The Ghostwriter

A thin veil of fog, like a river of mist, enveloped London's streets on that damp November morning. Jeremy Sigul, a man barely past forty-eight, pulled his coat tighter, adjusted his hat, unfurled his umbrella, and gripped his briefcase as he emerged from the subway. His youthful appearance belied his age, betrayed only by his receding hairline. His tall frame and confident stride suggested a man of assuredness, a stark contrast to his inner turmoil.

Lost in thought, he barely noticed the stranger who collided with his shoulder. Startled, he turned to see only a retreating figure in a dark coat, hood pulled low. As he continued his walk, he felt something beneath his foot. Stooping, he retrieved a small USB drive. Assuming it belonged to the person he'd encountered, he searched the crowd, but the stranger had vanished. With a glance at the clock, he realized he was running late and hastily pocketed the drive, hurrying towards his destination.

* * *

As the clock ticked closer to the end of his workday, he leaned back in his chair and rubbed his tired eyes. His prolonged computer work had left them stinging. Reaching into his pocket, he accidentally brushed against the USB drive he'd found earlier. A thoughtful look crossed his face as he surveyed the office. The brokerage firm's workspace was a maze of identical cubicles, each enclosed by opaque glass and aluminum, offering a sense of privacy. Yet, the only way to see what someone else was working on was to stand directly behind them. The room was filled with the steady rhythm of typing and the low hum of indistinct conversations.

As he inserted the USB drive, a folder labeled 'Strictly Confidential' popped up on his screen. Intrigued, he clicked the file. A peculiar sight unfolded: a short, rosy-cheeked man, impeccably dressed in a tuxedo, danced gleefully across the screen, waving a cane in hand. A burst of cheerful music accompanied his performance.

A flush of color crept across Jeremy's face as he yanked the drive out. A deathly silence had fallen over the office. His breath caught in his throat. Seconds ticked by, agonizingly slow. Then, a faint tapping began. A second followed. Gradually, the familiar hum of conversation returned, washing away his fear.

* * *

After his long day at work, Jeremy stepped out into the crisp evening air. The rain had finally subsided, leaving the city streets damp and glistening under the streetlights. He made his way to the underground station, his departure time imminent. The platform was eerily empty, save for an elderly woman hunched over her cane. It was an unusual sight during rush hour.

Suddenly, the elderly woman began to cough, her body wracked by a sudden fit. Alarmed, Jeremy approached her, but she seemed unresponsive. Before he could react, she stumbled and tumbled onto the tracks.

Heart pounding, Jeremy raced towards her. The woman lay sprawled on the rails, gasping for air. A wave of panic washed over him as he hesitated. Then, with a surge of courage, he jumped down to her aid. The approaching train's whistle pierced the air, a stark reminder of the danger.

As he reached for the woman, a chilling sight met his eyes. Instead of the elderly woman, a young girl stood before him, her white hair shimmering in the dim light. Her eyes, a piercing blue, held an unsettling coldness. With a swift movement, she slipped away from his grasp and leaped onto the platform.

Jeremy turned to see the train hurtling towards him. In a desperate act, he grabbed the girl's hand, his fingers closing around the icy skin. Then, with a jarring jolt, he found himself standing on the platform, the train screeching to a halt.

The station was suddenly alive with noise and commotion. People had appeared from nowhere, boarding the train. Yet, no one seemed to have noticed the extraordinary events that had just transpired. The girl was gone, vanished as mysteriously as she had appeared. Jeremy shook his head, a sense of bewilderment washing over him. He boarded the train, the doors sliding shut behind him, leaving him alone with the memory of the ghostly encounter.

The jostling crowd made him feel claustrophobic. His breath came in heavy gasps. He braced himself against a pole, doing his best to avoid contact with the other passengers. Was it all a dream? If so, how and when had it happened? His hand was still numb from the girl's icy touch. The train came to a halt. It was time to disembark.

***

He straightened his coat and headed home. The stale air hit him like a physical blow as he entered his apartment. He kicked off his boots, tossed his coat onto an armchair, and dropped his briefcase on the table. He flicked on the heater, a fleeting luxury afforded by his meager salary. He was forced to ration its use, turning it off during the day to conserve energy.

With a weary sigh, he retrieved a canned meal from the cupboard, emptied it onto a plate, sat down at his computer, and began to eat ravenously.

Jeremy Sigul, beyond his morning job at the brokerage firm, had another, less lucrative pursuit: writing. It was a dream he had nurtured since childhood, but his aspirations had fallen short of reality. So, he found himself working as a ghostwriter, his words bringing success to others while his own name remained hidden in the shadows.

Each time he saw his work published under someone else's name, he wrestled with a complex internal battle. His pride yearned for recognition, while his conscience urged him to remain silent. He clenched his fists and gritted his teeth, a silent protest against the injustice. The success he had crafted with his own pen was a bittersweet victory, a triumph that belonged to someone else.

He gulped down a mouthful of beans and opened his emails. They were inundated with feedback from his latest client: nitpicking comments about his phrasing, grammar, and even the vocabulary he'd used to describe the project. Frustrated, he slammed his fist on the table and shut his laptop. Jeremy was one of those people who believed problems could be solved by ignoring them. He snorted, muttering, “Ingrates. They have no appreciation for my work. They think I'm lucky to give them my writing for such a paltry sum.”

He stood up abruptly, pushed back his chair, and grabbed a cold beer from the fridge. Downing it in one gulp, he wiped his mouth with his sleeve and tossed the can into the sink.

“One day,” he growled, his teeth clenched, “I'll be famous. They'll see. They'll beg me.”

He cursed under his breath. The client's nitpicking corrections were driving him mad. He grabbed his coat, but a USB drive slipped from its pocket. He picked it up. Back at his computer, he lowered the volume and inserted the drive. A familiar figure appeared on the screen: a short, rosy-cheeked man in a tuxedo, twirling a cane.

Upbeat music filled the room as he danced. The man stopped, tapping his cane six times in the corner of the screen. A red ribbon unfurled, revealing a message written in dripping red paint.

'Congratulations,' it read. 'You are one of the lucky ones we chose to fulfill your deepest desire. Click on the folder and your dreams will come true.'

A crimson folder pulsed on the screen. Jeremy's heart pounded. Surely, it was a virus. He ripped the USB drive out, but the image persisted. He furrowed his brow, tapped away at the keyboard, but nothing budged. Desperation mounting, he shut down the computer, only to see the image reappear when he restarted it.

Grabbing his phone, he frantically searched for a technician. Calling the first number he found, he prayed for a miracle, hoping the promised 24-hour service was real.

***

A moment later, a man in a burgundy vest, white shirt, black bow tie, and trousers stood at the doorway. He smiled, and a mouthful of gold teeth gleamed.

“Jeremy Sigul?” he inquired, his voice dripping with a peculiar cheeriness. Jeremy, taken aback by the man's odd attire for a computer technician, nodded.

“I'm David,” the man said, offering a handshake that sent a chill down Jeremy's spine. His hand was as cold as ice. “You called about a computer issue. Mind if I take a look?”

“Of course,” Jeremy replied.

David strode in, his eyes scanning the room with a practiced smile. “So, this is the patient?” he asked, gesturing towards the computer.

“Yes,” Jeremy confirmed.

The technician sat down, his gaze locking onto the screen. “Well, well,” he mused, a knowing glint in his eye. “Looks like a nasty virus. How did you manage to catch it?”

Jeremy hesitated, “I plugged in a USB drive, and now this image is stuck. I've tried everything, but it won't budge.”

David stroked his chin, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. “Must be quite urgent, then,” he observed, “to call a technician at this hour.”

“It's work,” Jeremy explained. “I have a tight deadline.”

“Deadlines, deadlines,” David echoed, a hint of sympathy in his voice.

David's eyes were glued to the screen, his fingers dancing across the keyboard. Jeremy watched him, a sense of unease growing within him.

“At least, I love my job,” David said, his voice a low rumble. “It's in my blood. Give me computers, take my soul...” His eyes met Jeremy's, a chilling intensity in his gaze. “Just saying, of course,” he added, returning his attention to the screen.

“I like my job too...” Jeremy replied, his voice hesitant.

“I hear a doubt in your tone,” David observed, a smirk playing on his lips.

“Let's just say things could be better,” Jeremy said cautiously.

“There's always room for improvement,” David replied, his voice laced with a hint of menace.

“In my case, there's a lot of room,” Jeremy admitted, his voice barely a whisper.

“Then the question is, what are you willing to do to change things for the better?” David asked, his eyes boring into Jeremy's.

Jeremy leaned forward, his resolve faltering. “I'd give even my soul,” he whispered.

David smiled, a chillingly cold expression on his face. He clicked the mouse, and the image on the screen vanished.

“Done!” he exclaimed, his voice filled with a strange triumph.

Jeremy stood up, a mixture of relief and dread washing over him. “Thank you,” he said, his voice barely audible.

The technician pulled a document from his bag. “Please sign here. It's a confirmation that we solved your problem.”

Jeremy complied, his hand trembling slightly. “How much do I owe you?”

“Nothing, Mr. Sigul. It's company policy not to charge our customers anything the first time. You'll pay us next time.”

“Hopefully, there won't be a next time,” Jeremy joked, trying to sound lighthearted.

David didn't speak. He smiled broadly, his gold teeth gleaming ominously. “Until next time, Mr. Sigul,” he said, his voice a chilling farewell.

Jeremy shivered as David's icy hand clasped his own.

* * *

The next morning, panic-stricken, he sprinted toward the metro, the doors closing just as he reached the platform. His hat tumbled into the yawning gap between train and platform. As the train lurched forward, he glanced out the window, his heart pounding. He swore he saw a girl with white hair and piercing blue eyes pick up his hat and place it on her head. The scene vanished as the train accelerated, leaving him unsure if it was a fleeting glimpse of reality or a figment of his imagination.

He squeezed through the crowd, finding the only empty seat. His eyes fell on a petite, dark-haired girl clutching her bag tightly, her gaze darting nervously around. She wore the smallest shoes he'd ever seen.

Suddenly, words began to flow from his mind, a torrent of inspiration he couldn't contain. He pulled out his phone and started typing.

'He saw her tiny, bare feet, walking in the darkness. She was desperately trying to find a way out but kept stumbling over nails and mud. Her blood had formed a thin stream. He closed his eyes, greedily inhaling its scent. The time had come. He emerged from the shadows and began his gruesome game…'

So engrossed was he that he almost missed his stop. He continued writing, his mind racing, as he walked to the office, worked, and returned home. A sudden inspiration had begun to overflow without stopping. And this, was only the beginning.

***

A year later, a sea of faces filled the grand ballroom for the launch of Jeremy Sigul's debut novel, Steps in the Dark. The book, published by the country's most prestigious publishing house, had already sparked discussions for translation and film adaptations.

As the event drew to a close, Jeremy signed the last copy, a surge of pride washing over him. The room emptied, and he bent down to gather his belongings. A sudden burst of applause startled him. He looked up, his heart pounding. A man with hair as white as snow and eyes the color of the sky was approaching him from the back of the room. A chill ran down his spine.

“Congratulations, Mr. Sigul!” the man exclaimed, his applause finally ceasing. He stood before Jeremy's desk, his gaze piercing.

Jeremy swallowed hard, his heart pounding. He met the man's gaze defiantly, rising to his feet.

“Thank you very much, Mr…”

“HellWay. Damon HellWay,” he introduced himself, extending a chillingly cold hand.

The sensation was familiar, a haunting echo from the past.

“Your book is truly... inspiring!” Damon continued, his voice laced with admiration. “The way you've captured the victim's torment and the killer's twisted psychology is masterful.”

“Thank you again. But how do you know all this? It was released today at this presentation. Have you already read it? I don't recall you being among those who purchased a copy, and I signed.”

The man's smile was blinding, his teeth gleaming under the spotlights.

“Is it possible not to know the book I wrote?” he chuckled.

“You?!” Jeremy exclaimed, disbelief etched on his face. “How on earth?! I wrote the book! It's…”

“...the result of an agreement you made a year ago,” Damon interrupted, his voice calm and menacing.

“What agreement? I don't…”

“A year ago, you found a USB stick on the street, didn't you?”

“How…”

“Do you remember what appeared on the computer screen when the man in the tuxedo stopped dancing?”

“A red ribbon, but…”

“And what did the ribbon do?”

“It formed a phrase…”

“Which said?”

“You are one of the lucky ones we chose to fulfill your deepest desire. Click on the folder and your dreams will come true,” he replied as if he were seeing the words before him. “I don't understand…”

“I'll explain it to you right away, Mr. Sigul,” Damon said, his voice dripping with condescension. “You published your first book. A book with the potential to be a worldwide bestseller. Your wish came true.”

“But I didn't...” Jeremy stammered, his voice barely a whisper.

“Good evening, Mr. Sigul.”

He jumped.

David, the technician, materialized beside him. His clothes were the same, his gold teeth glinting oddly.

“What's going on...” Jeremy sputtered, his mind racing.

Sweat beaded on his forehead.

David shrugged nonchalantly. “Do you remember what you told me when I asked what you were willing to do to change things for the better?”

Jeremy was silent for a moment, his eyes wide with fear. “I would even give my soul,” he muttered.

David clapped his hands triumphantly. “Exactly! Did you think all this inspiration suddenly sprang from your mind? Did you really believe that? Did you think that from a simple, and not even that good, ghostwriter, you would become a famous writer? Is that the kind of delusions you harbor?”

“But how...” Jeremy began, his voice trembling.

“It's simple, Mr. Sigul,” Damon interrupted, leaning in. “Without my intervention, you'd be nothing. A lackey, taking abuse from your boss; a miserable soul watching others live out their dreams, signed by your own hand. But now...” He winked. “Remember the document David had you sign when you agreed to sell your soul for your dream? Our deal is sealed, and it can't be undone.”

Suddenly, Jeremy realized the significance of the man's name standing before him.

“What...” he stammered, sinking into his chair. “What do you want?”

“Don't you remember?” David began. “I told you we never take payment upfront from our clients. We get paid later. So, it's time to collect what you owe us.”

“What... what do I owe you...?”

Sweat continued to pour down his face. Damon leaned in closer, his eyes flashing-literally.

“I want you to write for me: everything I show you, everything I tell you. It's time for an upgrade, Jeremy. Until now, you were just a ghostwriter. Now, you'll become my personal HELLWRITER.”

Jeremy swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. Damon extended his hand. David returned a sinister smile, winking at him. Jeremy hesitated, but then reached out to shake Damon's hand. A chill ran down his spine, numbing his body.

He covered his face with his hands, his eyes wide with terror. He knew there was no escape, no turning back.