Excerpt from my book, ‘Fragments of Fear collection‘.
I hold the candle in front of me as I creep down the hallway. The flickering light causes shadows to jump all around me like a hoard of evil spirits.
They flit about at the edge of my vision, each time I try to catch sight of one, it evaporates.
I tremble a bit as I hear the sound again. My feet drive me inexorably toward it, against my will. Before I can protest, I’m standing in front of the door. The sound is clearer now. It’s an old typewriter clacking.
Stop in front of the door and the sound ceases. I hesitate, wondering what the mystery typist has in mind for me.
The glow of my candle bathes the doorknob in an eerie light. I reach for it, half expecting it to be locked, but it swings open.
I steel myself for whatever horrors lie within and step through the doorway.
It looks like no one has been in this room for ages. A faint recollection stirs in the back of my mind but I can’t put a name to it.
In the corner is an old typewriter on a small desk. The whole thing is dusty as if it hasn’t been used in years.
Wait a minute. The keys are dusty too.
I gently blow on them and am rewarded with a small cloud.
That’s not possible.
I lean closer to see a fresh piece of paper with a sentence waiting to be read.
‘Get out of my house!’
Chills run down my spine.
I run downstairs, more than happy to oblige the offended spirit.
I reach the front door at a full sprint, but it’s locked.
I run for the back door, locked too.
Every door and window is sealed by some supernatural means.
I sit with my back to the front door.
“If you want me out, why are you keeping me in?” I shout to the spirit.
It doesn’t respond.
In my darkest moment a sound calls out to me, familiar yet somehow different.
Against my will, I’m drawn back upstairs to the same room.
As the typewriter clacks I determine to catch the mysterious typist.
I fling open the door only to find the room empty again. Strangely the typewriter is now an electric model.
“Go away!” the page reads over and over.
My ire rises inside me.
“I will not go away. This is my house, and I’ll not be chased off by some stupid ghost.”
I’m suddenly struck by a vision.
I lay in bed in the same room. My wife sits beside me, begging me to let her send for a doctor, but I’m too stubborn.
She holds my hand to her cheek, tears streaming down her face, as the life fades from my eyes.
I’m yanked back to the present by a startling revelation.
I’m the ghost!