Chapter 10
1930words
The answer to this question was too vast, too heavy for me to process through mere thought. Each time I tried to sort through it all, Julian's sorrowful gaze, Silas's possessive crimson eyes, and Finn Grimm's wild yet restrained protection would flash before me like scenes in a revolving lantern. Their presence was so real, so vivid; their emotions like three powerful ocean currents, churning around my small, isolated island.
I felt an unprecedented impulse that nearly tore me apart. I had to do something, had to find an outlet to release these overflowing emotions and confusion that had nowhere to settle. For a writer, there is only ever one outlet.
Writing.
I opened my laptop, its blue screen glow like a calm lake reflecting my slightly flushed cheeks that were warm with excitement. I didn't open the document titled "Ghost Typewriter" that I had long abandoned, but instead created a new blank page. The cursor blinked persistently in the upper left corner, like an eager heartbeat, waiting for the arrival of the first character.
This time, I was no longer fabricating stories, but organizing reality. No, it was more complicated than that. I was going to interweave two realities—my own and that of another Nora—together, using the threads of words to weave them into a new web that belonged solely to me.
My novel will no longer be merely an observer's record, it will be a conversation. A conversation across time between myself and that pitiful Nora from a hundred years ago, a spiritual exchange between myself and Julian's untouchable soul, a dangerous game between myself and Silas's deadly darkness, as well as a wild communication between myself and Finn's silent forest.
I took a deep breath, my fingers hovering over the keyboard for a moment, then, accompanied by a series of crisp keystrokes, the story began.
For the novel's title, I hardly hesitated before using the name that Lily had once mocked but now seemed incredibly fitting—"My Date with Monsters."
In the story, I split myself into two characters. One is "Nono," someone like me, a somewhat socially awkward horror novelist who moves into an ancient manor due to financial pressure. The other is "Lenore," the tragic heroine from a hundred years ago in the manor, revealed through an old diary.
My fingers dance across the keyboard, and those experiences that once made me fearful, confused, and flushed with emotion are now transformed into calm, flowing text. People from reality have been given masks of "fiction" and integrated into the story.
The elegant, arrogant vampire who always inadvertently reveals an intense possessiveness towards the "Landlady" became "Mr. S" in my writing; the silent, powerful werewolf who quietly guards the edge of the forest and occasionally brings some "bloody scraps" as gifts became "Mr. F"; and that gentle, sorrowful ghost who can only communicate with me in dreams and mirrors, for him I preserved his true initial—"Mr. J".
I have artistically exaggerated and embellished those tense and ambiguous moments from reality. The first confrontation between Silas and Finn at the edge of the forest was written as a thrilling declaration about "my property" ownership, with two powerful auras from ancient times fiercely colliding, while the female protagonist "Nono" was caught in between, experiencing a hellish romantic predicament. Silas's cold yet powerful embrace during the power outage night was portrayed as a moment of heart-fluttering in the darkness, full of Gothic romance. Finn's clumsy "compensation" was crafted into a classic scene of a "loyal dog" character awkwardly trying to please.
I was writing almost tirelessly, completely immersing myself in this half-true, half-fictional textual world constructed by my own hands. Every time I completed a chapter, I would feel a kind of exhausted satisfaction. It seemed that only through this method could I truly "control" those powerful and incomprehensible non-human beings surrounding me.
After finishing the first three chapters, I adopted a devil-may-care attitude and published the novel on the largest female-oriented literary website in China. I just needed a place to store my story, and didn't have much hope for the results.
However, I completely underestimated modern readers' thirst for stories filled with taboos, ambiguity, and love triangles.
The day after the novel was published, my backend exploded.
"My Date with Ghosts and Monsters" rose like a dark horse, shooting up the website's new book rankings at an incredible speed. Clicks, favorites, comments—those numbers rocketed up like they were strapped to a missile. My comment section became an ocean of joy.
"Ahhhhh! What kind of divine love triangle is this! A tsundere vampire and a loyal werewolf, I'm dead! Nono, quickly tell mama which one you choose!"
"Mr. S is so smooth! That line 'she is my property' is so domineering it makes my legs weak! Don't cry, Mr. F, that silent protection thing is the best ship material!"
"I bet fifty cents that Mr. J is the true main love interest! That kind of platonic love that transcends life and death is the ultimate! Author, please write more storylines for Mr. J!"
"Am I the only one who thinks that the storyline about 'Lenore' from the previous life is so heartbreaking? I feel like Nono inheriting the manor wasn't an accident at all, there must be a huge secret behind it! Author, please update soon!"
The enthusiasm of readers overwhelmed me like a tide. They precisely captured every ambiguous detail I had buried in the story, and magnified them countless times with their passion. They argued endlessly about whether Mr. S or Mr. F was more "dominant," and they couldn't help but feel heartache for Mr. J's subtle sadness. Looking at those comments from fans who were crazy about my characters, I experienced for the first time the purest joy of being a commercial novelist.
What made me even happier were the royalty notices that came like snowflakes. The website editor contacted me immediately and offered a signing price I wouldn't have dared to dream of. Watching the number in my bank account quickly turn from negative to positive and continue to grow, I was so excited I nearly jumped out of my chair. I could finally say with conviction to my former self: Look, Eleanor Vince, writing really can put food on the table!
I was almost intoxicated in this enormous success and joy, until a special ID appeared in my comment section.
His ID had only one word: Visage.
Among thousands of comments discussing CPs and urging for plot updates, his message stood out as distinctly incongruous.
"[Visage]: Your depiction of 'home' is interesting, but remains superficial. Thorns, stone walls, towers... these are merely shells. You've given it history, but you haven't given it a soul."
I was stunned for a moment, feeling this reader was being somewhat "pretentious." But before I could reply, a second comment appeared.
"[Visage]: You seem to enjoy depicting those 'guests,' each one of them interesting, like activated chess pieces on a board. But you've forgotten that the chessboard itself is the true protagonist of the story. You're merely recording its changes without attempting to understand its will."
My brows furrowed. Who exactly is this "Visage"? He seemed completely uninterested in my story, unconcerned with the male characters that drove other readers crazy, and he only cared about one thing—the manor.
Just after I updated the latest chapter, describing how "Nono" learned about the deeper history of the manor through Mr. S's "dictation," that ID appeared punctually once again.
"[Visage]: The 'home' in your writing still lacks a certain soul. You view it as a stage, a container, a backdrop. But you're wrong. A 'home' is alive. True love isn't about possessing it, nor protecting it, but completely merging with it until bones and blood are indistinguishable, with no more separation between you. When will you understand this, my... writer?"
That final phrase "my writer," was like a cold needle, piercing the back of my neck without warning. An indescribable chill climbed up my spine all the way to the top of my head. I abruptly lifted my head from the computer, looking around this study bathed in the warm hues of the setting sun. The walls, bookshelves, the reliefs on the ceiling... they remained as silent as always, but for the first time, I felt as if an invisible, enormous, and sorrowful pair of eyes was quietly watching me from every corner of this building.
This thought made me shiver. But soon, the editor's message urging me to update and the notification of a new payment deposit dispelled this chill. I shook my head and smiled self-mockingly. I must have been too immersed in my writing lately, causing hallucinations. This Visage was probably just a reader who enjoyed role-playing and had a bit of a chuunibyou syndrome. I put this matter out of my mind and returned to the sweet hell of deadline pressure.
That night, I wrote with exceptional focus. I was writing a chapter that was extremely important to me personally—the first real conversation between Nono and the ghost Mr. J across the void. I incorporated my own experience of seeing "WELCOME" on the mirror, exactly as it happened, into the novel. I meticulously described Nono's excitement and racing heart when she saw those words, and her nervousness and anticipation as she softly greeted the empty air.
By the time I wrote the last character, it was completely dark outside. I rubbed my sore eyes, stood up, and prepared to get a glass of water. Just then, a cool, dry rose-scented fragrance unexpectedly enveloped me.
It wasn't my imagination. I could clearly smell that gentle yet sorrowful scent that belonged only to Julian.
I froze in place, even forgetting to breathe. Slowly, inch by inch, I turned around to look at my desk.
A gentle breeze inexplicably arose in the sealed room, lifting several loose manuscript pages from my desk. They swirled in the air like white butterflies, then gently and precisely settled back into their original positions.
Everything was the same as before, except for the top sheet of paper.
On that blank paper where I had just composed my draft in my head, right beneath the line I had written with my own hand "She faced the mirror and softly said: 'Hello'", a new line of text was slowly materializing out of nowhere.
It wasn't ink, nor any kind of paint. It was text formed by fine water vapor condensing from the air, with a faint, hazy glow. As if someone had used an icy fingertip to write their response on the paper, using water vapor as ink.
It was a line of elegant script, the same flowery handwriting I had seen in the "Chronicles."
"I've been waiting for you for a long time, Eleanor."
My heart, in that moment, stopped beating.
He didn't call me "Linor," nor "Nono" as in the novel. He called me by my name, Eleanor.
That line of text composed of water vapor existed for only about ten seconds before gradually evaporating and disappearing along with the dissipation of that cool air, leaving no trace behind, as if it had never appeared.
But I knew it had been there.
It was like an eternal brand, deeply etched into my heart.
