Screamscapes: Tales of Terror by Evans Light

when he finally realized what the receipt meant. Had he left a note asking his wife to mail this profanity posing as his finished draft to his agent? Was he insane?
    Panic surged inside him. He had to get that manuscript back; he had to destroy it. Were the stories in it even legal? What if the publishers had called the police? Was it possible he might, even now, be mere minutes away from being arrested and dragged from his home for mailing such obscenities?
    Gerard sat down at his computer to compose an e-mail letting his agent know that someone was playing a prank on him, that what he was receiving was some elaborate joke that wasn’t funny.
    He opened up a new e-mail and began typing Jerry Rogers , the name of his agent, into the address field but his fingers typed something different: Maazo Maazo .
    He tapped the delete key several times and tried again. Still, the words Maazo Maazo appeared every time he typed.
    “Maazo Maazo,” he muttered out loud. He felt a spark of energy as he said the words, and then his hands no longer belonged to him. They typed, dancing across the keyboard
    Words scrolled across the screen: Maazo Maazo. Maazo Maazo was me. Maazo Maazo is now we. Stop resisting and listen up. This is your one chance to make it, to get published, to be a big-shot writer. Do you want that opportunity? Then you had better take it now or else they’re going to say you are crazy and lock us both away.
    The writing stopped.
    His hand grabbed the mouse and opened up a word processor program. His fingers resumed typing.
    Are you reading me Gerard? The words taunted him.
    I’m going crazy, he thought.

Say something Gerard. Say YES if you read me, his fingers typed.
    “Yes,” Gerard whispered.
    Good, the writing on the computer screen resumed, Gerard’s fingers dancing along the keyboard.
    I want to be a writer, too. If you are successful, I am successful. I am trapped inside you. You don’t want me here forever. I don’t want that either. Your wife might be the only person that wants me inside her forever, judging from how many times she came when I fucked her with your sorry body this morning, – but that’s not important. Are you still with me, Gerard?
    “Who are you?” Gerard asked.
    Maazo Maazo, of course; you invited me in by name - don’t you remember? How good you felt when I first came into your body that day. I bet you felt almost as good as your wife did when I came inside her body this morning – but I shouldn’t brag. We can’t all be good lovers - or good writers, for that matter. But at least I can make you look good, and you can enjoy my success, too – if you listen up.
    “What do you want?”
    The same as you: to be a famous writer. I want to be the world’s MOST famous, most widely-read author in history. You know why? I want to see the world, I want to travel. I want to come and go as I please anywhere throughout humanity. But the only way I can do that is if someone invites me in, like you did.
    Gerard tried to move his fingers as they hovered motionless over the keyboard. He could not regain control.
    His fingers resumed typing, and he read.
    You know most books are written by demons, right? Words and music are the best way to get someone to let you directly into their head. The demon who writes for Stephen King, now that’s one lucky fucker. Once people read one of his books, he’s in for good - he can go right in and out of them from then on.
    I wish I knew that demon’s secret. I only know how to get someone to let me in if they say one of my chants out loud, and that’s hard to get people to do. Dr. Seuss had it down pat, but I’m not sure I’ve got children’s books in me. Horror is the way to go – and you helped me write my masterpiece.
    Gerard’s cell phone began to ring.
    Answer it, his fingers typed.
    He stared at the phone, motionless. His agent’s New York number flashed on the caller I.D.
    His fingers pounded the keys furiously: Pick up the fucking