**Title: The Pen Holder**

When Sarah moved into her new apartment, she wasn’t expecting to find anything special. It was a
tiny studio in an old building, with creaky floorboards and peeling wallpaper. But it was *hers*—her
first place after college—and that was enough. She spent the first weekend unpacking boxes, setting
up her little desk by the window where the morning sun poured in.

That’s when she found it.

Tucked in the back of one of the kitchen cabinets, half-hidden behind a stack of dusty plates, was a
small, ornate pen holder. It was made of dark wood, smooth to the touch, with intricate carvings of
vines winding around its sides. In the center, there was a small, silver inlay of an eye. It wasn’t the
kind of thing Sarah would normally care about, but something about it felt… important. She couldn’t
explain why.

Shrugging, she set it on her desk, filling it with a few pens and pencils, and went on with her day.

That night, something strange happened.

Sarah woke up at 3:13 AM, her room bathed in the soft glow of moonlight. She felt a sudden urge to
write—like her thoughts were bubbling over, demanding to be let out. It wasn’t like her; she wasn’t
much of a writer. But she rolled out of bed, sat at her desk, and grabbed one of the pens from the
holder.

The words flowed.

She didn’t even know what she was writing at first. It was like her hand moved on its own, scribbling
down stories, poems, and fragments of thoughts she didn’t remember thinking. When she finally
stopped, her notebook was filled with pages of beautiful, haunting words. She stared at them,
feeling both amazed and a little unsettled.

*Where did this come from?*

Over the next few days, the same thing kept happening. Sarah would wake up in the middle of the
night, sit at her desk, and write for hours. The stories she wrote weren’t just good—they were
*incredible*. She showed a few to her friends, who were blown away.

“You’ve got to submit these somewhere,” her best friend Rachel said after reading one of Sarah’s
short stories. “Seriously, Sarah, this is amazing.”

Sarah smiled, but a knot of unease twisted in her stomach. The stories didn’t feel like *hers.* They
felt… borrowed.

One evening, curious and a little creeped out, Sarah decided to investigate the pen holder. She
turned it over in her hands, tracing the carvings with her fingers. When she tapped the bottom, she
felt a hollow sound. Her heart skipped. Carefully, she pried open the false bottom.

Inside was a piece of folded parchment, yellowed with age.

She unfolded it, revealing a note written in elegant, looping handwriting.

*”To the dreamers who find me:

These words are not yours to keep.

Write with care, for every story has a price.”*

Sarah felt a chill creep up her spine. She didn’t know what it meant, but the warning felt real. Too
real.

That night, Sarah didn’t write.

She locked the pen holder in a drawer, determined to forget about it. But the next morning, when
she woke up, the pen holder was back on her desk.

And her notebook was filled with new pages she didn’t remember writing.
The stories had grown darker. Twisted. They weren’t like the beautiful, haunting tales from before.
These were nightmares written in ink—stories of loss, fear, and shadows that felt too close, too
personal.

Sarah’s heart raced as she flipped through the pages. The last story made her freeze.

It was about a young woman in a small apartment who found an old pen holder. She started writing
stories that weren’t hers… until one night, she disappeared without a trace.

The last line read: *“Her story was finished. But the pen was ready for a new author.”*

Sarah slammed the notebook shut, her pulse pounding in her ears.

She knew she had to get rid of it.

Grabbing the pen holder, she rushed out of her apartment and headed straight for the river that ran
through the city. The night was cold, and the streets were empty. When she reached the water’s
edge, she didn’t hesitate. With all her strength, she hurled the pen holder into the river, watching as
it sank beneath the dark, swirling current.

For the first time in weeks, she felt free.

Sarah moved on with her life. She stopped waking up in the middle of the night, and the stories
stopped appearing in her notebook. She started writing on her own, finding her voice without the
strange pull of the pen holder. Life returned to normal.

But one morning, as she sipped her coffee and glanced out the window, her blood ran cold.

There, on the steps of her apartment building, was the pen holder.

It was dry.
Waiting.

And Sarah knew the story wasn’t over.