Hello.
I’m the mug.
Not chipped. Not novelty. Not one of those gaudy, slogan-slapped things that scream “World’s Best Writer” like a curse. I’m classic. Ceramic. Weighty. Deep red glaze, almost blood-dark in low light. A gift.
From their mum.
A Christmas morning.
Hands trembling with emotion that never quite made it to speech.
Wrapped in paper that had once held other things. Warmer things. Lighter things.
She said: “For late nights and early mornings. Keep going.”
She didn’t know what they’d be writing.
She didn’t know what they’d summon.
But I’ve been here since the beginning. Watching. Warming. Witnessing.
And let me tell you this — stories are not made with ink alone.
06:06 — The Summoning Begins
They rise before the sun, limbs heavy, face pale in the kitchen light. They move like someone waking from a dream they can’t shake. The kettle groans. The house is still.
Then they reach for me.
Their fingers wrap around my handle like a prayer. Familiar. Desperate.
The coffee is poured. Dark, steaming. Too strong. Always too strong.
They breathe in the scent — and with it, the silence begins to stir.
07:01 — Blood on the Page
We’re at the desk now. The screen glows like an open wound. A blank Word document — clinical, sterile, soon to be corrupted.
They type the first sentence. Something about a door that shouldn’t open.
A voice that shouldn’t speak.
A town where nothing stays buried.
They’re not fully here anymore. I can feel the shift. The house watches. So do I.
They take a sip. Eyes glazed.
The words come faster than they should.
08:12 — The Presence Arrives
There’s always a moment, just before the halfway point of a scene, when something in the room changes.
The temperature dips.
The shadows lengthen.
A whisper curls from the vent, or the wardrobe, or the back of their mind.
They call it imagination.
They call it mood.
But I know better.
The thing they’re writing is watching them now. And sometimes… it writes back.
09:47 — The Writing Frenzy
They’re gone now. Not physically — the body remains. But the eyes are different. Locked in. Haunted. The words pour out in a frenzy, like they’re trying to keep pace with something crawling just out of view.
They drink from me, forgetting whether I’m full or empty. My surface is stained with fingerprints. The table is littered with notes, each one scribbled like a warning.
I catch a few lines:
- “The teeth weren’t human.”
- “She heard scratching from inside the mirror.”
- “No one remembers what happened. Not really.”
They laugh, once. It doesn’t sound right.
11:20 — The Stillness Between Screams
The writing slows.
They lean back. Stare into me. The coffee’s cold now. Thick. Almost tar. They swirl it absently, watching patterns form — patterns that move too easily. That suggest shapes that have no place in daylight.
They whisper:
“Is this too much?”
I don’t answer. I never do. But something in the room shifts — a creak behind the bookshelf, a curtain moving when there’s no breeze.
Somewhere, the story stirs.
13:13 — The Forgotten Meal
They try to leave the desk. Stretch their legs. Make toast.
But the words are still in them. They’re pacing. Muttering. A character won’t stay dead. Another insists on going into the cellar. They drop crumbs on the manuscript, flinch at the microwave’s beep, forget the coffee’s gone.
I’m left on the arm of the sofa. Watching.
Listening.
The door to the hallway has drifted open. It was shut before.
They don’t notice.
I do.
15:06 — The Breaking Point
Back at the desk. Eyes red. Hands twitching.
The story is fighting back now. The scene won’t land. The monster’s rules won’t make sense. The pacing is wrong. The dread isn’t building.
They hit backspace. Again. Again.
They take a breath. A long one. Hold me like I’m the last warm thing in a cold world.
And then, they write:
“She turned around — and it was right there.”
The lights flicker.
17:31 — The Fade
The document is saved. The chair is pushed back.
They’re drained.
They carry me to the kitchen, the same way someone carries a candle after a séance.
Set me on the counter. Wash me gently. Not rushed. Not absent-minded. Like I’m part of the ritual. Like I’m more than what I appear to be.
And maybe I am.
Because this mug?
It’s held more than coffee.
It’s held adrenaline. Insomnia. Madness.
It’s held silence — the thick, suffocating kind that comes before a scream.
Evening Notes
Sometimes they lie in bed and whisper story ideas aloud.
Sometimes they dream of characters with no faces.
Sometimes the house creaks in reply.
And always — always — they’ll be back tomorrow.
To write the next horror.
To conjure the next dread.
To stare too long into a dark page and wait for something to stare back.
I’ll be there.
Ceramic. Solid. Comforting — but not safe.
A gift from a mother who wanted to encourage creativity…
Not knowing exactly what it would awaken.
Until the next draft,
The Mug
P.S. You left the basement light on again. You don’t have a basement.
Gareth Ellis - Author 