I Became the Mother of a Special-Grade Imaginary Cursed Spirit by Writing Ghost Stories

Here's the thing: I'm a writer of ghost stories.

To be precise, I'm a super-duper antisocial writer of ghost stories. I love all kinds of supernatural tales, and I use my pen to weave them into complete stories.

Maybe I wrote them too well, because my work became wildly popular. Some readers even claimed they'd seen the ghosts from my stories. What a joke. How could that be possible? It's all made up. As the author, wouldn't I know? (Scoffs.)

I always holed up in my tiny rental, eating and writing, then going online, staying up late and getting up to write again. I survived on takeout and instant noodles. But one day, someone suddenly knocked on my door.

I was a little scared. I hadn't ordered any takeout, I'd paid my rent on time, and I never bothered the neighbors. Besides, I'm extremely antisocial. I can't even manage a normal conversation with someone.

The knocking didn't stop, and with no other choice, I opened the door. By then, my face had frozen stiff. I didn't recognize the person outside at all. His most striking feature was the row of stitches across his forehead.

He looked me over, and his gaze shifted from assessing me to wary as I stared back blankly, unable to hold eye contact with someone for so long. After a long pause, he said, "You're the Mother of Ghost Stories, aren't you? Want to work with me?"

Me: Huh?

After that, my life became more and more turbulent. I was inexplicably hunted down, sentenced to death by a cult calling itself a group of sorcerers, rescued, accused of wanting to remake humanity, hunted down again, then chased once more

Me: "..."

I'm really just an ordinary ghost-story writer!

Theme: Imagination is the ultimate way.