On a cool, moonlit night, Andrew and Alice moved into their new home. It wasn’t a grand house, but the sprawling garden filled with fragrant jasmine and tall mango trees made it feel special. Alice loved the outdoors, while Andrew spent his evenings at the oak table in the study, working or scribbling notes in his journal.
The table was peculiar, though. Its surface bore deep scratches, as if someone had furiously dug into it with a pen. In the center sat an old, ornate fountain pen—jet black with silver carvings. Andrew noticed it the moment they first walked into the house, but Alice found it unsettling. “Why would someone leave a pen like this? It feels…wrong,” she said, brushing her fingers nervously along the scratches.
Andrew laughed it off. “It’s just a pen, Alice. You’re being dramatic.” He pocketed it, calling it a “lucky charm” for his writing.
That night, Alice slept uneasily. She dreamed of shadowy figures pacing through the garden, their hands clenched as if holding invisible weapons. She woke up gasping and saw Andrew sitting at the table, scribbling furiously with the pen. His head was bent low, his shoulders tense.
“Andrew?” she called out.
He didn’t turn. She stepped closer and froze when she saw the page. He wasn’t writing words. He was drawing figures—twisted, angry faces with hollow eyes. The ink glistened as though wet, but no matter how much he wrote, the ink never ran out.
“Are you okay?” she whispered, placing a hand on his shoulder. Andrew flinched and slammed the pen onto the table. “I’m fine,” he snapped, his voice sharper than she’d ever heard.
The next day, Alice decided to clear her head by working in the garden. But something felt off. The flowers seemed to wilt the closer she got to the house, their colors fading. She couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. Every time she glanced back at the study window, she swore she saw Andrew staring at her, even when she knew he was supposed to be working.
By the third night, Andrew’s behavior had changed completely. He barely spoke, his eyes sunken with dark circles beneath them. He spent all his time with the pen, writing obsessively. When Alice asked what he was working on, he would only mutter, “It’s for us. You’ll see.”
But Alice wasn’t blind. She noticed how he flinched whenever she touched him, how he avoided looking at her. And then there were the whispers. At first, she thought they came from the garden—soft murmurs carried by the wind. But one night, as she stood outside the study door, she realized the whispers came from inside.
Andrew was sitting at the table, the pen moving across the paper on its own, his hand hovering above it. The voices grew louder, and Alice could finally make out the words: “She doesn’t deserve you. She’s jealous. She’ll take everything.”
Alice’s heart raced. “Andrew, stop!” she screamed, rushing to grab the pen.
The moment her fingers touched it, she felt a jolt, like icy needles piercing her skin. Her mind flooded with images—lovers who had fought over that very pen, each one driven mad by jealousy until their passion turned to violence. She saw blood smeared across the table, heard screams echoing in the study.
The pen was cursed.
Andrew stood, his face blank. “You were always jealous of me, weren’t you?” His voice was cold, his words laced with venom. “You never wanted me to succeed.”
Alice backed away. “Andrew, it’s not you. It’s the pen. Please, listen to me!”
But he didn’t. He lunged at her, the pen clutched in his fist. She grabbed the nearest thing—a broken piece of the garden rake—and swung it. Andrew fell to the ground, the pen rolling out of his hand.
For a moment, silence filled the room. Then, the whispers started again, louder this time, angrier. Alice grabbed the pen and hurled it into the fireplace. The flames roared unnaturally high, the ink bubbling and screaming as it burned.
Andrew groaned on the floor, his eyes clearing as if waking from a nightmare. “Alice?” he murmured weakly.
“It’s gone,” she whispered, cradling his head. “It’s over.”
The next morning, Alice gathered her courage and went to the study. The table was unmarked, the scratches and stains gone. The house felt lighter, the garden brighter. But Alice couldn’t shake the feeling that the pen hadn’t truly been destroyed.
As they packed their belongings to leave, Andrew paused. In the corner of the garden, half-buried in the dirt, lay something shiny—a black fountain pen with silver carvings.
It’s simple: Some things aren’t meant to be found.
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