The Typewriter.
One.
The Typewriter showed up special delivery from the auction house. I signed for it, and carried the wooden box inside. It took a claw hammer to pry the top off. After dusting away the packaging peanuts, I was staring at that beautiful, rebuilt 1906 Remington typewriter.
As I set it on the table, there was an eldritch energy flowing through it, tantalizing my fingertips. The manuscript that had been eluding me for months was now within my reach. I sat down and loaded the leaf of paper and began to type. The clack of the keys was hypnotic, taking me into another world of ideas. The words flowed from my hands, and before I knew it, I was five pages in. By that evening, I had finished twenty. I was overtaken by inspiration.
I didn’t sleep that night. The spell of the typewriter had enthralled me. For the first time in months, I was writing again, and I never wanted to stop. My glass kept emptying itself, and as the sun came up, I had to stop. My wife brought me breakfast, but I didn’t eat it.
She stood over the typewriter with a beautiful enthusiasm. “Is this it?”
As drunk as I was, I smiled.
“I paid a small fortune for it. It was his. . .”
“You didn’t tell me that. L.S. Hastor?”
“Yep.” As tired as I was, that word beamed from my lips.
“Sweetheart, I know you are excited, but you’ve had a bit too much to drink. Let me give you a bath, and put you to bed.”
“Just give me a minute,” I said. There was so much excitement on my face, she couldn’t protest.
“I’ll draw the water for you.”
As she walked off, I ran my fingers along the edges, feeling every inch. Something snagged my finger and cut the skin. I winced and yanked it away. Blood ran down my finger as I opened the desk drawer and pulled out a small first aid kit. As I was putting the bandage on, I noticed some of the ink had mixed with my blood. Black streaks were forming in the red, darkening the crimson liquid on my finger tip.
There was something rough on the bottom. I flipped it over. The word “Muse” was carved in the paint. I couldn’t help but smile again. As drunk as I was, I knew that typewriter would solve all my writing woes.
Two.
Within a few days, I could feel the change come over me. My self-esteem sky rocketed as the words flew on the page. I was electric with inspiration. Though I haven’t done many drugs in my life, I knew that sensation; that manic fury that drives you through any task. I was possessed with energy, and even my wife recognized it.
We’d laid in bed, laughing from the intense release of pleasure. We were overcome with a teenage fervor that left us only wanting more. Those first few days were pure intoxication. When we weren’t making love, I was working on my masterpiece.
I had just pulled another sheet from the typewriter when the phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Is this Billy?”
“Charles, Is that you?”
“I haven’t heard from you in a while, surprised you recognized my voice.”
“Charles, you’ve been my agent for years. Why would I forget your voice?”
“I don’t know, Billy. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that you are a few months late on your deadline. To be perfectly frank, I’m surprised you answered at all.”
“Well, that’s because I’ve got some great news.”
“Listen, this isn’t a good call, Billy. They told me the deal’s off. They don’t care what you got. Pete’s pissed that you’ve been so aloof. His official quote was something along the lines of, “He’s not brilliant enough to play this elusive genius bullshit with me.”
“Charles, I’m done. Well, I will be by the end of the day.”
“What?”
“I’m done. It’s finished.”
He exhaled hard. I could hear the exasperated annoyance in his breath.
“They don’t want it, Billy.”
“I assure you, they do. This is easily the finest thing I’ve written. Ever.”
“Good enough to play the elusive genius?”
“Absolutely.”
“Okay, let me make the call.”
I was ecstatic. I hung up the phone and started working again. Within the hour I was typing, “The End.” and pulling the last sheet. I sniffed the stack of paper before organizing each side with a quick pop on the desk top. I could feel the typewriter’s energy still within me.
Three.
The next night as we sat down for dinner, I grabbed my wife’s hand, and smiled at her. She smiled back and said, “I love you.”
“I love you too.”
I put the manuscript on the table for her to see.
“I got it done, and they are picking it up. I get to keep my contact. They are driving me into the city tomorrow.”
“Baby, that’s fantastic news. We should celebrate.”
She got up and grabbed the 30 year-old scotch I keep for just such occasions. We both poured a glass, and I laughed when she coughed trying to take her first swig.
“What are you going to write next?”
“I don’t know. I have this idea for a series about this guy who explores his own subconscious through drugs. It’ll be very imaginative, and experimental.”
She pointed at me with a sly smile. “Don’t be bringing drugs into this house.”
“That’s not what I mean. Just something outside my wheel house. I keep having these weird images pop into my head while brain storming. Otherworldly creatures and such. It’s all very vivid. I want to get them on paper before forget.”
“What kind of otherworldly creatures?”
“I don’t know. I figured since it’s his subconscious, they should represent his fears and such.”
“You know, I haven’t seen you this worked up in years. That typewriter has really put the fire in you.”
“Sometimes, it feels like someone else is doing all the work. The ideas are just flowing out of me.”
“It definitely seems to be inspiring the L.S. Hastor in you. Otherworldly beings were his specialty.”
I couldn’t help but laugh, despite a twinge of sweat coming across my brow.
“Yeah, that’s funny.”
I got up before dinner was ready. Something she had said left a bad feeling in my stomach. A nervousness that killed my appetite.
“I need to be excused.”
I forced an embarrassed smile, and rubbed my belly. “The ole stomach is feeling a little weird. Don’t wait. I might be in there for a while.
I got up and rushed to the bathroom, and locked the door. My reflection was off. The harsh light left my skin looking pallid and translucent. I could see faint blue veins in my face that had been previously hidden. I splashed myself with some water, and dried off.
Betty was waiting outside the door with some tea. It was peppermint tea. She was constantly telling me how good it was for an upset stomach. Her home remedies never did much for me, and it often annoyed me, but I usually played along for her benefit.
“Thanks, sweetheart.”
“Let me lead you to bed. You can drink it in there while you read.”
She tucked me in and handed me the book I was reading. The Turn of The Screw. I had read the book too many times to count, but it was still great.
“I hope you feel better,” she said, planting a small kiss upon my forehead.
As she pulled away, a wave of emotion came over me. There was my wife of twenty years, smiling at me. The rosiness of her cheeks was comforting, and I fell in love with her mousey little smile all over again. She was beautiful.
“I love you so much,” I said, and held out my hand. She reached for it, and squeezed.
“I love you too.”
There was a warm sincerity in her eyes that made me smile.
“Get some sleep. I’ll come check on you later.”
I slept hard that night. There were no dreams, just the murky blackness when you close your eyes.
My wife swore on her life that she checked on me that night. Apparently, I spoke as well, but I don’t remember any of it.
When I woke up in the morning, there was a slight ringing in the house. It was faint, and distant, but ever present.
“Do you hear that?” I asked.
“Hear what? The construction work outside?”
“No, the buzzing. The ringing.”
She paused to listen, and then shrugged. “Maybe.”
“Never mind.”
I got out of bed and got dressed. She had made a country style breakfast of eggs, ham, biscuits, and gravy. I was starving when I sat down. I started to eat when I heard the sound of her knife scrap across the plate. It screeched in my ears. I closed my eyes to focus it out, but she did it again.
I tried to ignore it, and eat, but when it wasn’t the knife, it was her chewing. I could hear every aspect of the mastication. The chomping of teeth, and the slosh of saliva as it mixed with a chewed up food. She swallowed with a deafening gulp.
I picked up my coffee and took a big swig. Maybe I just needed some caffeine. Needed to wake up properly. She smiled at me while I hid the growing anxiety. I was about to take my first bite when her breathing drowned out everything else. My hand slammed down on the table. My wife just stared at me, shocked.
“I’m sorry. I’m still not feeling great. I’m gonna excuse myself and get ready. They are sending a car. It’ll be here soon.”
“Okay.” She was flabbergasted by the outburst.
I apologized once more, and went to take a shower.
The warm water was refreshing. All my frustration and anxiety seemed to wash away, and I got out feeling better. It was then that I decided to buy my wife some flowers.
Four.
I was on my fourth cocktailed when they pulled out the paperwork. Charles, my agent, and Howard, from the publisher, were both feeling a little tipsy by this point. We were celebrating, after all, but there was work to do. Charles started perusing the documents.
“I’ve read most of it,” Howard said. “This book. . . it’s gonna be major.”
I smiled meekly, knowing he was right, but not wanting to seem like a braggart. “Thank you. I worked hard on it.”
“I can tell. You’ve put your time in, and worked hard over the years, we had no doubt you’d score us a winner. But this is something else.”
They love to blow smoke. Enthusiasm and alcohol can bring out the ass kisser in all of us.
Charles, the biggest ass kisser of them all, turned to me. “Looks like they’ve given you a very generous backend deal, and the film rights are outstanding as long as you agree to write the script. Looks like we are good to go. I’m gonna get this to our lawyer, and we will finalize the deal next week.”
I toasted the two of them, and then ordered another drink. Once Howard’s credit card came out, I swallowed my drink in a final gulp, and grabbed my coat.
I tipped my brimmed hat as I left. “I’ll see you gentlemen soon.”
In the car, I started dreaming up a new story. The alcohol was sloshing around upstairs, stirring the creative juices, but the ideas weren’t coming like they once had. Annoyed, I picked up the phone and called my wife.
“I’m headed back towards the house, you need anything?”
“Nah, I think we’ve got everything we need here.”
There was this hint of condescension in her voice. It grated on my nerves, but I ignored it.
“Okay baby,” I said. “I’ll see you soon.”
After we hung up, I couldn’t help but think about how much she had been annoying me lately. She was the love of my life, my muse, my everything, and for some reason, I couldn’t help feeling irritated by her. I felt bad, so I told the driver to stop by the store.
I came into the house with a bottle of wine, a dozen roses, and a stupid grin on my face. She instantly lite up, and rushed over to hug me. Her hands were covered in bread crumbs from the meal she was making, so I got her two elbows against my chest.
I laughed. “You look. . . tasty.”
“I’m making you a special meal. I figured you’d have a few drinks at lunch and work up a hearty appetite, so I made you a hearty meal.”
I placed the flowers in the vase and then popped the cork on the wine. I took a sniff, and then poured us both a glass. After she washed her hands, we toasted to the sale of my book, and danced a bit in the kitchen. We laughed at my awful moves, and then kissed again. Her lips were so soft, I got lost in them for a blissful moment.
After the song ended, I bowed, and refilled my glass. “I need to go write for a bit, is that okay? You need any help?”
She smiled, and waved me on. “No, no, go make us some more money with that magic typewriter.”
I sat at my desk and started rolling the paper into place. I typed in “Chapter One” and then stared at the page for a while without a thought in my head. I scrolled up and then typed on my name, just to get something on the page. Each click of the keys sent a little shock wave up my finger where the cut was.
The finger was red and swollen, and hurt when I squeezed it. I don’t know why, but I kept squeezing, teasing the pain out. After a few seconds, the pulse of my heart beat radiated through my finger, and the wound became hot.
“What are you doing?”
My wife was standing there with a tray of tea, and a perplexed look on her face.
“What?” I asked, taking a second to snap back. “Oh, this. I cut my finger. I was just examining it, is all.”
“I know you have eaten much the last two days, so I brought you a small snack to tide you over till dinner.”
She placed the tray down in front of me, and poured me a cup.
“You do too much,” I said.
She glared at me with her soft, beautiful smile. “I’d do more if I could.”
She took a big sip of my wine, and then took it with her as she went back to the kitchen.
“I wasn’t done with that,” I said, but she didn’t hear me before she had disappeared back into the kitchen.
I shrugged, and poured myself a glass of tea. That move had irked me, but I ignored it. I didn’t want to start a fight before dinner. Not before her special dinner. I swallowed my pride, and it was tough, but I did it, and moved on.
“Baby!”
“Yes dear?” She said, from the kitchen.
“I love you!”
“Aww, I love you too baby.”
I smiled, content that the matter was resolved, but when she came out of the kitchen, I could see the dark tint of her lips, and gums. She had been drinking wine. My wine. I felt a twinge in my fist. My heart rate jumped up. I could feel my blood pressure rising, but I calmed myself.
“Are you okay?” She asked, putting the tray down.
“What?” I asked, snapping out of it.
“Are you okay? You’re red.”
She felt my head for a fever. “When was the last time you ate?”
“Lunch?”
It was a question, but it was also a lie. I hadn’t eaten in two or three meals. She didn’t need to know that. She didn’t need to worry about me.
“Well here,” she said, removing the lid from my meal.
It was a plate of her delicious spaghetti, steaming up to meet my nostrils with its rich tomato and meat sauce.
“You haven’t made this in years.” I said, flabbergasted by the effort.
“It’s been a while since we had anything to celebrate.” She said, excited.
What was that supposed to mean? Too long since I published a book? Since I brought home a pay check? My mind went reeling, but I pulled myself together.
I looked at the plate, excited for my favorite meal, but there was a twinge in my stomach again.
She sat down across from me, and began to eat. I poked at it, and twirled the noodles on my fork. After a few minutes, my wife looked at me, concerned.
“You aren’t eating.”
“I’m sorry. It’s my stomach again. I’m not sure what’s going on.”
“I don’t understand. You were feeling amazing just the other day. Do you think somethings wrong?”
“Maybe,” I said. “I have been feeling incredibly anxious lately. I don’t know what it is, but I can’t keep my head on straight.”
“Is it something I’ve done?”
A million things ran through my head, but I wasn’t sure what to say except, “no.”
“It’s not you, I promise. I don’t know what’s going on. I guess selling this book has me on edge. I just didn’t see all the stress involved, or something.”
“But it’s your favorite. . .”
The sad tone in her voice annoyed me, but I just look down, ashamed. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. You can’t help the way you feel. Besides, it’ll be better tomorrow.”
She scooped up my plate and took it into the kitchen.
“Do you need anything while I’m up?”
“No,” I said, slinking away from the table before she got back.
Five.
It had been days since I had written anything. Every time I touched the typewriter, my finger ached, and my mind dulled. Nothing would come, even when I tried to force it. Each day, more than a few pieces of paper went into the trash before I stopped.
When I got up, I was disgusted with myself. I poured my third drink of the evening, and stared at the typewriter. What had changed? I was unstoppable the first few days, and now, nothing.
It was the twinge of pain in my finger that spawned the thought. That’s what I had done differently. It needed a blood sacrifice.
I sat back down and ran my other finger along the bottom edge again. The nick made me wince as pain shot up my hand. I examined my finger and saw the familiar blood. A moment later, I was hit with inspiration. It hit me like pain shooting up my hand, and I started typing.
I was possessed by the muse of the typewriter. It spoke to me, and helped me with my work. I gave blood, and it returned in kind. It didn’t take long before I had finished another book.
After typing “The End,” I got up to call Charles. I had the phone in hand, dialing the number, when I stopped myself. My last book wouldn’t be out for months, maybe a full year. How could I possibly send them another in such record time? They would know.
I put down the receiver, and walked away. It was eating at me though. I wanted to tell someone because I was so excited, but what if they found out my secret. Even my wife knew more than I wanted.
Six.
I avoided my wife over the next few days as I worked. I snuck a few snacks here and there, but I didn’t eat meals anymore. On the rare occasion we did spend more than a few minutes together, she sat there, waiting for me to speak. I felt terrible shutting her out, but she had changed. She wasn’t herself, and that scared me. This gnawing in my stomach; it had to be poison. I just knew it. She wanted the typewriter.
I moved my work station into another room. One with a lock on the door. She was obviously annoyed, but she gave me my space. There had been instances in the past when I had become moody, so she just accepted it for the most part.
On occasion, we met in the kitchen, but I avoided eye contact.
“What’s that?” she asked, looking at the blood soaked bandage wrapping my palm.
She went to the cupboard and grabbed her medicine box. “You’ve cut yourself.”
“This? It’s nothing.”
The typewriter was demanding larger sacrifices each time. I could feel its sway, and I gave in gladly. I did whatever it wanted. Anything for that creative power. People would remember me as a “genius.” What was a little blood?
“You’ve really hurt yourself this time. Let’s glue it up, and if it doesn’t get better, we’ll take you to the hospital.”
“Sounds good,” I said, playing the damaged child for her.
She looked at me, happy to be needed again. “I’ve missed you.”
“I’ve missed you too,” I said, but I wasn’t talking to her. I was talking to the muse. It had left me, and I felt empty. Days and days had passed since I had written a word, and now it wouldn’t take my offering, not matter how big. It had tasted my blood, and wanted something new.
I knew, as I stared at her beautiful face, what the muse wanted.
“I need to go lay down,” I said, sick at the thought.
Seven.
A few more unproductive days passed and that horrible thought kept rattling around in my head. The blood sacrifice. That one thing that would get my writing back on track. To get the muse to possess me once more. I felt empty without it.
I couldn’t remember that last substantial meal I had eaten, but she kept bringing me food. She even begged me to see the doctor, but I knew what was needed. My muse would only come to me when it was finished.
“I’m going to the doctor,” I said, standing in the kitchen.
She looked at me with huge, sympathetic eyes and smiled. Her arms went around me, and she was sobbing.
“Thank you, so much. I’ve been so worried.”
I lifted my arms in a pathetic attempt at returning the hug, but she didn’t seem to care. She just hugged me tighter.
“I’ll get my stuff.”
She reached for her purse, but I placed my hand atop hers. “I got this. Don’t worry.”
“Are you sure?” She seemed saddened by this.
“Absolutely. You don’t need to worry yourself with any of this. I’ll head to town and be back before you know it.”
“You already have an appointment? I can call.”
“I’m just gonna go to the clinic. No big deal.”
I kissed her on the cheek before she could object and told her “goodbye.”
I drove into town at a steady pace. I wasn’t in that big of a hurry. The deed would get done, but I wasn’t ready for it. She was so beautiful, and loving, but I needed to feel my muse inside me again. I needed to feel her moving my fingers on the typewriter, and her whispered ideas in my ear.
The clinic passed on my right. I kept driving down another few blocks and pulled into the sporting goods store.
The place was full of dip-lipped hunters buying gear an ammo for their expeditions into the woods. I walked up to the counter and asked for a pistol. The thought of her suffering was too much to bear. It had to be quick and clean.
“What kind of pistol?”
He had said four words, and already he was annoying me. “I don’t know, any kind of pistol.”
He glared at me for a second, and went into his case. The clerk laid a black, .38 snub nose revolver on the counter. One look, and I knew it was the right pistol.
“I’m gonna need some bullets too.”
As I grabbed for the gun, he saw my bandaged hand.
“What happened to your hand?”
“It’s nothing,” I said, holding the gun. “I got a raccoon problem. They got the best of me.”
I put on my best fake smile. He must have bought it, because he put the bullets down on the counter. It was two different cases.
“Hollow points, and regular,” he said.
“Which is better?”
“The hollow points.”
Eight.
After pulling into the garage, I grabbed the brown paper bag, and snuck inside. The path was clear to my office, but I locked the door behind me anyways. She must have been upstairs, or in the back yard. It didn’t matter.
I sat at my desk for a few moments feeling the weight of the gun. As I held it, I felt the familiar sensation of my muse, working her way through my fingertips. It was the same sensation, but with the gun instead of the typewriter. She was mine now.
I opened the cylinder and started loading the bullets. Each slide into place with a click. When it was loaded, I closed the cylinder and cocked it.
Having that primed weapon in front of me was intimidating. Like it could go off on its own. I decided to uncock it until I was ready, but when I grabbed the gun, I couldn’t help but stare at the typewriter. It was speaking to me, begging for the blood it needed.
When my wife called for me, I hid the gun in the desk drawer, and got up. She had made dinner, and for once, I was feeling up to it. We sat together, and I held her hand as we said grace. She smiled at me, sensing that some normalcy was coming back to our lives. For a moment there, I forgot the gun, and even the typewriter. I was happy.
A thought crossed my mind, some things were worth more than success, or recognized genius. I rubbed her hand with my thumb, and we began eating.
I was ready to give it all up, for her, when there came a startling noise. Her knife had raked across the bottom of the plate, screeching in my ear. The sound was like cold air across an exposed nerve. Every muscle in my body tensed up as I cringed in horror.
It took me a second to regain my composure, but I forced a smile, and started to eat. My first bite was nearly in my mouth when her chewing stopped me. It was like sitting next to a horse, devouring a sack of grain. I did my best to remain calm, but it was her breathing that finally got to me.
With a forced smile, I got up. “I’ll be right back.”
I rushed into my office and sat at the table. What was happening to me? I didn’t want this, but the typewriter had given me so much. As I held the gun, I could tell it wasn’t me holding, but rather my muse. She had become jealous. No matter how much I struggled, she wouldn’t let me put down the gun.
Somewhere in the distance, was a phone ringing, but I ignored it. There was no time for distractions. Not when she was demanding my full attention.
Her voice hissed in my ear. “Do it. Do it!”
I began to sob, trying to fight off her insistent voice. “Please don’t. I love her.”
My hand began to move on its own, reaching for the loaded gun.
“No. . .”
With the gun in hand, she forced me to stand.
“Honey!” I said, but it wasn’t me speaking. “I need you to come here.”
“I’ll be right there!” She said. “I’m on the phone!”
I held the gun up, waiting for her to come through the door. It was heavy in my hand, and holding it was beginning to strain my muscle.
“Sweet heart!” She said, yelling across the house. “You won’t believe who just called.”
“”Do it, for me. Kill her so we can be together, forever. Just you and me, alone. We will make beautiful art.”
She was just down the hallway now. My finger was resting upon the trigger, ready to pull. Tears were forming in my eyes because I knew I couldn’t stop myself.
“It was the auction house. They want the typewriter back.”
The gun dropped, and I turned towards my muse. Why would they want to take her? My wife came in, and I hid the gun in my pocket.
“What, why?”
“Turns out, they gave you the wrong one. This one belonged to some nun. Guess you did all that wonderful writing on your own.”
She kissed me on the cheek, and left. I faltered against my desk, bracing myself.
I examined the gun. “All on my own?”
End.