The Story Without an Author

The overhead fluorescents hummed their familiar dirge as Elysia adjusted Mrs. Chen's pillow. The old woman's breathing had settled into the shallow rhythm that meant days, not weeks.

"There," Elysia whispered, smoothing the blanket. "Better?"

Mrs. Chen's eyes fluttered open, unfocused but grateful. Her hand twitched against the covers, and Elysia caught it gently, feeling the papery skin and bird-bone fingers. How many hands had she held like this? How many last breaths had she counted?

Her phone buzzed. A text from her brother: Still coming to dinner Sunday?

When had she last seen David? The holidays had blurred together in a haze of double shifts and empty takeout containers.

Maybe. Work's been crazy.

It's always crazy. Mom wants to see you.

Elysia slipped the phone away without answering. Room 247 needed fresh linens, and Mr. Abernathy in 251 hadn't touched his lunch.

She found him staring out the window at the parking lot, his breakfast tray untouched. His medication sat in a small paper cup—four pills that might buy him another few weeks.

"Not hungry?" she asked, settling into the visitor's chair.

He turned to her with pale blue eyes that seemed to see too much. "Time moves differently here, doesn't it? The days fold into each other. Like origami."

"How do you mean?"

"I've been thinking about stories. The ones we tell ourselves to make sense of the folding." His voice was barely above a whisper. "About clockmakers who build cities from forgotten things. Memories that tick like gears."

Elysia had learned not to redirect these conversations. The patients needed to be heard, needed someone to witness their thoughts as they untangled themselves from the world.

"Sounds like a beautiful story."

"Unfinished," he murmured, his fingers moving against the blanket as if writing invisible words. "The best ones always are."

The call came at 3:47 AM on a Tuesday. Mr. Abernathy had gone peacefully, they said. In his sleep, like everyone hoped to go.

Elysia arrived to find his room already partially cleared, his few possessions gathered into a cardboard box. His daughter lived in Oregon and wouldn't arrive until Thursday.

"I'll finish up here," she told the night nurse.

Alone with the empty bed, she began the final inventory. Three changes of clothes. A digital watch that had stopped at 3:45. A leather wallet with fourteen dollars and a library card from 1987.

At the bottom of the box, she found a small black notebook, its cover worn smooth by handling. She opened it expecting addresses or phone numbers.

Instead, she found grocery lists. Appointment reminders. A recipe for beef stew. But in the margins, squeezed between mundane entries, were fragments of something else entirely:

The clockmaker's workshop smelled of rust and remembering. Each gear he forged was cut from a moment someone had lost—a first kiss, a mother's lullaby, the weight of snow on Christmas morning.

He built his city one memory at a time, until the streets hummed with the echo of lives unlived and words unspoken.

But the clockmaker was lonely, for he had given away all his own memories to make the city tick.

The handwriting was shaky, uncertain, but the words pulled at something in Elysia's chest. She could picture Mr. Abernathy staring out at the parking lot, scribbling these fragments while the world folded around him.

She slipped the notebook into her pocket.

That evening, Elysia sat at her kitchen table with the notebook open beside her laptop. She'd been thinking about unfinished stories, about the loneliness that had lived in Mr. Abernathy's pale blue eyes.

Her fingers found the keyboard:

The Story Without an Author

The clockmaker's workshop smelled of rust and remembering...

She typed carefully, preserving each fragment, filling in the gaps where his handwriting had grown too faint. When she reached the end of his scribblings, she found herself continuing:

And so, the clockmaker, having given away all his memories to build his city of forgotten things, sat down in the center of his creation and listened to the tick of other people's lives. In the sound of their gears turning, he found a different kind of remembering—not his own, but theirs, and in that sharing, he was no longer alone.

The city hummed on, built from lost moments and tended by love.

She uploaded the story to "Whispers in the Margins," a small literary blog that collected anonymous submissions, and closed her laptop.

Seven days later, the manila envelope appeared under her door.

Inside was a single sheet of cream-colored paper with two words at the top:

Part Two

The clockmaker thought he was finished, but the city had its own hunger. It wanted more than memories—it wanted the one who had given them shape. And so, the gears began to turn backward, pulling the clockmaker's story from the future into the past, writing itself upon the world one word at a time.

The woman who had finished his tale would learn that some stories refuse to end. Some stories write themselves.

She would learn this when she touched the crescent-shaped scar on her left thumb, the one she'd earned at seven years old when she'd tried to carve her name into the oak tree behind her childhood home.

Elysia's hand moved to her thumb without conscious thought, tracing the pale, crescent-shaped mark that had been there for twenty-three years. A scar she'd never mentioned to anyone at the hospice. A scar that Mr. Abernathy could never have known about.

The paper slipped from her fingers and fluttered to the floor.

The envelopes arrived every few days now, each one containing another chapter that made her skin crawl.

Part Three mentioned her childhood braid. Part Four knew about Whiskers, the tabby cat she'd kept secret for three weeks before her mother discovered him. Part Five described the recurring nightmare that had plagued her since adolescence—standing in an empty hospital where all the patients had vanished.

Part Six was the cruelest. It wrote about David, about the fight that had split them apart two years ago. About the words they'd thrown at each other the day after their father's funeral.

The clockmaker's apprentice carried her brother's anger like a stone in her chest. She'd called him selfish, and he'd called her a coward who hid behind other people's deaths to avoid living her own life. Both had been right. Both had been unforgivable.

The handwriting never wavered from that perfect imitation of Mr. Abernathy's scratchy script.

The nosebleed came during morning medication rounds, sudden and violent.Elysia pressed a tissue to her nose, tasting copper.

"You look terrible," Janet said, finding her in the bathroom. "When's the last time you slept?"

"I'm fine," Elysia lied, but her reflection showed hollow eyes and pale skin.

"Take tonight off. See your doctor."

That night, exhaustion dragged her down. She fell asleep on the couch, still wearing her scrubs.

She woke to the sensation of drowning. Something heavy pressed against her chest, pinning her to the cushions. Her body was paralyzed, frozen between sleep and waking.

Then she heard it—a whisper, dry as autumn leaves:

"The story writes itself, dear girl. The story writes itself."

Mr. Abernathy's voice, exactly as she remembered it.

She tried to scream, but her vocal cords were locked. The weight grew heavier, and she could smell rust and remembering, the scent of a clockmaker's workshop.

When she finally broke free, gasping, the room was empty. She touched her nose. Her fingers came away red.

"I need help,"Elysia said, standing in Janet's office doorway. "Someone is sending me threatening letters."

Janet looked up from her paperwork. "What kind of letters?"

"They know personal things about me. I think someone is stalking me."

"Have you called the police?"

"They'd want to see the letters." Elysia couldn't explain why she'd burned each one after reading it. "I sound crazy, don't I?"

"You sound overworked," Janet said gently. "Why don't you talk to Dr. Finch? He's been asking about you, actually. Said he's concerned about your fragile state."

The words hit Elysia like a physical blow. Fragile state. When had Dr. Finch observed her closely enough to make that assessment?

At 2 AM, she typed into online forums:

Getting strange mail after patient's death - need advice

Working in hospice care. Patient died, found his creative writing, posted it online as tribute. Now getting anonymous letters continuing the story with impossible personal details. Handwriting looks like his but he's dead. Scared and don't know what to do.

The responses came quickly:

Classic creepy pasta setup. Try harder.

This is just "The Correspondence" with a hospice setting.

Nice try but this story's been done to death.

Her terror, reduced to a tired trope. But then she found other posts—people describing the same pattern, the same escalating dread. Each one debunked, explained, dismissed. The timestamps were wrong—some dated months in the future, others claimed to be from years ago but referenced recent events.

And in the corner of one post, barely visible: A.F.

The next morning, Dr. Finch appeared at the nurses' station.

" Elysia," he said, his voice warm with professional concern. "I've been thinking about our conversation. Perhaps we should schedule another session? I'm quite worried about your fragile state."

She stared at him, at the careful way he held his pen, at the elegant handwriting visible on his clipboard.

"Of course," she whispered.

He smiled. "Excellent. How about this afternoon?"

The afternoon shift brought its usual rhythm. Elysia moved through the motions on autopilot, her mind elsewhere, replaying the morning's conversation.

She was sorting through correspondence at the nurses' station when she found it. A condolence card addressed to the Morrison family, dated three months ago:

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Morrison,

Please accept my deepest sympathies for the loss of your mother. Eleanor spoke of you both with such pride during our sessions.

With sincere condolences, Alistair Finch

The signature was elegant—flowing cursive with distinctive flourishes. Especially the 'F' in Finch, which curved in an elaborate loop before settling into a precise horizontal line.

Elysia's blood turned to ice water.

She fumbled for her purse, pulling out the latest letter. Her hands shook as she scanned the text, looking for what her subconscious had already recognized.

There—in the middle of a paragraph—a single word: "Forgiveness." The 'F' stood out among Mr. Abernathy's shaky scrawl like a diamond among pebbles. Too perfect, too practiced, curving in that same elaborate loop.

The supernatural explanation crumbled like paper in rain.

The night shift was perfect for what she needed to do.

Elysia waited until the building settled into its after-hours quiet, then made her way to the administrative wing. The archives were locked, but she knew where the spare key was hidden.

She found Mr. Abernathy's folder first, thick with medical records and treatment notes. At the bottom: a therapy intake form dated six months ago.

Assigned therapist: Dr. Alistair Finch

Her hands trembled as she opened the session notes. Page after page of Dr. Finch's elegant handwriting, documenting Harold Abernathy's thoughts, fears, and observations. And there, scattered throughout like breadcrumbs:

Patient shows particular attachment to Nurse Vance. Refers to her as his "favorite storyteller." Notes that she often shares personal anecdotes during evening rounds.

Patient reports Nurse Vance mentioned her estrangement from her brother following their father's funeral. Details of argument included.

Patient observed Nurse Vance's childhood scar during hand examination. She explained it was from attempting to carve her name in a tree at age seven.

Every impossible detail from the letters, carefully documented in Dr. Finch's notes. Every private moment she'd shared with a dying old man, recorded and catalogued.

She found Dr. Finch's own personnel file next. Education, certifications, references—all impeccable. But at the bottom, under "Personal Interests and Hobbies," two entries made her blood freeze:

Calligraphy - Advanced Document Forgery Analysis - Professional

The file slipped from her numb fingers. She stared at the pages, at the careful documentation of a man who had turned her compassion into a weapon.

This wasn't a ghost's revenge. This was something far more terrifying.

This was an experiment. And she was the subject.

The fluorescent lights hummed overhead as Elysia sat on the archive room floor, surrounded by the evidence of her own manipulation. Somewhere in the building, Dr. Finch was probably asleep, dreaming of his next chapter.

She wondered what ending he had planned for her story.

The package arrived on Tuesday morning, different from all the others. Heavy, wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine.

Elysia stared at it from her kitchen doorway. Three days had passed since her discovery in the archives. Three sleepless nights of pretending normalcy while her mind raced through escape plans that led nowhere.

Inside was a leather-bound book with gold lettering: *The Life and Death of Elysia Vance.*

Her hands shook as she opened it. The pages contained her entire life, woven into the clockmaker's fable with surgical precision. Her childhood, nursing school, the quiet desperation of her job—all transformed into a fairy tale about a clockmaker's apprentice lost in other people's memories.

The final chapter was blank except for: *The story ends where it began.*

A note was tucked between the pages:

*Dear Elysia,*

*The time has come to meet the author. St. Bartholomew's Chapel, midnight. Come alone.*

*The clockmaker is waiting. -A.F.*

She knew it was a trap. But living as his unwitting subject was worse than whatever ending he'd planned.

At 11:45 PM, she parked outside the abandoned chapel, phone recording in her pocket.

---

Dr. Finch sat in the front pew, relaxed and comfortable. "Elysia. I'm so glad you came."

She remained in the doorway. "It was you. All of it."

"Of course it was me." His tone was conversational, cheerful. "Did you enjoy the book?

"You forged his handwriting. Made up the entire story."

"I improved upon his story. Harold's fragments were beautiful but incomplete. You were the perfect protagonist."

"You used information from his therapy sessions—"

"Information you gave me, through him. Harold shared everything you told him during our sessions. Every vulnerability. You made it so easy."

Her hand trembled over her pocket. "Why?"

"Because I could. Because the human mind is the most beautiful story ever written, and I wanted to see if I could edit it."

"The sleep paralysis. The nosebleeds—"

"Ah, the final piece." He pulled out a small vial of clear liquid. "Psychotropic compound. Highly effective in small doses. I've been introducing it into the staff room coffee, the restroom soap. Nothing detectable, but enough to make your mind... pliable."

"You drugged me."

"I directed you. The story was the script. The drug was the director. And you were the perfect actress."

---

The totality of his cruelty hit her like a physical blow. The methodical destruction of her reality, the careful orchestration of her isolation.

"You're insane," she whispered.

"I'm an artist. And this is my masterpiece."

Her hand shook as she reached for her phone, thinking of the recording, of evidence. But Dr. Finch noticed and smiled.

"Oh, Elysia. You don't need to worry about evidence anymore."

He stood and spoke with casual warmth:

"The clockmaker sleeps, and the city is still."

The words hit her like a physical blow. She'd heard them in every letter, every chapter, repeated like a mantra. The phrase that had seemed like meaningless poetry revealed its true purpose.

Her mind went blank.

The fear, the anger, the desperate fight—it all vanished, replaced by deep, empty calm. Her hand fell from her pocket. The recording no longer mattered. Nothing mattered except the gentle voice telling her the story was finished.

"That's better," Dr. Finch said softly. "Much better."

---

*Six weeks later*

The sunlit room in the hospice's long-term care wing was peaceful. Elysia sat in her wheelchair by the window, staring at the parking lot with placid, unresponsive eyes. The nurses spoke to her gently, but she never replied.

Dr. Finch entered for his weekly evaluation, clipboard in hand. He checked her chart and smiled with professional satisfaction.

"How are we doing today, Elysia?"

He placed a hardcover book on her bedside table: *The Story Without an Author* by Anonymous. The cover featured a clockmaker's workshop.

"Number one on the bestseller list," he said conversationally. "Quite an achievement. The critics are calling it 'a haunting meditation on memory and identity.'"

He opened to the dedication: *For E.V., who taught me that the most beautiful stories are the ones we live.*

"I wrote the story," he said quietly, voice filled with private triumph. "And now, it is finished."

Dr. Finch gathered his things and left. Through the window, Elysia continued staring at the parking lot, her mind as empty and still as the city in the clockmaker's tale.

The story was complete. The author had won.

And somewhere in the margins of her consciousness, too deep to reach, the real Elysia Vance screamed silently into the void.