The Last to Comment Wins
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Tempokai
The Overworked One
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It was a dark and stormy night.
Which, to be honest, was terribly inconvenient for Gregory, who had planned this evening with the kind of optimism only fools and people who trust weather apps possess. He sat alone in the crumbling Victorian mansion he’d inherited from an aunt he never met—because of course he had—drinking tea that had long since gone cold. The thunder boomed with the self-importance of a drunk uncle giving a wedding toast, and the wind howled like it was auditioning for the role of "haunted moor ambience" in a low-budget ghost documentary.
Gregory, ever the masochist for masochistic literature, decided this night, of all nights, was the perfect time to dive into the old book he’d found buried beneath a pile of taxidermied ferrets in the attic. It had no title, which, as everyone knows, means it was definitely cursed, full of forbidden knowledge, or worse: avant-garde poetry.
He opened the book.
It was a dark and stormy night.
Again? Really? Gregory rolled his eyes so hard he saw the back of his skull. But he kept reading. Because what else was he going to do? Go outside? Into the tempest that had decided gravity was optional?
In the story, a woman named Eliza sat alone by a flickering candle in a crumbling cabin—because why not make clichés feel seen and heard tonight? She was reading a letter written in blood, tears, and what appeared to be terrible grammar.
But the letter wasn't just a letter. It was a story.
It was a dark and stormy night.
By this point, Gregory had mentally filed a formal complaint to the Ministry of Original Openings, but curiosity, that treacherous little goblin, had him hooked.
In the letter-story, a man named Byron (of course his name was Byron) stumbled through the woods, lightning casting dramatic shadows on his too-handsome face. He clutched a book—an ancient volume wrapped in human skin, because of course it was—and when he opened it beneath the gnarled branches of a weeping willow that had seen too much, he read:
It was a dark and stormy night.
At this point, Gregory was less reading and more spiraling. He looked out the window. Still dark. Still stormy. Either the universe had run out of creative material, or he had slipped into some narrative recursion loop designed by a sadistic librarian with a god complex.
Byron, in his story within a story within a letter within a book in a mansion on a stormy night, continued reading.
In Byron’s story, a child sat in the middle of a burning village—yes, burning, because storms and fire make for dramatic lighting and even more insurance claims—holding a picture book that had miraculously survived the flames, smoke, and the general disappointment of its publisher.
Guess what the picture book said?
It was a dark and stormy night.
Of course it bloody was.
The child turned the page.
In the picture book, an old woman stirred a cauldron in the middle of a twisted forest. Her wart had a wart, and her cat had filed a restraining order due to emotional manipulation. She chanted in rhymes because witches, apparently, are required by union law to do so. She dropped a scroll into the boiling brew. The scroll unraveled, steaming and ominous.
The scroll read:
It was a dark and stormy night.
And Gregory, now four layers deep in recursive storytelling and twelve shades past sanity, felt the mansion shift. Not metaphorically. Not “the walls closed in” like in a cheap metaphor, but quite literally, the house groaned. Wood creaked like it was reading its own horror story. Portraits of ancestors he never claimed as his own turned their eyes toward him.
He slammed the book shut.
Silence.
Well, except for the storm outside, which still sounded like the sky had a vendetta. Gregory staggered backward, knocking over a suit of armor because what mansion doesn’t have an ornamental suit of armor that serves no purpose except to be dramatically knocked over in moments of shock?
He ran.
Down the corridor, through a door that definitely wasn’t there before, into a study lit only by a fireplace that hadn't been lit. You know. Standard haunted real estate nonsense.
And there on a desk—because apparently cursed objects are just lying around like spare change—was another book. Bound in midnight. Pages fluttering despite the absence of wind.
Drawn by the same madness that compels people to comment “first” on ancient forum posts, Gregory opened it.
You’ll never guess what it said.
It was a dark and stormy night.
This one, however, was different.
This story was about a man named Gregory.
Yes. Our Gregory.
The story chronicled every one of his eye rolls, every complaint, every cynical thought he had ever had about narrative conventions and weather-based drama. It knew. And not just in a cute wink at the reader way. It knew. In the you-left-your-window-open-last-night-and-we-saw-you-eat-uncooked-spaghetti-out-of-a-measuring-cup way.
Gregory tried to close the book, but it didn’t budge. His fingers were glued to the pages by some literary Velcro of fate. Words formed beneath his eyes, fresh ink bleeding across the paper like it was being written now:
It was a dark and stormy night.
And Gregory, poor recursive protagonist in a tale with no exits, realized with dawning horror and a growing migraine: the story wasn’t about him reading the book.
It was the book reading him.
And somewhere, in another crumbling mansion, in another layer of this cursed Russian doll of storytelling, someone else—maybe you—sat by the fire, reading this very tale, flipping page after page, smug in the knowledge that you were safe, that you were just reading a story.
But then you notice the wind outside your window.
And wasn’t it supposed to be clear tonight?
And why is there a book on your desk now, one you don’t remember owning?
You walk over.
Open it.
And guess what it says?
Go on. You already know.
It was a dark and stormy night.
And it’s only just beginning.
Which, to be honest, was terribly inconvenient for Gregory, who had planned this evening with the kind of optimism only fools and people who trust weather apps possess. He sat alone in the crumbling Victorian mansion he’d inherited from an aunt he never met—because of course he had—drinking tea that had long since gone cold. The thunder boomed with the self-importance of a drunk uncle giving a wedding toast, and the wind howled like it was auditioning for the role of "haunted moor ambience" in a low-budget ghost documentary.
Gregory, ever the masochist for masochistic literature, decided this night, of all nights, was the perfect time to dive into the old book he’d found buried beneath a pile of taxidermied ferrets in the attic. It had no title, which, as everyone knows, means it was definitely cursed, full of forbidden knowledge, or worse: avant-garde poetry.
He opened the book.
It was a dark and stormy night.
Again? Really? Gregory rolled his eyes so hard he saw the back of his skull. But he kept reading. Because what else was he going to do? Go outside? Into the tempest that had decided gravity was optional?
In the story, a woman named Eliza sat alone by a flickering candle in a crumbling cabin—because why not make clichés feel seen and heard tonight? She was reading a letter written in blood, tears, and what appeared to be terrible grammar.
But the letter wasn't just a letter. It was a story.
It was a dark and stormy night.
By this point, Gregory had mentally filed a formal complaint to the Ministry of Original Openings, but curiosity, that treacherous little goblin, had him hooked.
In the letter-story, a man named Byron (of course his name was Byron) stumbled through the woods, lightning casting dramatic shadows on his too-handsome face. He clutched a book—an ancient volume wrapped in human skin, because of course it was—and when he opened it beneath the gnarled branches of a weeping willow that had seen too much, he read:
It was a dark and stormy night.
At this point, Gregory was less reading and more spiraling. He looked out the window. Still dark. Still stormy. Either the universe had run out of creative material, or he had slipped into some narrative recursion loop designed by a sadistic librarian with a god complex.
Byron, in his story within a story within a letter within a book in a mansion on a stormy night, continued reading.
In Byron’s story, a child sat in the middle of a burning village—yes, burning, because storms and fire make for dramatic lighting and even more insurance claims—holding a picture book that had miraculously survived the flames, smoke, and the general disappointment of its publisher.
Guess what the picture book said?
It was a dark and stormy night.
Of course it bloody was.
The child turned the page.
In the picture book, an old woman stirred a cauldron in the middle of a twisted forest. Her wart had a wart, and her cat had filed a restraining order due to emotional manipulation. She chanted in rhymes because witches, apparently, are required by union law to do so. She dropped a scroll into the boiling brew. The scroll unraveled, steaming and ominous.
The scroll read:
It was a dark and stormy night.
And Gregory, now four layers deep in recursive storytelling and twelve shades past sanity, felt the mansion shift. Not metaphorically. Not “the walls closed in” like in a cheap metaphor, but quite literally, the house groaned. Wood creaked like it was reading its own horror story. Portraits of ancestors he never claimed as his own turned their eyes toward him.
He slammed the book shut.
Silence.
Well, except for the storm outside, which still sounded like the sky had a vendetta. Gregory staggered backward, knocking over a suit of armor because what mansion doesn’t have an ornamental suit of armor that serves no purpose except to be dramatically knocked over in moments of shock?
He ran.
Down the corridor, through a door that definitely wasn’t there before, into a study lit only by a fireplace that hadn't been lit. You know. Standard haunted real estate nonsense.
And there on a desk—because apparently cursed objects are just lying around like spare change—was another book. Bound in midnight. Pages fluttering despite the absence of wind.
Drawn by the same madness that compels people to comment “first” on ancient forum posts, Gregory opened it.
You’ll never guess what it said.
It was a dark and stormy night.
This one, however, was different.
This story was about a man named Gregory.
Yes. Our Gregory.
The story chronicled every one of his eye rolls, every complaint, every cynical thought he had ever had about narrative conventions and weather-based drama. It knew. And not just in a cute wink at the reader way. It knew. In the you-left-your-window-open-last-night-and-we-saw-you-eat-uncooked-spaghetti-out-of-a-measuring-cup way.
Gregory tried to close the book, but it didn’t budge. His fingers were glued to the pages by some literary Velcro of fate. Words formed beneath his eyes, fresh ink bleeding across the paper like it was being written now:
It was a dark and stormy night.
And Gregory, poor recursive protagonist in a tale with no exits, realized with dawning horror and a growing migraine: the story wasn’t about him reading the book.
It was the book reading him.
And somewhere, in another crumbling mansion, in another layer of this cursed Russian doll of storytelling, someone else—maybe you—sat by the fire, reading this very tale, flipping page after page, smug in the knowledge that you were safe, that you were just reading a story.
But then you notice the wind outside your window.
And wasn’t it supposed to be clear tonight?
And why is there a book on your desk now, one you don’t remember owning?
You walk over.
Open it.
And guess what it says?
Go on. You already know.
It was a dark and stormy night.
And it’s only just beginning.
Shiriru_B
Book binge in progress.
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Thank God I'm only compelled to type first in youtube videos that have no comments
ElijahRyne
A Hermit that’s NOT that Lazy, currentlycomplainen
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A Hermit that’s NOT that Lazy, currentlycomplainen
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ElijahRyne
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I am currently winning.
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ElijahRyne
A Hermit that’s NOT that Lazy, currentlycomplainen
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I am winning currently.
Anonjohn20
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?
ElijahRyne
A Hermit that’s NOT that Lazy, currentlycomplainen
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I am currently winning.
Anonjohn20
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