Write a Novel by the End of This Year (#FinishThis)

Tyrone closed the heavy wooden doors behind him, his eyes not yet adjusted to the darkness which consumed him. His hand searched for a light switch, and found it. He squinted as the bring flourescent lamps began to flicker on the white ceiling, an unsteady stream of electricity stimulating their luminescence, before finally stabilizing to provide a reasonably steady source of illumination.
His hand went up to his chin reflexively, and he licked his lips with a few quick motions of the tongue. There was no furniture within the room aside from a a seemingly old wooden altar which was positioned within the room, a dust-covered book resting in its grip. Fat, glossy worms lay on its open surface, their forms moving with what would have appeared to be excruciating spasms of primitive pain.
Tyrone turned around, frightened by the visage. Could the man outside have intentionally given him incorrect directions? Whatever was the cause, he had seen something that was probably never meant for his mortal eyes. He knew that he had to escape. He could stay no longer in this abhorrant mansion.
Turning to leave, he turned the knob, only to discover it immovable. A sudden panic overcame him, and he began to twist at the thing frantically, using all of his strength to attempt and open the passage. Alas, his efforts were in vain.
After a minute of attacking the door, he turned back towards the altar, and the book that lay upon it. The worms remained restless in their struggle.
"What the fu€¥ is this?" He whispered, gripping his face with his left hand.
After five minutes of contemplation, he approached the loatsome thing, and wiped the worms away with a trembling hand, cursing relentlessly as he did so. Shaking, he began to read.
Uncounted hours have passed before he finished, perhaps days, though he was unsure. Perhaps years. The book contained his past, described in detail within its worm-eaten pages, but also outlined his future. He saw how the thing, thousands of years old, would be transferred into him, how he would kill, die, and live again. He saw how he was betrayed by those who claimed to wish to help him, and how those he thought to be his enemies attempted to save him. He learned of how the thing within his mind was stopped from growing, how he himself was doomed, how he had learned that there was no cure and began attempting suicide. Those suicide attempts could not succeed, for he by that time had become immortal, made so by the thing within him. And all throughout the future, a blood-drinking fiend pursued him, crazed for the power of the thing within him, the thing which would struggle for control until its temporary imprisonment within a world of its own creation.
He saw all that, and vomited onto the worms crawling on the floor.
As he looked up, sickened from fear, a pen lay on the pages, inviting him to change his life. He picked it up, his hand shaking uncontrollably, his jaw tightly shut, and began to write as steadily as he could.
He wrote of how the thing which will be within him was too weak to draw attention, too weak to even pose a challenge. He wrote of how he would sense those who attempted to deceive it, and make them slaves for his cause. He wrote of how he would survive and be immortal willingly.
Dropping the pen, he stepped back, on the verge of losing consciousness. He closed his eyes, and as he opened them, a boy of seventeen stood there before him, the hint of a smile noticable on his face. He wore a black cloak made out of a heavy material which enveloped his tall but surprisingly thin figure. His hair was darkly blond, his eyes a tired blue.
"You have done well." The words were not spoken, but Tyrone was aware of them. "You are yet awake. Mayhap you are fit indeed to be my main character."
"What the fu€¥ are you? Goddamn sonofabi$£€..." The words replayed themselves in his mind, his mouth too tense to open, but he knew that he was heard.
"I am thyself, if thou haven't figured it out yet. I have made this world, and you with it, in my own image." The boy laughed slightly, covering his mouth with a gloved hand.
A moment of confusion overcame Tyrone, and he sae that his vision was fading rapidly, a deep blackness growing around his sight.
"Will my future change?" He asked, realizing that consciousnes would soon leave him.
"Your changes, you mean? I saw what you wrote, and I will consider it." He observed a hand reaching towards him, and stepped back. "You must attend the party, now. the Illuminatirion is waiting for you restlessly."
As he continued to move backwards, away from the entity before him, he passed through an open portal, and realized that the door had been opened. His vision left him completely upon leaving, and his mind began to fade.
"I have created you in my own image, and know that, wherever you are, I will be laughing at your misfortune..." The voice faded with his own consciousness, and he remembered no more.

Tyrone passed through the doorway, as instructed by the stranger, and entered the spacious hall where he was to be fed the thing which would be in him.