Solitude

Like some newfangled Ouija board, the strange automatic words my typewriter began to produce under my fingers were now coming from my mouth! Words from who knows where...

Here we go again. Thanks to Atticus Wodehouse for the chilling start.

The white room was bright to my eye and as I stared at the chair with the typewriter placed upon the desk.  I don’t remember how long I have been here and now the days and nights blend into one with a room so white it burns to open my eyes.  As I go to write on the typewriter I find that I posses no ability to write as though my hands were not my own.   As I sat with the typewriter in front of me the whirl of a fan above is harsh and constant, like a helicopter that is neither departing nor arriving.  Suddenly my hands move of their own accord placing letter after letter that is not my own.  When the message finished it spelled out “Help Me”.  As I sat looking at the message that was typed out I couldn’t figure out what it meant or the strange feeling that flashed over me.  The feeling that someone was watching me was the first so I took a look around finding very little more than the chair I sat on, the typewriter, and the fan above me.  Suddenly I was robbed of my speech and I sat still and silent for at least thirty seconds.  Just as suddenly as my fingers had started typing, my mouth began to make words that were not my own.

The End

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