The midnight horror story

 

The midnight  horror story 

The Midnight Manuscript

Rain drummed on the roof of the old mansion, a steady rhythm that matched the thudding of Olivia’s heart. She had been warned not to take this job. When she’d received the letter offering her the position of archivist for a reclusive author, rumors had swirled around her small literary circle. People spoke of Ethan Holloway, the celebrated novelist who had disappeared from the public eye years ago. He was a man shrouded in mystery, known for his dark tales that bled the line between fiction and madness. Some said he had gone insane. Others claimed his stories had summoned something dark.

But Olivia didn’t care about gossip. She needed the money and, more importantly, the opportunity to work alongside a literary legend. Now, as she stood in the dimly lit foyer of Holloway’s mansion, she couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling that had settled over her since she’d arrived.

The butler, an elderly man with hollow eyes and a stooped frame, led her down a long, creaking hallway. The air was thick with dust, the scent of old paper and mildew clinging to every surface. Portraits of Holloway’s ancestors stared down at her with lifeless eyes, their faces shadowed by time and neglect.

“This will be your workspace,” the butler said in a raspy voice, opening a door at the end of the hall.

Olivia stepped inside. The room was large, lined with towering bookshelves filled with leather-bound volumes. In the center stood a large oak desk, cluttered with papers and manuscripts. A single candle flickered on the desk, casting long, dancing shadows across the room.

“You’ll find Mr. Holloway’s works here,” the butler said, gesturing to a stack of dusty papers. “He prefers not to be disturbed. Should you need anything, ring the bell, and I will assist you.”

Before Olivia could respond, the butler turned and disappeared down the hall, leaving her alone in the eerie silence. She shivered and crossed the room to the desk, her fingers brushing over the rough surface of the manuscripts. There were dozens of them, each one unfinished, the words scrawled in a frantic, almost desperate hand.

Olivia had read Holloway’s works before. His earlier novels were brilliant, if unsettling, but the rumors that surrounded his more recent works were disturbing. It was said that he had begun writing stories that seemed to predict real-life events, tragedies, and disasters. His final, unpublished manuscript was the most infamous of them all—no one knew what it contained, only that it had been abandoned just before Holloway withdrew from public life.

As Olivia sifted through the papers, she came across a leather-bound journal. It was unmarked and unassuming, but something about it called to her. She hesitated for a moment, then opened it.

The first page was blank, but as she turned the pages, she realized they were filled with Holloway’s handwriting—notes, sketches, and what appeared to be entries from a journal. One passage caught her eye:

*The Midnight Manuscript is a work unlike any other. It speaks to me, not in words but in whispers. It knows things—things I could never have known. I fear what will happen if I finish it. The stories…it feels as though they are writing themselves, using me as a vessel. I must not let it end.*

Olivia frowned. The Midnight Manuscript? She had never heard of it. Curious, she continued reading.

*Each night, I hear the voice. It grows stronger, louder. It commands me to write, and I obey, though I know I shouldn’t. I fear I am no longer the author of these tales. Something else has taken control. The ink bleeds onto the page like blood, and I cannot stop it.*

A chill crept down Olivia’s spine. Was this some kind of delusion, the ravings of a mind pushed too far? Or had Holloway truly been influenced by some dark force?

She glanced at the stack of papers on the desk, wondering if *The Midnight Manuscript* was among them. Her heart raced as she sifted through the manuscripts, searching for any sign of the mysterious work. Then, at the bottom of the pile, she found it—a thin sheaf of papers bound together by a leather cord. The title on the first page sent a shiver through her: *The Midnight Manuscript.*

Her hands trembled as she untied the cord and began to read.

The story was unlike anything she had ever encountered. It was disjointed, almost nonsensical, as if written in a fevered state. The protagonist, a writer much like Holloway, was haunted by a mysterious voice that urged him to create stories of death and destruction. Each story he wrote came true, and as the manuscript progressed, the events grew darker, more violent. The writer’s mental state deteriorated, and soon he became a prisoner of his own creation, unable to escape the horror he had unleashed.

As Olivia read, she began to feel a strange sensation—like someone was watching her. She glanced around the room, but it was empty. The candle flickered, casting strange shadows on the walls. She tried to shake off the feeling, but it lingered, gnawing at the edges of her mind.

The manuscript’s final pages were blank, as if Holloway had abandoned it mid-sentence. Olivia stared at the empty space, her mind racing. Why had he stopped? What had he been so afraid of?

Suddenly, the candle sputtered out, plunging the room into darkness. Olivia’s heart skipped a beat, and she fumbled for her phone, using its light to navigate the room. But as she stood, something caught her eye—a shadow, darker than the others, lingering in the corner of the room.

She froze, her breath catching in her throat. The shadow seemed to move, shifting and twisting as if it were alive. Panic surged through her, and she backed away, her mind racing. Was this some kind of hallucination? Or was it something more?

The voice came then, a low whisper that seemed to echo in her mind.

*Finish it.*

Olivia’s blood ran cold. She glanced down at the manuscript in her hands, the blank pages beckoning her. She felt a strange compulsion, an urge to pick up the pen and continue the story.

*Finish it.*

The voice was louder now, insistent. Her hands trembled as she reached for the pen, the weight of it heavy in her palm. She didn’t want to write, didn’t want to finish the story, but something inside her was urging her forward, guiding her hand.

As the pen touched the paper, the words began to flow, almost as if they were writing themselves. Olivia watched in horror as the ink bled onto the page, her hand moving of its own accord. The story continued, each word darker, more violent than the last.

And then, as the final sentence appeared on the page, Olivia felt a chill unlike any she had ever experienced. The shadows in the room seemed to grow darker, more oppressive. The air grew thick, suffocating.

Suddenly, the door to the room slammed shut, and the temperature plummeted. Olivia’s breath came in short gasps as she tried to move, but her body was frozen in place.

The shadow in the corner of the room moved again, slithering toward her. It grew larger, more defined, until it took on the shape of a figure—tall, gaunt, with hollow eyes that glowed faintly in the darkness.

Olivia tried to scream, but no sound came out. The figure loomed over her, its presence overwhelming, suffocating. The manuscript lay open on the desk, the ink still wet, the final words glaring up at her:

*The end is only the beginning.*

And in that moment, Olivia realized the terrible truth—she hadn’t just finished the story. She had unleashed it.

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**The End.**

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Hope you enjoyed the story!