Fourth Wall Mystery

“And I conclude that the murderer… is Bethany Hiland”. Shock spills through the room as faces turn to me, following the finger of the clever detective. Lightning follows his voice and whitens all of their horror for a split second. The room is silent afterwards, smoke drifting between each person from the pipe the Salesman puffs on. All eight people stare at me, the ruffian, the pinch faced woman, the suit man, the young daughter and the maid.

“Clever detective, what ever do you mean”, the widow of the victim asks, turning back to him with a confused expression.

“The person who murdered your husband is none other than Bethany Hiland”, the detective answers her and starts to circle the room, each step of his italian leather shoes making a distinct clopping sound on the floor. His long brown trench coat billows behind him ever so slightly. His black eyes stay on me and a smirk rises from his grey and black mustache.

“But sir”, the pinched woman corrects, “There is no Bethany Hiland”.

He stops on the other side of the room and he turns to her.

“There is no such person named Bethany Hiland in this house”, she repeats ever so crossly.

“Of course she is not in this house, she can be anywhere she wants to be at any time. She is here, right now, yet not at all. You will know none of her and she will know more about all of you than even you know. She is also the reason one of you has murdered the victim. For you see my friends, the true murderer is the author”.

I remove my hands from the typewriter and sit back in my chair. Shocked at what the words on my page read. 

I have no memory of writing anything of the such, this was not my plan for the story. It was like my hands were on autopilot or I was truly in the writing, but it wasn’t my writing. It was like the characters had suddenly gained control of their own destiny, mostly the Clever Detective.

I check the room around me, so dark that all of the empty shelves were large shadows that wiggle ever so slightly as if they are somewhat alive.

I wonder if this has been enough writing for tonight. That I should march upstairs to my room instead and just leave the typewriter before anything got weirder. In case those empty shelves turn into actual creatures coming for little me and my borrowed desk. Or the antiques hiding among the room would spring to life after several years of being looked over by people searching for treasure from junk in this little thrift store.

I look back at the typewriter and the page. Each key glimmers in the moonlight, shiney with wear from years of someone obsessively typing away on it. Some of the numbers have faded into dull scratches in each elevated button. The letter stampers, hot and sticky with fresh ink  wait for my answer in the dark machine. The paper, simple print paper sagged with writing, but stood tall at the empty space behind a pair of quotation marks. My line. 

My heartbeat hums in my ears, the silence too much for my eardrums. I scratch the inside of my fleece lined slippers that keep my feet warm.

“This typewriter was owned by Mr. Bradley James himself, the man who wrote “Stalking Night”, My aunts words ring around in my head, “And so many other great mystery writers, legends say anyone who writes on this typewriter will have the most interesting mystery novels, but few of these great writers have ever written again”.

At first I didn’t believe it, she was kind of a wacky person after all, but she let me use a $10,000 dollar antique typewriter so I was ok with it. I thought that those people were just great mystery writers, but is this typewriter why Bradley James never wrote another novel? Did the typewriter make “Stalking Night”? And what did it cost?

The allure of the keyboard pulled my hands back in and as soon as I touch the warm keys nothing happens. I think for a second and type up my answer to my characters, speaking to them as people for the first time since I dreamed them up on the bus ride to this nowhere home with my Aunt.

“Oh and how is that so”? I write and describe myself in the room.

I describe myself appearing in a new chair in the room, a Victorian armchair with velvet cushioning and flowery patterns and gold buttons. I am wearing an evening gown of copper colored silk and I describe my hair as elegant and flowy, not in a crude bun that I wear in real life. My slippers are instead shiny black flats. I smirk at the detective.

“Oh, a lady appeared”, the young girl announces as if all of the characters have not noticed me.

They all stare at me with disbelief and awe that a new person just appeared out of no where.

“Welcome Bethany”, The detective greets, “I am glad you decided to join us this evening, I have been expecting you”.

He bows at my right and kisses the top of my hand. I blush a little at the thought and oops, I wrote that I blush in the story.

“Obviously”, I smirk, “You did proclaim that I murdered the good doctor”.

“Wha-what in God’s name is this”, the pinched woman demands, getting up from her seat. Her grey eyes stare wildy at me and I can see the veiny whites of her eyes. Her lip quivers ever so slightly with fright, a sign of her age.

In my writing chair I hear the growl of uneasy thunder and I hear the pitter patter of rain, but tonight is clear. I am too excited to care. This is so fun.

“I am afraid there is no God my dear, only I”, I announce to her. I am technically the God of their world after all.

Her face drains of color and she clutches a cross around her neck.

“So you like, created us or something, we are like characters in a book or something”, the ruffian asks boredly, his tired eyes watch me with purple marks from his lack of sleep.

“Indeed I am, would you like a beer”, I ask.

Before he can give the obvious answer “Yes” he holds up a hand and he blinks in shock at his favorite brand of beer sitting cooly in his hand with the cap even off of the top.

“Whoah”, he gasps and doesn’t take a second to start chugging it down. The last few chapters I have deprived him of his cravings.

“Can I have a soda”, the little girl yells only to get glared at by the maid.

“So you are the author, then why did my husband have to die”, the widow asks from her couch. She sniffles and pulls a fist around her well dirtied handkerchief.

“That’s easy, because I have written you all in a murder mystery story, just something to do while I am at my Aunts place for the summer”, It feels like I am actually speaking to them, but I know I am not. For I am not so elegant with my speech in my true voice. I wouldn’t actually speak at all, taking my preference to listen to the brave souls who dare speak aloud. I would never be so brazen.

“Really then”? The salesman growls, and glares at me from his side of the room. His eyes meet mine and I look away. I do not want his attention.

“So you are the person who brought us here to this island what do you plan to do with us”. The man in the suit asks.

“You mean what does she plan to do with me”, the detective asks.

He looks over at me with a sly, handsome smile on his mahogany lips. I suddenly feel sorry for what I was planning to do with him this chapter.

Lightning flashes and illuminates the room suddenly. One, two, three seconds and the thunder rolls, so loud and long that it is like a hive of angry jets flying around.

“Yes, you were supposed to die this evening. The real murderer was going to run up and kill you in the dark in about a minute or two, but you didn’t start your rant like you were supposed to, instead you went for me so instead of the murderer protecting his identity, it is you giving the credit to me”, I reluctantly reveal. I see the futility of keeping the secret now.

“Indeed, are you not the true murderer, the person who caused suffering to everyone, all of their lives from their birth to their death. You are the reason for every one of their problems”.

I have never thought of that before. It is true though. I robbed the widow of her loving husband. I gave the salesman an abusive family. I gave the ruffian his addictions and his scars. I orphaned that little girl. I have trapped the maid. And I have done so much more to the detective.

They are no longer just words on a page at that moment. It is like I am looking at all of them, looking into their eyes and seeing their betrayal and sadness, anger and some outright fury. More than ever I kind of feel responsible for them. It is true. I am their God in a way.

They all look away from me, each sickened at my true form to them.

“I see the guilt on your face”, the Clever Detective whispers to me, “You never really did see us as real people did you. We are your characters, your creations. You thought you could harm us as you please. Because we aren’t real”.

I feel a weight pushing my shoulders down. I look behind me in real life, but no one is there. My fingers keep rapidly typing words on the typewriter. Instead I just read the words as they appear. My hands are no longer in my control.

“We can be as real as we want to be”, the salesman says and stands. His hands shake as a knife appears in them from the secret pocket only I know of.

“Let me show you how real I am”, he shouts and with a flash of lightning the lights short out. The room goes black. 

I scream in real life as it feels like a knife has been stabbed into my chest and I fall out of the antique chair and onto the floor. I gasp for air and clutch my chest.

A light flicks on upstairs as my vision blurs in and out. I gasp again, but air has become useless to me. I don’t hear my heartbeat in my ears anymore.

Feet appear in front of my face and I can hear my aunt yelling about an ambulance and 911.

I pass out, not knowing I would ever wake up again.

I survived a heart attack. Unusual because my family has no history of it and the doctor heard no sign of a clotted artery. My heart just stopped for no reason.

I knew the reason.

When I came back to my aunt’s thrift store in a wheel chair, she set me by the typewriter so she could talk to a customer.

It looks so ordinary, its $10,000 tag still hanging on it and the keys now cold and shiney in the morning sunlight. The slot for paper was empty and the dials had been carefully cleaned off of ink. It looks so innocent.

Then I notice a stack of printer paper sitting on the desk, neatly bound with yarn. I picked it up and looked through it.

It was an entire novel, my story, but refined, edited and even better than when I wrote it. The characters were given names and the writing was better and the twist was better. It was as if someone had rewritten it to be the best mystery novel overnight. I watch the typewriter warily. 

When I am pushed upstairs, I read the story and the thought came up “Should I publish this”.

I reach over to my chest and put a hand over my heart. It beats under my pajamas, a faint pain lingers there and it will each time I think of these characters or the story. 

I shove the papers into a drawer and go to sleep. I wonder if I will ever have the bravery to write again, to cause pain to characters for the plot. To play God with non real people.