In This Case, Yes. The Narrator is the Author.

i love braindumping :3

Our main character lumbers upon a cement sidewalk in a suburban neighborhood, sun shining bright and warm upon his messy hair and back, the smell of dew-dropped grass wafting by as he takes each step on the synthetic stone. The beech trees dotting the picturesque lawns release their leaves as he goes by, the squirrels dart across the pavement, a car goes by.

This man has a story. He has a life.

His phone vibrates in his back left pant pocket, so he takes it out and reads some benign notification. 

He puts it away in the same place of which he pulled it from and continues on his way until his eyes settle on the building he knows as his home.

Unlock the door, take off shoes, hang up jacket, drink a glass of water.

Stop.

He looks around, bewildered, brows furrowed in alarm. He sets down his glass with a harsh crrk and swivels his head around.

He's heard something.

He swears under his breath and runs around his house, trepidation quickly morphing into fear.

Cold, cold fear.

He covers his ears with his hands, but this offers him no relief. So he backs up into a wall.

"I must be going insane," he mutters. Schizophrenia has had its moments in his family.

"No, no it hasn't," he responds to nothing, slowly looking up, taking his time to survey his surroundings. He swallows.

Hm.

His lips part with unease.

But for what?
"For you."

...

Heh. Heheheheheh.

"What-- why are you laughing? What the hell is going on?!"

It seems my character has gained awareness.

"The -bleep-?!"

Calm down, calm down. This is a teenage-friendly site.

Or don't. 

On second thought, you won't. It's funnier. But no swearing. I don't wanna test the moderators.

His panic accelerates.

"Who are you? Who are you?!"
Silence.

"There isn't freakin' silence! You just said the word!"

Oh, please, don't be that sort of character. You remind me of me. I can't stand me.

Or I'm narcissistic as heck. But that's not important. :)

The man gets even more puzzled, slipping his back down to the ground, curling up and distressed.

"You're insane, #%*@, you're insane... just go to a hospital now, and maybe it'll go away..."

Oh, right. I forgot to give you a name. My bad.

"Don't listen to it, don't listen to it..."
You're not insane, dude. You can just hear the narrator. Chill.

He relaxes.

Ah, right. Sometimes I forget I have total control over this little story. I get carried away with the characters sometimes. They get so... uh, 3D? I guess that fits.

They have depth, maybe?

Well, not you, that is. I don't even know your name, much less your story.

"I- no. No, no, no, no. No. I am in control. I have a life."

Mmm, sure. You keep telling yourself that, buddy.

"You-- ugh, why am I entertaining this?"
You're certainly entertaining me.

"Shut up for a second, please."

No. I literally can't. If I shut up, this would just end. You don't want it to end, do you?

"No! No! Okay!" he huffs, crossing his arms. "You can't prove anything, though. Delusions aren't real. That's the whole point."

Heh. I misspelled "the" as "teh" there for a second. Wouldn't that be funny to read and picture someone saying?

Oh, right. Erm, achtually, yes, yes I can prove it. I can literally prove anything.

"Do it."

Fine.

What do you look like?

"I..."

He scrambles up and looks at a mounted mirror.

He's met with the sight of a humanoid figure with attributes that swirl and warp. He stumbles backward.

"Hallucinations."
No, I just haven't figured out what you look like. Just that you're a dude with messy hair, really. The rest is up for interpretation.

"I'm just hallucinating."

Oh, this is gonna be fun.

If you were hallucinating, this wouldn't be the right scenario for that. Professionals have standards.

Although... it would be funny. I might try that out later.

Now, do you know this house?
"Yes, of course I kn..."

He doesn't recognize the house he's in.

"What?"

What was that notification for earlier?
"I... I don't remember..."

What is your name?

"#%*@."

That's not a name. That's a garbled mess, in book speak.

He realizes then that his tongue had somehow made a short sound that he could not distinguish any word from. His heart begins to pound again.

"I'm dying."

You'd know if you were dying. Trust.

"I must be. Or I'm already dead. I'm a ghost. I died earlier."

Nope. But I could make you a ghost. Or make you die. But not yet.

"No, no, no you can't. You're a stupid voice in my head."

What's that voice sound like?
He hesitates.

Exactly.

My voice is the voice of whoever is reading this. And so is yours.

"No."
Tell me, does anybody love you?

"What are you?" his voice quivers.
I'll tell you in a bit.

"No. Tell me now."
Do you believe me yet?

"... no."

Hm. Stubborn. Why am I prolonging this? Oh, yes. I like torturing myself, yes yes. 

The man stays quiet.

If I told you that I have utmost control over every detail in your world, would you believe me?
"No."
What if I showed you?

He pauses.

"You can't."
Oh, but I most certainly can.

The man is suddenly in a lavish penthouse overlooking a city at night, the expansive living room endowed in expensive ornaments and laced with the finest of foods and drinks. He is in a immoderate black suit and tie, surrounded by happy, rich guests of all types.

He keeps his surprise minimal, to avoid drawing attention to himself.

Not that it matters. I control that, anyway.

"What the hell? Where-- how?" he mumbles, surveying the room.

I showed you. Do you need more proof?

"What did you do?"
I put you in a new scenario. May or may not be related to the fact that I was just assigned The Great Gatsby by my AP Lang teacher. You're now a rich man, throwing a party for your friends. 

"That's a lot of friends."
Everyone wants to be your friend when you're rich. Doy.

Everything seems real when he goes to touch things or take a sip of cider or a slice of cheesecake. It's all real.

"How...?"

He blinks and is suddenly curled up next to a makeshift barrel fire inside of an abandoned warehouse with barricaded doors while a snowy, toxic wind whips the weak weathered planks outside.

"Huh-?!"
Zombie apocalypse more your style?

"No!"
Weak.

Space better?

He's in a huge ship hovering above the atmosphere of a huge, lush planet. He can see it through the cockpit window.

"Um?"

Yeah, you're right. I'm not great at this level of sci-fi.

Now, sitting on a throne, wearing a crown of precious jewels and cloaked in a regal mantle.

How's fantasy for you?
A dragon races by the side of the castle.

The man is getting dizzy.

Fine. A rest for you. I'm sure the readers are getting dizzy too.

Now, simply, out in a forested meadow, the light of the sun gentle, the birds singing around him in lifted voices. He sits on a log and holds his head.

"What's going on?"

You've discovered me. The creator and destroyer of worlds, the story weaver, the wielder of time and space and life and death and the very fabric of countless realities.

"Who are you?"

I am the Author.