Bustling neurons tell me a story; I draw unsanitised fear through my sucker. My thin, filamentous body wraps around the soft folds of the brain as I plumb its depths and feed off the intercepted neural messages. The bitter-sweet aftertaste of yesterday’s nightmare still lingers in my mouth. “Danny is a coal-black Rottweiler,” the neurons tell me. “He runs towards you, baring his deformed bloody teeth and your hand finds its place in his bone-crushing jaws.
But does it always have to be this gory? Perhaps a light snack will do instead, something like a cracker with a dollop of sour-cream; like the thought that chilled the marrow and sent a delightful spasm through my body: Thick, viscous goop climbs up your feet, works its way to the hips, the chest-- now it's plugging your nostrils. You cannot breathe, wait you can’t see either, you feel light-headed, you choke—
“You’re a sick sycophant”, you say. “A disgusting sadistic parasite.” I cannot entirely deny this. Some days, thoughts turn mundane-which is rarer than you think-and I do secrete a nightmare stimulant. But nine times out of ten, you’re the story teller; I just read the open book. Go on, you’re appalled. Curse me, but one day I will atrophy and dissolve into the very thoughts I read and I will find my way into the outside world. Then you will unsuspectingly gather those verbal ideas and foster those thoughts as your own. Then I will grow and read your stories. You are the monster, my storyteller-- my beloved host.