He rarely left that desk.
For years, he ensorcelled the public with haunting stories spawned from his imagination yet refused to bask in the brilliance of his fame.
Some dismissed it as cheap tactic, speculating that there was no single mysterious author but a group of ghost writers.
Fans camped outside his fortress. The media met only with agents of glib tongues and swollen pockets.
They said he answered to disembodied whispers.
His last words were jumbled letters carved into the ancient desk, engraved into emaciated flesh…
Indecipherable, except for the words: “Free us” penned shakily in sick, diluted blood.