You never know what goes on in the minds of authors, do you?
She was writing again. Surrounded by piles of paper, a mug of coffee in one hand and a chewed-looking pencil in the other, her eyes fixed on the opposite wall as if reading some complicated script off the peeling white wallpaper. She yawned and scratched her head with the end of the pencil, looking down at the half-filled paper before her. It was going fairly well, she decided, but the plot was beginning to run around in circles. It was time for something new and original. She smiled slightly, dark-ringed eyes glimmering in gloomy half-lit room.
"Yes," she thought, "I think it's time I wrote that scene. Can't go boring the readers now can we my friends?"
The girl laughed, a soft knowing sound that made her seem a lot older than she appeared. The lamp flickered slightly, the old filament bulb finally giving out after its months of service lighting the way for the authoress' midnight ramblings. She often found she did her best work at night, but that didn't stop her disappearing into the study at midday, grabbing the nearest scrap of paper she could find and letting the pencil do the rest. Some people thought her odd, others worried she might be developing psychotic tendencies, but she was more than content to let them wonder what they would. After all, she wasn't concerned with their opinions, there were far more important people she needed to impress. And they wouldn't be happy if she stopped writing now.
Someone knocked on the door, five short, sharp raps in quick succession. The authoress looked up, a slightly bemused look on her face. Who would that be, she wondered. The door creaked open ominsouly, a sound that made the hair on the girl's neck stand on end deliciously. She loved the sound of creaking doors, it was so very chilling and atmospheric. A woman entered, a nervous mousy-looking thing with pale eyes and a wobbly chin.
"I-I'm sorry for disturbing you, but your mother wants you to come down and help set up for dinner."
The authoress sighed. When would that woman ever understand she had no interest in social gatherings? She didn't want to try and make conversation with boring, normal, everyday people. Especially the so called "intellectual" company her parents insisted would be good for her. All they ever talked about was mathematical theorems, classic expressions and the mundane nature of those not as intelligent as themselves. Some people found their brilliance fascinating. The authoress found them unbearably dull.
"I'll be down in a moment." she said with a sigh, reluctantly setting down her pencil and tucking her hair back behind her ears. She moved with practiced ease across the room dodging the cardboard boxes and old trunks that had lain unopened for years high up in the old attic room. This place had been abandoned for decades before the authoress had found it, and now it had become a haven for her, where she could dream and scribble in peace. After all, why waste such a wonderful place as nothing but a storage area, when the very room itself seemed full of undiscovered tales just waiting to be brough to light.
As she pushed the door aside, revelling in the delightful creaking sound, the girl turned back to her paper, lying mournfully in the flickering lamplight.
"I will see you again soon my friends." she said. "Don't go running off without me."
The door closed behind her with an ominous thud. For a moment the room was silent, with only the rustling of the loft mice to disturb the quiet. Then, from the corners of the room, strange figures began to emerge. Fantastical peoples and creatures like nothing the real world had ever seen, whipping tails, cloven hooves, magnificent curling horns and wings that would make a peacock jealous. There were people too, dressed in styles more outlandish and exotic than anything worn by the most ambitious adventurer. They stood together around the writing desk, looking down at the untidy scrawl of handwriting that covered the page. One of them smiled and turned to the others.
"She'll be back." it said, eyes glowing eerily in the lamplight. "She knows we'll be waiting."