The Golden Keyboard

Taking down the Christmas tree, Paul finds an orphaned present hiding under the tree. The tag reads,

To: Paul

Paul opens it and finds an ergonomic keyboard. He inspects the tag, the keyboard, the wrapping -- nothing. It's not that he doesn't appreciate it, but an explanation would have been nice.

Or at least a gift receipt. There is nothing wrong with his current keyboard.

Charlie comes down from the attic.

"You started taking Christmas down already." They give Paul a quick hug. He hangs on a little longer. Charlie laughs and holds him tighter.

Charlie's hand caresses Paul's neck and shoulder, tracing the lines of his muscles down his arm, from bicep to elbow to forearm and wrist ... unexpectedly stopped shy of their intended target, they lift Paul's hand, see the keyboard. "What's that?"

"Looks like a keyboard."

"That definitely looks like a keyboard. Did you need a new one?"

"You're not the anonymous gifter?"

"Do you like it?"

"I don't need it"

"Not from me, then."

Paul gives them a quick elbow jab and Charlie grunts with an exaggerated huff.

"I just found it, lying there"

"So, Boy Wonder, how did it get under the tree?"

Paul cocks an eyebrow. "Santa?"

Charlie reciprocates the love tab. "Maybe somebody left it after the party? An ergonomic keyboard? You have been writing a lot lately, and your wrists have been bothering you. Problems?"

"Carpal tunnel, I think. And I have been trying to write, but all I get is garbage."

"Then this is from someone who cares."

"You?"

"Nope."

Charlie grunts again, but there is no exaggeration this time.

---

Paul opens the attic door. "C'mon, girl. Time to get to work." A brownish red Husky pushes past Paul, jumps on her doggie bed next to the floor-to-ceiling dormer window overlooking the backyard where Charlie can be seen working on the garden landscaping. Paul watches for a minute, wishing it was later in the year. Under a hot Georgian sun, it wouldn't take Charlie long to take off their shirt. Gabby looks up from her rope toy and gives Paul a gruff.

"Yeah yeah, in a minute." Paul take a long lingering moment, until Gabby gives a soft growl. "Alright, alright, girl. I'm getting to work already."

Paul moves the old keyboard off to a side shelf, finds the new keyboard dongle, and plugs it into the computer. It snicks in and gives off a weird ruby-red glow.

"What the hell?"

The Husky growls and whines and tries to bolt out the door that had inexplicably closed. She moans a low keening Husky howl and paws frantically at the door.

"Gabrielle! Stop it!" Gabby gives him her one-blue-eyed look, pleading.

"Jesus fucking Christ, Gabby. Ok ok". As Paul opens the door, the terrified Husky pushes him out of the way and ghosts down the hall and down the stairs, the swinging dog panel in the back door flapping desperately in her wake.

"What the hell got into her?"

Shaking his head, Paul goes back to his writing desk, eyeballs the glowing dongle, and starts to experiment with the keyboard. Seems to work. If it fried my stories, there will be hell to pay.

---

Paul is pounding the keyboard with machine-gun efficiency. Images, characters, plot lines, twists and turns leap from imagination to story.

A caffeine headache flares up; the consummate coffee drinker pushes back the spreading pain, expunging that pain into the story. Fingers fly with inhuman speed across the keyboard, the dongle's red glare gets brighter, spiking with every keystroke.

---

The afternoon drifts into early evening. As a sweat-soaked Paul lifts up and away from the story, the dongle flares into a blinding blood-red light that crackles and then abruptly fades to black with a final snap.

A Little Red Demon materializes above his monitor.

"What the bloody hell?!"

The Little Red Demon sighs. "Everyone's a comedian. Can we get past that? Do you like the keyboard? How are the wrists? Everything all 'ergy'? Good. My, but you've got a lot done! Let's take a look, shall we?"

Paul sags in his chair, not comprehending anything.

LRD crosses his arms and starts tapping his foot.

"I really hate this part. Introductions and start-up routines are always the hardest. Look. You. Writer. Me. Best-Friend-a-Writer-Ever-Had. Got it?"

Paul gets up from his chair and slowly backs out of the room. Closing the door carefully behind him, Paul goes downstairs, starts a fresh cup of coffee, and waits. His mind is -- a complete blank.

"Earth to Paul ..."

Paul jolts. "Wha--?"

Charlie looks at him, looks at the overheating coffee maker. "Coffee's ready ..."

Paul looks at the coffee maker, looks at Charlie, looks back at the coffee maker.

Charlie notices his face is as white as the proverbial ghost. "You ok?"

In a small voice, "Hold me ..."

After a long hug, Paul pulls back. "Outside. We need to go outside. Now."

They look at him, look at the coffee, turn the coffee maker off, and grab his cup.

"C'mon", Paul hisses.

"Ok ok"

They follow him to the gazebo where the setting sun glows a ruddy complexion across the cedar planks of the gazebo. Paul sits down and the couple snuggle. He takes the cup from Charlie and sips his coffee in silence, his head leaning back on Charlie's chest, their arms wrapped around him.

"What's going on?"

Paul stares over the rim of the cup. "I plug the keyboard in, the dongle does some weird electro thing, I sit down and start to type. And type. And type and type and type and type -- ". The coffee makes concentric waves as tremors ripple through his muscles.

"Hey."

"Huh?"

"Deep breath."

Paul exhales a ragged "Oh." Silence. "I can't explain it. It is like I was on fire. The words, the stories -- they just flowed."

"Cool."

"I thought I had broken through my writer's block." He sucks in air. "It was exhilarating."

"I bet. What went wrong."

"It was like nothing I had ever experienced, it was ... inhuman. I was, like, ... possessed, or someth -- Oh. God. No." Paul starts hyperventilating.

Charlie holds him close. "Slow down. Breathe. Focus."

"Focus? Focus!? That's all I have been doing! I am drained! And it's all his fault. Oh God, oh God, oh God, I am so Damned!"

Paul's body is racked with sobbing and Charlie holds him tight, eyebrows furrowed. What the hell is happening?

Paul pulls in closer to them, eyes completely unfocused -- a death grip on the coffee mug.

They just hold him, waiting for comprehension that never arrives. "I've been digging up that new garden we wanted. See? I laid out the foundation for the raised beds over there, put in a couple posts for a front-facing trellis. I got the water feature scored out, along with where the water lines will run."

Paul's eyes focus a bit, looks over the work. "What is the trellis for?"

"I thought it would be cool to have ivy, or maybe morning glories."

"Yeah. That'd be nice."

He takes a sip of coffee, surveys the garden work, eyes looking out over the work they had done, not fully connecting to the moment.

"Where's Gabby?"

Charlie cocks their head. "Behind the shed. She bolted out of house hours ago and has been hiding. I thought she heard thunder or something, but we've had clear skies all day. Haven't been able to get her to come out."

Paul's chest quivered with a raspy breath.

"You said it was his fault. Who?"

Paul's muscles go tight under Charlie's embrace. He twists, looks at them with wide eyes and takes their hand. "Come. I'll show you."

He leads them back to the house, up to the attic. He hesitates at the door. Charlie starts to get apprehensive. They keep their voice low. "Is ... is someone in there?" Paul just nods. They pull Paul back from the door, wishing they had brought the spade. They listen for a moment -- hear nothing. One last look at Paul, then they reach for the door and burst into the room.

Nothing.

They search the room, the closet, check the window.

Nothing.

They step back out, shake their head, start to search the rest of the attic. Paul steps into the doorway, "HE'S RIGHT THERE!". Charlie rushes back in.

Nothing.

"You ... you ... don't see him, do you?"

"Of course they don't. Humans. Hrmph. Look, you are the only one who can see me."

"WHY!? WHY ARE YOU HERE!?"

"Paul. There is no one here ..."

"Charlie ... Charlie ..."

They pull him back into the hall and close the door.

---

Twenty years later, Charlie and Paul are still together, happy as any couple could be. Paul never goes back up to the room, never goes upstairs. He had insisted they board up the attic and now Paul runs a flower nursery. There is an odd absence of red in everything he grows. Eventually, Charlie builds a new art studio out by the garden.

Charlie tries to get Paul to talk about it, tries to get him into counseling. The haunted look in his eyes convinces them to give up and just move on with their life together.

The nightmares never stop, but once he gets the nursery business up and running, it is enough of a distraction to mute the nightmares -- to a degree.