Page Turner

The rain in Plotford pounded on the window like a drunk ex demanding to be let in—loud, desperate, and entirely unwelcome.

My office smelled like burnt coffee and socks you keep meaning to throw out but never do—a combination that could double as an interrogation tactic. A mismatched sock peeked from under my desk, accusing me of neglect, while the coffee maker sputtered in the corner, trying and failing to brew a decent pot. On my desk sat a stack of unpaid bills tall enough to deserve its own zip code.

“Hardwick Investigations,” I muttered, raising my cup of cold sludge like a toast. “Where we solve murders, misplace alibis, and occasionally answer the phone.”

As if on cue, the door creaked open, and a man stumbled in like he was auditioning for the role of Nervous Wreck. He wore a beige suit two sizes too big and a face that suggested he’d just remembered his anniversary—three days too late.

“Detective Hardwick?” he asked, adjusting his glasses as if they’d forgotten how to sit on his face.

“That’s what it says on the door,” I replied, though the sign had fallen off last week.

He stepped forward, clutching an envelope so tightly I thought he might strangle it. “I need your help.”

I leaned back in my chair, which groaned louder than I did on a Monday morning. “Join the club. Membership’s free, but coffee costs extra.”

“It’s about Edgar Scribble,” he blurted, and for a moment, the name didn’t register. Then it hit me. The guy who wrote those convoluted mystery novels—the kind where the plot twists so hard you need a chiropractor afterward.

I let out a low whistle. “Scribble, huh? What’s the deal? He plagiarate the wrong guy this time?”

“I do believe that is not a word,” Mr. Quibble swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing like it was trying to make an escape.. “But no.” He swallowed hard. “He’s dead. And the way he died...”

The words hung in the air like the smoke of a cheap cigar—thick and impossible to ignore.

I raised an eyebrow. “You’re not about to tell me he choked on a plot twist, are you?”

Quibble fiddled with the edge of his envelope, trembling. “It’s... better if I show you.”

Moments later, I was grabbing my coat, already regretting leaving the sanctuary of stale coffee and unpaid bills.

*******

Scribble’s office was the kind of chaos only a writer could justify—or a hurricane with artistic tendencies. Books teetered in precarious stacks, papers carpeted the floor, and the air carried a faint whiff of ink. A half-eaten sandwich lay abandoned on the desk, its edges curling like a corpse in rigor mortis.

But none of that compared to the centerpiece.

Edgar Scribble sat slumped over his desk—or at least, his body did. His head was another story, literally. It was impaled on the jagged keys of an ancient Underwood typewriter, his blood smeared across the keys like a grim punctuation mark. The keys groaned softly as the typewriter swayed under the weight of Scribble’s head.

“Well,” I muttered, my stomach doing somersaults, “guess he really bled for his craft.”

Mr. Quibble swayed beside me, his face as pale as the paper. “This... this isn’t right. None of this is right.”

He wasn’t wrong. Something about the room felt off. I glanced at the wall and froze. Scrawled in blood, just above Scribble’s desk, were three words:

THE PLOT THICKENS.

I let out a low whistle, trying to ignore the crawling sensation running up my spine. “Guess we’re skipping the prologue.”

*******

The bar was a place where ambition came to drown without a life preserver. Smoke drifted in lazy spirals, hanging over the room like a ceiling of ghosts, and the air carried a cocktail of whiskey fumes and upholstery old enough to vote. My bourbon tasted like it had been aged in a gas station parking lot, but it did the job. That’s when she walked in, turning the room’s low hum of misery into something worth paying attention to.

Her entrance turned every head in the room, including mine. She was wearing a red dress that didn’t just ask for attention—it demanded it, the fabric clinging to her like a whispered secret. The click of her heels on the floor cut through the low hum of conversation as she slid onto the stool next to mine, her movements smooth and deliberate. She looked at me with eyes sharp enough to make a bulletproof vest feel inadequate.

“You smell like cheap whiskey and a bad idea I might just say yes to, Detective,” she said, her voice low and smoky, with just enough edge to make you wonder if she’d use it to cut your throat or your heart. “Vivian Cross.”

I gave her a nod that might’ve passed for gentlemanly, if I’d been the kind of guy who still believed in manners. “And you smell like trouble.”

She smirked, the kind of smirk that carried secrets in its pocket. “What do you know about Edgar Scribble?”

I took a sip of my drink, buying myself a second to decide how much to tell her. “Enough to know he’s not writing any sequels.”

“That’s one way to put it.” She leaned in, close enough that I could smell the faint trace of cigarettes and something floral. “You know he was working on a new book before he died?”

“Yeah? What’d he call it? How to Die Like a Hack”

Her smirk widened, but her eyes stayed sharp. “Death by Narration. Scribble said it was too dangerous to finish. Said it wasn’t just a book—it was the book.”

That caught my attention, but I kept my expression flat.

“Dangerous, huh? What was he gonna do, write them into a coma?”

Vivian shook her head. “You don’t believe me, Detective. But you will.” She stood and looked back at me. “You’ll find the manuscript in his office. If you’re smart, you’ll burn it. If you’re not... well, let’s hope you’re smart.”

She walked out, her heels tapping a rhythm that stuck with me longer than I cared to admit. I sat there for a moment, staring at the glass in my hand like it had answers, before finally pushing back my stool and heading into the rain.

Back at Scribble’s office, I found the manuscript on his desk, half-buried under stacks of notes. Death by Narration.

*******

By the time I reached my office, Scribble’s manuscript was waiting for me like an accusation. The notes scrawled in the margins were chaotic, a jumble of ideas and cryptic warnings. But as I skimmed the pages, a sick realization began to creep over me: the events described weren’t just similar to what was happening—they were exact.

The manuscript described Scribble’s death in grisly detail, right down to the typewriter impalement. Then it moved on to me. My investigation, my thoughts—word for word.

“What the hell?” I whispered, the words sticking in my throat. The more I read, the worse it got. My doubts, my snarky inner commentary, even my irritation with the barista. Scribble had written all of it, as if my life had been transcribed before I lived it.

I slammed the manuscript shut, my pulse racing. This wasn’t just a case anymore. This was personal. And if anyone had answers, it was her.

*******

Vivian was waiting for me at the dive bar, her legs crossed, her expression unreadable.

“You knew,” I said, sliding into the seat across from her.

Her lips curled into a faint smile. “Knew what, Detective?”

“Don’t play coy. Scribble’s manuscript—it’s my life. My thoughts, my actions. How’s that possible?”

She tilted her head, studying me like a puzzle she was half-interested in solving. “You think you’re the detective, Nick, but what if you’re just another clue?”

Her words hit like a slap, and I barely kept my voice steady. “What the hell does that mean?”

Vivian’s smirk faded, replaced by something darker—regret, maybe, or a memory she’d been trying to forget. She leaned closer, lowering her voice. “Do you really think you’re the first, Nick? Scribble’s not the only one who couldn’t finish the story.”

I stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor. I couldn’t deal with her cryptic nonsense anymore. I needed answers, and there was only one person unhinged enough to make sense of this madness.

*******

The building Lenny Margins called home wasn’t just run-down; it was actively conspiring against the concept of hope. Shadows didn’t just loiter in the corners—they set up shop, daring anyone foolish enough to walk in. The elevator groaned like it was haunted by every poor life choice that had ever passed through its doors, reeking of mildew and someone’s last bender. The numbers on the panel blinked erratically, as if they couldn’t decide whether to take me up or swallow me whole.

Lenny’s door was covered in hand-drawn sigils and scraps of paper with scrawled warnings like BEWARE THE NARRATIVE and THE AUTHOR IS WATCHING. I knocked, and after a suspiciously long pause, the door cracked open. Lenny peered out, his eyes darting like a guy who’d seen too many UFO documentaries.

“Hardwick,” he said, his voice a jittery whisper. “You shouldn’t be here. It’s not safe.”

I pushed past him, stepping into the chaos of his apartment. The walls were covered in conspiracy boards, string connecting random clippings and photos like a spiderweb of paranoia.

“Nice place,” I said, brushing a stack of newspapers off a chair. “Got a guest room in case the apocalypse runs late?”

Lenny ignored the jab, pacing the room with the energy of a caffeinated squirrel. “You’re here about Scribble, aren’t you? You’ve seen it, haven’t you? The manuscript. The clues.”

“I’ve seen something, all right,” I said. “But so far, it’s looking less like clues and more like a personal psychotic episode.”

Lenny stopped pacing and turned to me, his face deadly serious.

“Plotford isn’t real, Detective. None of this is real. It’s all constructed—built to tell a story. Scribble was the only one who understood.”

“Constructed?” I leaned back, folding my arms. “So what, you think we’re living in someone’s bedtime story?”

Lenny grabbed a book from his desk and shoved it into my hands. “Not a story. A narrative. Don’t you get it? Everything here follows a structure—setups, payoffs, climaxes. You’re not solving a murder. You’re solving yourself.”

I stared at him, half-expecting him to burst out laughing and admit it was all a joke. “So what happens if I don’t?”

Lenny froze, his eyes darting to the walls covered in conspiracy boards, like they might collapse under the weight of his paranoia. “Then the story resets. The town resets. You reset. Plotford swallows you whole and spits you out as part of the backdrop—another shadow, another detail for the next poor bastard to stumble in.”

My mouth went dry. “What about the rest of the world?”

Lenny laughed, but it wasn’t funny. “What world? Plotford is the story. The second you walked in, the rest of the world ceased to exist for you. If you don’t finish it, Detective, you’re stuck here forever.

*******

Back in my office, I opened the manuscript, searching for something I’d missed. The pages crackled like old bones as I turned them. The manuscript stared back at me like it knew something I didn’t. And let’s be honest—it probably did. The pages whispered to me, almost daring me to flip them. But this time, I wasn’t just reading words on a page. I was reading my life.

It started subtly. A line about my cigarette dangling from my lips—sure, a cliché, but one I was guilty of. Then it mentioned the drink I hadn’t even finished earlier that night. My fingers tightened on the edges of the page as my eyes traced the next line: Nick Hardwick squinted at the manuscript, his mind racing as he realized the story wasn’t just about Scribble anymore. It was about him.

I bolted upright, the chair squealing in protest. The words on the page blurred together, shifting before my eyes until the next sentence appeared: Nick cursed under his breath, but the creeping unease in his chest refused to let him breathe.

“Jesus,” I muttered, dropping the manuscript like it had bitten me.

A knock on the door snapped me out of my spiraling thoughts. I yanked it open to find Vivian leaning casually against the frame, her red dress shimmering like spilled ink in the hallway’s dim light.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” she said, sauntering in without an invitation. “Or maybe just read one.”

I slammed the door behind her. “Cut the act, Vivian. What the hell is going on? That manuscript—it’s me. It’s now.”

She tilted her head, amusement dancing in her eyes. “Took you long enough to figure that out.”

“What?”

She sighed, sinking into my chair like she owned the place. “Nick, you’re not the hero you think you are. You’re part of something bigger. You’re part of the story.”

I stared at her, my mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for air. “The story? What are you even talking about?”

“You’ve got one job, Nick,” she said, her voice softer now. “Finish the story before it finishes you.”

Before I could press her for more, the room shifted. The edges of the walls blurred, like they were being erased by an invisible hand.

“Vivian—”

But she was gone. One blink, and she vanished into thin air, leaving me alone with the manuscript. I didn’t even grab my coat.

I bolted outside, hoping the cool night air would clear my head, but Plotford wasn’t offering clarity tonight. The rain had stopped mid-fall, droplets suspended like glittering shards of glass. A man on the corner caught my eye, mostly because he didn’t blink.

“Lovely weather we’re having, huh?” he said, his tone cheery but hollow.

I nodded, walking past him.

“Lovely weather we’re having, huh?” he said again, word for word, same intonation.

I stopped, turned, and stared. He grinned, teeth too perfect, like a mannequin brought to life by a bored god.

“Lovely weather we’re having, huh?” he said once more, his grin fixed, his voice a broken record.

I ran. Or at least, I tried. My feet hit the pavement, but the street ahead stretched like taffy, pulling farther away with every step, the rain hitting my face like icy needles. The neon sign of the corner diner flickered, the letters rearranging themselves:

STORY ENDING SOON

“This isn’t real,” I muttered, my voice trembling. “This can’t be real.”

The streets were eerily empty, shadows pooling in corners. I heard footsteps—slow, deliberate. I turned, but the street behind me was empty.

“You can feel it, can’t you?” a voice said, low and rasping, as if scraped out of the darkness itself. It wasn’t coming from anywhere, yet it seemed to echo everywhere.

I swallowed hard. “Feel what?”

“That you’re not in control. That none of this is real. You’re not solving this, Detective. You’re living it.”

I spun in a slow circle, looking for the source of the voice. The words didn’t make sense—or maybe they made too much sense. “If I’m the story, then who’s writing me?”

The voice laughed, a harsh sound that scraped against my nerves. “The right question, Detective, isn’t who’s writing you. It’s how—and when—you choose to end it.”

The rain stopped mid-fall, droplets hanging in the air like glass beads. I lit a cigarette, the flame trembling in my hand. “End it? Buddy, the way this is going, I’ll be lucky if I make it to the next chapter.”

Silence answered me, thick and pressing. I took a long drag and flicked the cigarette into the gutter, the embers hissing in a frozen puddle. Then I turned and walked into the night.

“If I’m fiction,” I muttered, “I might as well be noir fiction. Play me out, saxophone.”

The music swelled, slow and mournful, as the shadows swallowed me whole.