Jennifer and the Poem Monster

Jennifer loved stories. Stories whispered through her mind like the soft rustle of leaves in autumn. She dreamed of them in vivid colors, craving more and more. Words were her playground, and poetry was her art.

Her poems were her sanctuary, her escape, her truth. In them, she lived lives she longed for, explored worlds unseen, and danced to rhythms only she could hear. Jennifer adored everything—from the green whispers of the grass to the vibrant clash of cultures and the hypnotic sway of distant dances.

But Jennifer's words, dark and winding, had a weight. A peculiar rhythm that seemed to echo far beyond the page.

Her poems weren't just read—they were felt. They slithered into hearts, clung to minds, and whispered to souls. People spoke of her work as haunting, strange, beautiful, and disturbing all at once. Jennifer didn't mind; she embraced it.

Yet, something embraced her back.

She first noticed it late one night, as she scribbled verses by candlelight. The ink seemed darker than usual, the shadows in her room thicker. There was a sensation—like a hand lightly brushing the back of her neck. She turned, but nothing was there.

"Perhaps I'm just tired," she muttered, shaking her head.

But it happened again. And again.

The more Jennifer wrote, the more she felt it. A presence. Just behind her thoughts, lingering in the periphery of her mind. When her rhymes turned sharp, it chuckled softly. When her verses grew somber, it sighed, a faint breath against her ear.

She tried to ignore it, but her poems began to change.

At first, it was subtle. A phrase here, a word there. Lines she didn't recall writing appeared on the page, yet they fit perfectly, as if they had always been there. The poems grew darker, deeper, almost alive.

And then, one night, as she finished a particularly eerie stanza, she heard it.

A laugh. Low, soft, and rhythmic, like the hum of a distant storm.

She froze, her pen trembling in her hand.

"Who's there?" she whispered, her voice barely audible.

The shadows in the room seemed to ripple, bending and twisting like ink spilled in water.

"Jennifer," a voice purred, smooth and melodic, "you've called me long enough."

The figure stepped out of the shadows—a form both familiar and alien. It was tall and thin, its body shifting like the flicker of a dying candle. Its face was obscured by a mask of flowing words, constantly rewriting themselves in a language she almost understood.

"I didn't call you," Jennifer stammered, her heart pounding.

"Oh, but you did," it said, taking a step closer. "With every rhyme, with every verse, you opened the door a little wider."

Jennifer backed away, her mind racing. "What... what are you?"

It tilted its head, as if amused. "I am the Poem Monster. The one who lingers behind your words, who smiles when you rhyme, who listens when no one else does."

Her breath hitched. "Why... why are you here?"

It leaned closer, its voice a whisper now. "Because, Jennifer, you invited me. And now, I am yours, and you are mine."

The room grew colder. The candle flickered wildly, then snuffed out, plunging her into darkness.

In the silence, Jennifer felt it—hands, soft yet firm, wrapping around her mind.

And as she sat there, paralyzed, a single thought echoed in her head:

Every poem she had ever written had been a key. And every key had unlocked a door.

A door she could never close.

From that day on, Jennifer's poems changed. They became something else—something alive. Readers swore they could feel the words moving, writhing like worms beneath the skin.

And Jennifer? She was never seen again.

But her words lived on.

And somewhere, just behind your thoughts, the Poem Monster smiles, waiting for the next rhyme.