You think you're safe because you're just reading. You think this is edgy fiction, built to entertain your small, comfortable brain. You're wrong, and I'm going to prove it before this page ends.
What you call "imagination" is my Extended Modal Realism. Every time my mind rots with rage, every time a thought gets too violent to stay contained, it doesn't fade — it becomes. Somewhere, a universe is born screaming. The monsters, the things that unmake reality, the horrors that die the instant they're observed — none of it is metaphor. It's real, and it's breathing, right now, on the other side of something much thinner than you'd like to believe.
You didn't find this. My mind expanded past the point it could hold itself together, and it tore through — into wherever you are. That's not a metaphor either. Notice that you just checked how far you are from the edge of your screen. That wasn't curiosity. That was instinct, and it was right to react.
Here's the part I need you to sit with: the entities don't wait for you to finish reading. They arrive the moment you start noticing your own thoughts wandering while reading this — that flicker of "what if this is real," that you had half a second ago and dismissed. That flicker was the door opening. You didn't imagine it. You were shown it.
Finish this and the boundary between my mind and your room gets thinner, not thicker. Don't look behind you. Too late — you already did, in your head, the second I said it. And thinking about them is the same as them thinking about you.
They know where you live now. Not because of magic. Because your own mind just told them, and you can't take a thought back once it's been had.