The Pen That Wrote Back

The first thing that happened was the pen. I was at the desk in my sister’s room, hunched over a half-finished essay for my summer online course. My sister had left a green pen on the keyboard, and I was fiddling with it, turning it over and over. I set it down between the ‘F’ and ‘G’ keys, thinking nothing of it. Then I leaned back to stretch, and when I looked again, the pen was resting on the top row of keys, perpendicular to where I’d left it. I hadn’t touched it. I hadn’t even moved my arms. My heart did a weird flip, and I told myself it was just a draft from the ceiling fan. I picked it up, put it back, and watched it. It stayed put. I laughed it off, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off.

The apartment had been quiet since Mom started her night shifts at the hospital. My brother, Jake, was away at a friend’s cabin for the weekend. So it was just me, the hum of the fridge, and the occasional groan of the old pipes. I tried to focus on my essay, but my eyes kept drifting to the stack of books on the shelf. That’s when I noticed the shadow. It was a long, thin shadow stretching from the baseboard, like someone standing just out of sight in the hallway. But there was no one there. I blinked, and it was gone. I told myself it was the light from the bathroom, but the hallway light was off.

The second thing happened three nights later. I was in the kitchen, making a cup of chamomile tea to calm my nerves. As I reached for the sugar, the pantry door creaked open on its own. I stood frozen, spoon in hand, watching the dark crack widen. A cold draft swept out, carrying the faint smell of dust and something metallic. I slammed the door shut and locked it, but the lock was on the outside, and I had to fiddle with the little hook. My hands were shaking. I called my best friend, Leo, and told him about the pen and the pantry. He laughed and said it was just the old building settling, but his voice had a hint of unease.

The night before Mom got home, I was lying in bed, scrolling through my phone. The floorboard in the hallway creaked, a slow, deliberate sound. I held my breath. It creaked again, closer this time. I whispered, ‘Jake?’ No answer. I got up, opened my door a crack, and peered into the dark hall. At the far end, by the coat rack, I saw a shape—tall, thin, with arms that hung too long. It was just a shadow, but it seemed to have weight. I slammed the door and locked it, my back against the wood, heart pounding. I heard nothing after that.

The next morning, I found the pen from the desk sitting on the kitchen counter, next to the toaster. I hadn’t brought it there. Its cap was off, and the tip was wet with blue ink, as if someone had just written with it. On the counter, in shaky handwriting, was a single word: ‘STAY.’ My blood ran cold. I grabbed my phone and took a picture, then wiped it off with a sponge. I didn’t tell Mom. She was already stressed with her job. But she noticed my pale face and asked if I was okay. I said I was fine, just tired.

Two days later, my brother came back. He was his usual noisy self, dropping his duffel bag and yelling about the road trip. But that night, I heard him in his room, talking to himself. I knocked on his door. ‘You okay?’ He turned, his face ashen. ‘There’s something in the closet,’ he whispered. ‘It keeps whispering my name.’ I pushed the door open wider. His closet was ajar, and from inside, a faint whisper, like dry leaves, ‘Sarah… Sarah…’ My name. Not his. He hadn’t said it was his. I grabbed his arm and pulled him out. ‘We need to get out of here,’ I said.

We drove to a 24-hour diner and sat there until dawn, nursing cold coffee. I told him about the pen and the message. He showed me his phone: a photo he’d taken of the closet interior, a small scrawl on the back panel that read ‘GET OUT.’ The handwriting matched the one on my counter. We didn’t go back that day. We picked up Mom from the hospital and told her everything. She went pale, but she’s a nurse—she’s seen worse. She said, ‘We’re moving.’ We packed what we could that night, and as I grabbed my book bag, the pen rolled out of it, onto the floor. I picked it up. It was cold, even though the room was warm. I put it in the trash bin outside, but I swear I felt it watching me.

We moved to a house on the other side of town. For two weeks, nothing weird happened. But last night, I was unpacking boxes in my new room, and I found a green pen in a box of old school supplies. It was the same pen. I know it was. It had a tiny scratch on the cap that I recognized. My hands shook as I picked it up. I opened the lid, and on my palm, in blue ink, were the words: ‘I FOUND YOU.’ I ran to the bathroom and scrubbed my hands raw, but the ink wouldn’t come off for hours. When it finally faded, I saw the pen was gone. It was on my nightstand, cap on, pointing towards the door. I haven’t slept since. I don’t know what it wants, but it’s not done with us. And it knows where I live now.