woman - alluring from afar, but sinks her talons into you and strips you of everything you have if you get too close. He didn't regret how close he got, though. The talons sinking in began to feel like a welcoming embrace - a call home. His only regret was bringing the rest of the infantry to death's doorstep too. Maybe they, too, will learn to accept Death's grasp, and see that this was, no IS, their only way out. The End. "

Steven quickly grew exhausted by his new life. He knew from the men before him that there was no way around it. For a while, he took comfort in escaping into a new story each day, but there's only so much escaping you can do into a tale of horror, and it doesn't help when the stories you write have a life-or-death deadline.

He tried to make the most of the situation, picturing how this must have been for the first poor souls who encountered the curse - suddenly having a typewriter appear, and being punished until you figured out the rules. Steven had experienced the "punishments" before. That's what they'd always been called, but to Steven it was something far worse. The law would label it cruel and unusual, but to Steven, it seemed a sadistic penalty. An imposition of some other being's criticisms. At least he wasn't one of those poor, damned fools.

These past generations of torture led to a list being made and passed down to sons as soon as they were old enough to comprehend the curse:

1. Only use the typewriter given to you.

Even when computers, and then laptops, started entering the homes of families everywhere, one of Steven's ancestors found out the hard way that trying to write up your story on anything other than the specific typewriter given to you results in your thread of life being cut earlier than expected. The clock is replaceable, but at this point, it's an heirloom and a sick reminder of the life sentence Steven and his past relatives have served.

2. Write well.

Or suffer the consequences. Apparently, the monster, demon, or beast that haunts the family has specific tastes and wants its expectations met. It would just be easier if It laid out those expectations in advance.

3. End every story with "The End."

Steven isn't sure how long it took someone to figure this rule out, but he wasn't about to risk testing it out himself.

4. Finish your story by midnight.

Those are the only rules, although suggestions have also been passed down through the generations, such as selling your work (since maintaining a job is impossible when restricted to a life of writing), starting a family young (Steven accomplished this - meeting his wife at 23 and having their first and only child together by the time he was 27), and staying healthy. This one is more for the benefit of whoever will take your place after you die. Most fathers wrote until they physically couldn't anymore, wanting to allow their sons to live at least half a life. Steven's Grandfather wrote until he was 82, so Steven's father didn't have to write until his 50s. He only lasted 4 years before Steven took over.

Steven didn't have to learn much on his own and therefore wasn't punished often. But the first time he woke up with bruises and gashes all over his body from writing a story that wasn't adequate, Steven realized the complexity of his situation. He never felt himself receiving the bruises and open wounds while he slept, whether that's because the circumstances of their appearing are beyond the physical, or because he's in too deep of a sleep to feel himself being tortured. Regardless, he felt it the next day - physical and mental pain that didn't subside until another night's rest.

It was after this that Steven decided to move out, leaving his wife and three-year-old on their own. He sent half of the money he earned from his manuscripts each month, although Steven knows that doesn't make up for the emotional unavailability. He just figured moving out of the house, no longer making himself available to them, would be easier on all three of them.

He still doesn't know if that was the right decision.

There was only one thing Steven wasn't sure about. One thing with no written rules or pieces of generational advice. The task - the curse - has always been passed down to the next male. Youngest, oldest, or middle child, it was the male that received the typewriter and clock. In the case of two or more males, it then goes to the oldest.

But Steven's child, his only child, is a girl. A sweet little girl with golden ringlets of hair and dark eyes that seem to have glints of red in them. A sweet girl with soft skin and sporadic freckles that wouldn't fair well with the bruises and scars of being punished. But that was the issue. Steven didn't know whether she'd receive the typewriter - whether the curse would be passed on. Never, in 187 years, had a female been the only option.

11:46 p.m.

***

"She looked at the two vials in front of her, each filled with a viscous blue liquid still clinging to the sides of the container after being shaken up. Finally, she popped the cork out of one vial, tried to smell it, and detect anything off, anything that would bring an end to what she feels is too short of a life. Without allowing herself to think anymore about it she threw the drink back as if it was just a shot and she was at a bar or a party, trying to place herself somewhere else to make the liquid slide down her throat easier. Seconds stretched out to feel like an eternity, but she knew, in reality, that it hadn't taken long for the burning sensation in her stomach to settle and then rise up her throat. She pictured flashing lights and laughing friends and fell into the darkness that now seemed more bearable. The End."

Steven only dreams in stories now. Usually horror stories. His dreams became his next day's writing, which only seemed to encourage them to continue night after night. Steven was never religious until he started having nightmares. Even though he's still not sure if he believes in a big man watching over his every move, having something to pray to makes it easier to fall asleep at night. Steven was always the main character in these nightmares, and his protagonists were always victims by the end of his stories.

***

"The beast stepped from his station, inching closer to his next victim, the sweet taste of fear and greed beginning to fill his mouth. Even though the meal would be satisfying, it wouldn't be satiating. It never was, they never are, and he will have to hunt again soon. But for now, he had his target and was ready to attack. The End."

It's been six years since Steven's seen his family. They used to visit, but it's like the small moments together made it that much more difficult to quit each other, so by the end of their first year apart they stopped visiting altogether.

He couldn't picture his daughter beyond three years old, and his wife was frozen as the 30-year-old she was when he left them.

Six days ago he woke up in a pain that made it nearly impossible to move. He wouldn't have moved if it wasn't for the story, the typewriter, and that damned alarm clock. He sat at his desk and began writing anyway, but the story must not have been satisfying because he woke up the next day with more bruises. Then the next day, and the next day... Six days of bruises and unending, unforgiving pain.

Today he sat in front of the typewriter and absolutely nothing worth writing came to mind. The fear of wasting time writing another inadequate story made his heart clench, and the thought finally hit him: "I can't do it anymore."

He looked at the clock - 5:37 a.m.

Then he started writing. He wrote about his daughter and what he imagined her to look like now that she was ten years old. He wrote of the life he would've had. He wrote of the dreams he wish he's dreamt instead of the nightmares that haunted him each night.

He dropped the manuscript off at his wife's house, sliding it through the long brass mail slot. As he walked back home Steven took in everything - the smells of barbeque and roasted potatoes, the sweet scents coming from the local candy shop. He heard children's laughter and stern reprimanding when the laughter grew too loud or too cruel.

When Steven made it back to the house he didn't bother going inside. He sat on the porch and watched the sunrise. He ate when he got hungry, went to the bathroom when he needed to, and even showered - something that had become only a weekly maintenance task for Steven. But mostly he sat and watched: People, animals, the trees swaying with the wind, and clouds streaming through the sky.

All the while, Steven thought about what he was choosing to do - the risk he had decided to take and whether it was worth it.

"Everything that begins must have an end," Steven said it over and over and over until he believed it. The curse started somewhere, and it would end with him. It's never been passed on to a female, and his daughter wouldn't be the exception. She couldn't. There are rules.

There are rules. There are rules. There are rules. Even a demon has to follow the rules.

In the dead of night, Steven heard it before he saw it, and decided he didn't want to see his fate as it approached him. He felt a warmth encapsulate him, and a hot breath slide down his neck: "So you've made your choice?" The voice was all at once feminine and masculine, threatening and welcoming. The paradox of death was a reality that Steven was now facing, and the idea of his writings being somewhat true brought a slight comfort and amusement to the situation.

***

When the police showed up a day later with speculations of suicide, they found a man that looked relieved to have left the world, there was a softness to his face that just doesn't circulate amongst the living. He had worn-down and ink-stained fingertips, and a gentle smile resting on his lips. They found no typewriter or alarm clock at his house, and no family came to claim him when a John Doe's face and physical description were put in the paper.

***

There was a soft knock at 12:01 a.m. She was just about to fall asleep, her mind had finally settled and all she wanted was to sleep. She almost ignored the sound, but something drew her towards it anyway.

When she opened the large wooden door, there was a pristine black typewriter and an alarm clock that looked like it should have been replaced ages ago. All at once, her heart stopped and her breathing slowed. The woman fell to her knees and wept. She kept her head in her hands and wailed, trying to allow an exit route for the pain that was quickly building up. She continued crying though, with no cessation, even as her daughter ran to her, frightened by the noise so late at night. Even has her daughter's young arms wrapped around her in an attempt at comfort. Even as she felt her soft, golden ringlets of hair fall around her face and tickle her cheeks. The End.