Personally, being kept untouched because an unfathomable being has taken a fancy in me without giving me a choice while the world outside turns into something unrecognizable sounds pretty horrible.

But since fifty shades of grey came out, I realized the definition of wholesome and romantic varies a lot more wildly than I would have expected.

Just grow a second pair of legs to sit on. Jokes aside, thanks a lot for the compliment.

It's my pleasure, thank you.

It's a Japanese manga called the enigma of Amigara fault. Junji ito is generally considered a modern master of horror, and he does indeed terrify me.

Edit: it's a short story, meaning one or two tomes only. So if you're curious about the reputation of master this guy has, it's an excellent way to verify for yourself.

And give up any hope for restful sleep

Thank you! I'm lucky with how it came out considering I wrote it in a rush, but it was a fun prompt to try out. Glad you enjoyed it.

My condolences, I read it too. Haven't fully recovered yet.

Was it the one with the human shaped holes up in the hills?

Here's me, happy I'm not in your head. Jokes aside, a huge thank you, that's quite the compliment.

Dear lord no. I read one of his stories and never dared to pick up another.

He's in another universe when it comes to horror.

House of Change by Daniel O'Brian.

Miranda liked the title, and that was the extend of it. The story itself was lackluster, fantasy aficionados wouldn't find much novelty, those looking to be afraid would miss the shiver down their spines.

That was for the literary criticism. Daniel was also her boyfriend, and he managed to become a published author, which in itself was a feat far beyond her personal appreciation of his book.

This, and more, she thought as she picked up the book to buy it from the store. The pile was rather low, she wasn't the first to buy, despite Daniel having no real reputation as writer to speak of.

"If I may, tell your boyfriend I adore his work," said the clerk, a young, somewhat sheepish looking man.

"Of course," she replied.

A few steps from the exit, she turned back and added, "how do you know my boyfriend wrote it?"

"I'm friends with him."

Odd. Daniel had never told her about him. Nor did she like the glint in his eyes. She left the store, forgetting the strange encounter once outside.

How long had it been since last time she sat on a bench to read a book? She couldn't remember. She decided to celebrate by rekindling this old habit. She found a lone bench in a park, sat down, well protected from the cold in her heavy coat. She smelled the book, just like new, and opened the first page.

She turned page after page. And didn't remember a thing.

Yet she had read several drafts, had encouraged Daniel to go for a bolder opening, had an idea of the general themes. So where was the story about adventure and polymorphism? Where were the sentences and style she knew to dislike?

Instead, the words flew in an alien way, she felt them worm their way under her eyes, and when she closed the book to gaze at the sky above, she still sensed how the words burrowed through her.

It was unpleasant, and incomprehensible. There was no story, she wasn't sure what she had read, only that it had an impact on her.

Passerby nodded at her, with a smile she could only describe as perfectly fake.

"Wonderful book, is it not?" said an elder woman walking with a crutch. In her bag, a copy from House of Change.

For a moment, all motion stopped in the park. Walkers and runners stood in place, gazing straight at Miranda, sporting the exact same wrong smile, carrying their copy of Daniel's book.

She rubbed her eyes. When she opened them again, movement had resumed, as if nothing had happened.

She was sick, had to be.

Against her better judgement, she opened the book again.

The words slipped down her spine, tickled her ribs, swelled her heart. The words played in her flesh like a mad spark ready to create chaos, and through the chaos, make her anew.

A gasp, someone stripped the book from her hands. She had stopped breathing, nearly passed out.

"Don't read too much into it," said the voice of the man who had taken the book.

She looked up.

"Daniel?"

No noise, no motion. They were all looking at them, without a smile, but with that glint in their eyes.

"What is this?" she asked with a trembling voice.

"It isn't a story," Daniel explained, "it's more of a guide. As a human you are both sculptor and sculpture, but I never liked the rudimentary ways we have to practice our art. So I devised... new methods."

Miranda would have told him to knock it off already. But the words still squirmed underneath her skin, eager to break free.

A young boy approached them. As he walked, his shadow distended, the audible crack of breaking bone was heard. His legs got longer with each step, muscles tearing to accommodate the new architecture, spine creaking, pulling on the nerves.

"Oh god," she whispered, as the looming child's frame hid the sun from her.

She passed out.

When she awoke, she was in bed.

What a nightmare it had been. What pleasure it was to wake up under a warm blanket, secure and cozy.

Miranda rubbed her eyes, gasped when she saw House of Change on the nightstand.

With a trembling hand, she reached for the book.

"Not you," said Daniel as he put his own hand on the book to keep it closed.

"Why not?"

"I don't want you to change."

Miranda shook her head, was about to scream, kept it in through sheer willpower.

"Enough. It's a bad joke. I'm just sick, that's all."

"You're not sick."

"I said enough," it was both an order and a plea.

Daniel sighed, and rose. She heard the already familiar crack, saw the bone splinters poke through the flesh and clothes, dragged the blanket to her as a feeble attempt to protect herself as a new set of bloody, spidery limbs protruded from Daniel's torn back.

There he stood, still, smiling, bloody, and bloodily happy.

Out of wits, Miranda asked:

"Why don't you want me to change?"

"Few things are precious enough to be kept as they are. You are one of them."

Daniel left the room with his book.

My pleasure, and thank you for the compliment. Didn't know where to go when it started but I like the result.

"How then?"

Prepared with love.

Amadeus had little going on for himself. I'm not much of a man, it's the sort of things he kept repeating in front of the mirror. Not that he minded, some people were meant to stay in the background and never become a main character. Amadeus had that sort of stoic fatalism to help him going through the day. If not me, then somebody else gets to stand in the light, and I'm happy for them.

"I expect more from you," she would say. She, Amadeus' boss at work.

The hardest part was the lack of purpose. If he had to remain on the sidelines, then at least someone should tell him how a sideline character keeps himself occupied. The routine of work, sleep and loneliness didn't cut it, and at 40, Amadeus' stoicism had trouble withholding the assault of a budding mid-life crisis.

And then the voice made itself know. Maybe it was always there, waiting. Or he had been lucky. Or a myriad of other possibilities, the voice didn't specify, and Amadeus didn't ask. Their conversations were few, but they gave Amadeus what he had been longing for: a purpose.

Rare meat. No, raw meat, it would sometimes say.

An ephemeral whim, perhaps. But an original objective still. So Amadeus put the dead cat in the center of a crudely carved offering bowl. Nothing happened.

Until he watched elsewhere.

And the corpse was gone. He felt disappointed to not see the body disappear.

Dreadfully sorry, said the voice, reality-breaching happenings have a tendency to break human's sanity beyond any hope of repairing.

"And a permanent voice in my head doesn't?"

If you think you're sane, you might want to look into the mirror.

Amadeus looked and saw himself. That's the problem with sane and insane, it doesn't always show on the outside.

"I expect more from you," of course, a mysterious voice in his head didn't absolve Amadeus from working to pay the bills.

It liked Pork, marinated duck and loathed chicken. More than all of this though, it adored the love Amadeus put into his cooking. It loved the effort and dedication he went through to serve proper meals. And the voice loved him back in turn.

"I expect more from you," it was the last time Amadeus heard the boss' words, as he held her high by the throat with a strength beyond any definition of sane, her feet dangling above the floor, her eyes turning to fog and life leaving her.

Now that's a treat!

Everyone suspected him, but he was never bothered. Nobody found the body.

Amadeus was a murderer now, with only his conscience to judge him. A conscience dimmed by exhilaration.

He felt like a man.

I think you and I can come to an agreement.

"That, we do."

The days had a shine to them now. No judge, no jury, only the executioner. Although, there was a slight judging involved. Here stood a blond fellow, tall, muscular, so terribly successful in love, in sports, at life. But he was nice, so Amadeus let him be.

Here was another with dark hair, even larger, with a brutish look on his face. And Amadeus got to know him, silently. Without words, he learned.

We rarely talk lately. Then again, maybe I was never there at all.

And when Amadeus learned what an asshole he was looking at, it wasn't long until the brute's two feet were dangling above the ground, as his throat was crushed.

Amadeus was content staying in the background. But he was very picky about who got to be a main character.

Much appreciated, it was a fun prompt.

Thanks, glad you liked it.

"Cell number 3," Diana said without looking up from her computer. She looked old, with the cold screen lights illuminating her face.

Jane, handcuffed, waited for Andrew to fetch the large key to open the cell. Some time ago, she would have been held by a platoon of heavily decked-out agents belonging to an unknown and random three-letter organization, to be transferred to a high-security prison without so much as seeing the inside of a regular, every day police station.

These times were over.

"Where's the bloody key?" Andrew was distracted, Diana never had her attention on Jane in the first place. She could break free, smash them to a pulp, run away and wreak havoc on the streets, carve her name into history with her letters written in burning blood, and laugh maniacally as the world was consumed in flames.

And then what?

Andrew found the key and invited Jane to open the way, which she knew like a trusted lover. She could produce a token resistance, for the principle of it, to keep up appearances so to speak. But Andrew wasn't so young anymore, the kicks he got from running after offenders was slowly but surely replaced with the groans of a body which couldn't take the strain as well anymore. And Jane liked him too much to be a bother, like a grumpy but affectionate old uncle.

"Extend your hands through the bars," click, click, "there you go. What's the deal this time?" asked Andrew.

"I escape in two days. I wanted tomorrow first, but I would miss out on Diana's kids coming to wish her a happy birthday at the station."

"A lively bunch."

"I don't know how she handles triplets."

"Like she handles everything, in strides."

They chuckled, the bars between them were no barrier, merely a support for the peculiar form of relationship they had.

Jane escaping used to do the headlines, alongside heaps of destroyed property. Problem being that the money invested in rebuilding wasn't invested in catching her, making the subsequent chase lacking in gusto, like a mouse encouraging - or even begging - the paraplegic cat to come after it.

And it pissed off Diana and Andrew who had to get used to a new workplace again and again.

"Before I forget," said Andrew, leaning against the bars, "Duncan comes to say hi afterwards."

Duncan, her sworn enemy. Thrice, she held him in her grip, could have snuffed the light of life from his eyes. Thrice, he loomed over her, mighty and justified in his decision to end her for the greater good.

It took the both of them a long, long time, and several therapy sessions with various professionals to understand why they couldn't claim the ultimate victory.

It was so simple, in retrospect. Jane leaned back against the cold wall. She could be in a palace right now, the world, or what was left of it, at her feet. Terror an integral part of the humanity's existence, her domination as natural as breathing.

And yet, she wouldn't exchange her place in the cell for such a dream.

"Hey," said Duncan, shaking hands with Andrew before Andrew left for some small-talk with Diana.

"Glad to see you," she replied. It was two hours after their last fight which left them bloody.

They saw each other more often lately, talked little, enjoyed the rival's presence in respectful silence.

If Jane succeeded in tearing down the world into chaos, there would be nothing left but chaos, and thus it would become the new standard, the new order. Then would come a day when a new troublemaker - a multicolored clown or a somber, coat-wearing vigilante - would threaten her world for their vision of disorder. Jane would be the protector then. Nothing wrong with protecting. But the metaphor, the implications, terrified her more than any hero could.

When Jane and Duncan spoke, they spoke about such fears. Not change, but a change they weren't prepared for.

It would be the old generation against the new, with herself part of the old. The world would start to go on accepting her rule as a given, and thus wouldn't notice her. She'd be part of the office furniture, disgusting the youngsters looking for novelty, for a breath of fresh air. Same for Duncan, if he won, he'd be at the top with no rival, and would be left to gather dust.

The game is all the interest. Win or lose, the game would be over then.

Diana's children would come by and sing for her, Jane and Duncan would sing along and smile, feeling the ting of time passing by, and the world telling them to let new blood catch the light.

"Nothing says we can't give them a hand, though," Jane said out loud, as if speaking to herself. Duncan smiled, knowing full well what she meant.

Tonight became one of these rare nights when instead of silence, they spoke a river of words, of meanings, of hopes and dreams, instead of remembering the old in silence. Tonight was a night when the stars shone high, lighting up the future with a grin.

True, someday, they wouldn't be able to keep up their game, they would be forced to finish it one way or another. They would shake hands, proud to have stood in each other's way so long.

And they would finish on a high note. Finish with such a glorious display it would encourage and foster the next generation.

Their game would be over.

But you can always end a game in a way that encourages onlookers to start a new one with new players.

All in all, it wasn't so bad growing old.