It's in the Basement

I’d done it. All of some 257,817 words lay finished before me. I leaned back in my chair and basked in the triumph. I. James Harris, had just finished writing my very own true crime novel.

In one way, it felt like a weight off of my shoulders. I’d been carrying this story on my back for months, pushing on every single day even as my vicious inner critic demanded that I just delete the whole damn thing. Even knowing there were multiple phases of editing ahead, I still felt finished in a way. Here was my rough draft. It was a story. A complete story. You could read this from front to back and it would probably make sense. 

It was complete and the aspirations it had been built upon were visibly blooming to life before me alongside it. There’d been a hunger involved in writing this book. So long ago I recalled my family questioning me about why I was doing it. There hadn’t been support at the beginning, and I’d doubted myself too. Back then, I’d lost my job  and it had put my marriage through the wringer and writing felt like the only thing I had. Creating characters in my mind and telling stories made me feel powerful in a world where I was starting to feel powerless. 

My wife and I had even bonded over the writing. We talked about the story and brainstormed things together. Of course, I didn’t let her know about everything, but that was part of the fun of it. There was a distance between her and the craft and I think that when she needed space then, that it had helped her stay close to me without feeling like she was trapped. 

Fast forward to now and writing, I dare say, has saved my life. 

There was still bitter to that sweet though. My child was all grown up and about to head off to college.

Either way, my book was done. No longer would I be huddled up, toiling away in the claustrophobic crawlspace of my mind with my characters and their plights. They would go on living their lives and solving problems long after my book was in anybody else’s hands, and those adventures were not for me to write. It meant goodbye.

After spinning around in my swivel chair and throwing my arms around in excitement for a minute, I scooted back into my desk and decided to read a couple sections again to revel in my success.

Something wasn’t right though. The light on my webcam was on. 

I looked for a program that could be using it. Maybe something had automatically opened and was trying to use it? 

Nope, nothing.

When that failed, I opened task manager and looked for a rogue program. 

Nada.

I looked into the eye of the camera. There was only one possibility left.

Somebody was watching me.

I flipped the camera cover shut. Thank God I’d bought that thing! I’d always heard warnings about hackers hijacking webcameras but I never expected that to happen to me. I realized then that I was just waiting for it to turn off, and did that even mean that they were really gone? Could they just be sitting there with the camera off, watching my screen? What the hell is somebody supposed to do when this actually happens? 

I went to search the topic online and then stopped myself. 

Right, do it right in front of them. Brilliant.

As I reached for my phone to Google from there instead, my computer tabbed to my novel and an error message popped up with a harsh tone.

It read, Are you sure you want to delete ‘W.I.P. Kidnapping Novel’? 

The little ‘yes’ box was highlighted. I clicked no as fast as I could and slammed the laptop shut. Why the hell would they want to delete my story? What did they have to gain? It was just cruel!

I heard the error tone again.

I opened the laptop and found the error message was back. I went to click no, but my mouse was unresponsive.

“Hey! Hello! What are you doing?” I said, trying not to sound upset. Don’t give them something to work with, I thought. If they know you’re afraid, they’ll use it against you. 

A white box opened up in front of everything and text appeared there.

“You’ll do what we say or your novel will be deleted, James,” it read.

I couldn’t believe it. A hacker was holding my novel hostage. Ideas raced through my head about what they wanted from me. Money? I supposed you could have called me wealthy. We had a nice house and we could afford nice things, but I wasn’t sitting on extravagant riches, and I was almost certain I hadn’t upset somebody with a rival to the 

Somebody else knew what I’d done.

“I have a backup on a flash drive,” I bluffed. I really wished that that had been the truth.

“No, you don’t. We’ve monitored all your connected devices. There is no backup. Do not lie again.”

All of my connected devices? I looked at my phone and noticed that the service was out. They must have taken me offline. I started looking around the room. 

A smart TV.

A home security panel.

A virtual assistant.

If what they were saying was true, they were tapped into everything. Nothing was safe. 

I couldn’t speak. I turned my head down. It felt like I was being watched from all angles and I just wanted to hide and cry.

I regained my composure and looked up.

“Nervous? You were crying,” said the white box. 

I searched all around me. My phone was in my lap, its tiny camera lens watching me viciously. I chucked it onto my bed.

“Please don’t delete it. I worked so hard!” I said.

I hoped they’d feel sorry and stop.

“I’ll do anything,” I said.

In response,.one word appeared in as plain a font as could be.

“Confess.”

The web browser opened and went straight to my Twitter page. What’s happening? the blank box for updating my status mocked. A little line blinked there, awaiting my fingers’ command. Awaiting my confession. Whispering “James, James! Tell your thousands of followers, James! Tell them what you did!”

“I can’t,” I said and I got up from my seat. This was all too much.

The cold thunk of the error tone came again. I rushed back to my laptop. 

“Okay, okay!”

Back to the Twitter wall in a weeping heap, I felt like there was no amount of willpower I could expend to type what I’d done into the world. I didn’t feel guilty for it. It really wasn’t that bad what I did. It’s just…

I really wanted people to like me.

A new tab opened - ‘1 minute timer - Google Search’.

I beat my fist against the desk.

It was unfair! I’d done everything I had to to make sure it stayed private and this stupid internet fool had ruined it! Ruined it!

I choked up at another realization.

My wife will know.

If there was anybody I fought to hide it from. It was her. Sure, she’d known I’d been trying to “live out” the events of my story to understand what I was writing, but she’d assumed I meant my visit with the police or my trip to California to be on-location and experience the climate and the feel of it. Bullshit! She didn’t know the half of it.

With 30 seconds left to make a decision that would change my life, letting my novel be deleted really seemed like an option. I could have just worked on it again after all! Sure, I’d have been set back a few years but that would’ve been nothing compared to losing my wife and never having friends again. 

I checked my timer.

Ten seconds left: there were only ten seconds to choose between my work and my life as I know it. Am I a writer or a man? A simple man. An insignificant man.

I had finished a book. An entire book. Hundreds of hours spent typing away and brainstorming and experimenting. I’d taken great risks to get here and those 250,000 words before me stood proof of my excellent character. No mere mortal bends worlds with his bare mind. No. That is the work of a greater man.

A god.

I typed up my confession and posted it. 

It seemed that the hacker left right away. The text editor closed. The timer stopped. No sign that they’d ever been there at all. Perhaps, they were still watching as the responses came in.

“James, is this a joke? If it is, this is really messed up. You shouldn’t post stuff like this. :( If it isn’t, please message me.”

“Sheila’s right, J. Poor taste.” 

“Dude… a kid?”

Another comment? A series of laughing emojis. They thought I was joking! A few direct messages were sent my way, one of which was my best friend shouting in all caps, asking me about what I did with his daughter. Others unfriended me, and I’m sure others still just called the police. 

But it’s okay. I finished my novel! And once they read it, they would understand why what

I’d done had been necessary  I have no doubt that there’s no other novel so true to life as mine. I saw it all flash before my eyes. Bookstore shelves lined with my work, raving reviews commending my shockingly vivid portrayal of--

Wait, I hadn’t titled it yet. 

That seemed really strange to me because I don’t think a work is finished until you set the title down on it. It’s the last bit of decoration that makes the finished product actually “finished”. 

Who Killed Anna Stewart? No, too campy.

The Runaway Killer. Fitting, but not striking. It didn’t jump out at the reader and tell them that this novel was different.

Catch and Release. Poetic. Something I could play with in future edits. I liked it. But it just wasn’t the one.

I knew I was on the clock, but ideas kept running through my head. Every time I went to put something down, a newer, better one came bashing in.

Then I found my new title, just as there came a knock at the front door.

I saved the book under this new title, set it to print, and went to check the door.

That story was then. I write this now, from a life sentence in prison, in hopes that it will be published somehow. A viral online post from a leak, perhaps? I’d like fans of the book to know the intriguing story of its release. I think this is a bit of a tale of itself, honestly.

My state has abolished the death penalty, so I count that among my blessings because it means I can keep writing! And as long as I can keep writing, I am no prisoner.

I made sure the police found the book at the printer when they investigated my home. From what I’ve heard, it’s gotten out and gone big! Nothing else in the world makes me happier, and it’s thoughts like that that help me get along without visits from my wife or family. Mostly my wife. I would really like to hear from her again, but she only ever came once.

“I never knew you, James. I hope you rot in hell, you fucking monster.”

That was all she said.

And then she left. I cried, but only for a while. 

No time for tears, not when there was more writing to do.

If I could make a single wish, it would be that I could just ask somebody what they think of the book. I don’t really get to hear much from the world outside, let alone about my work. And, furthermore, if that single glimpse into the performance of my story had to be isolated to a single detail, I’d ask the reader if they thought the title had the punch I felt like it had. I, personally, felt I had stumbled on a really stellar title, but there was one worry nagging on me since I’d written it.

That the reader wouldn’t realize “it” referred to her body.