Rade's Dare

Rade's last few stories were based on real-life situations. Well, almost real. Stories are born in the cross-section of imagination and facts. The percentage of each element affects the perception of these stories. Sometimes, the only difference between a story and life is that of life and death.

He was conducting research for a new collection of short stories. He found inspiration in his neighbourhood, nature, and daily routine. Although he was a reputed mystery writer, none doubted his abilities to concoct a gripping short story out of thin air.

The police department investigating Rade's death wanted to mark the case as a suicide. Still, Droy, the lead detective was a persuasive man. He refused to close the last case of his career without conducting thorough research. As an avid reader, he was instinctively drawn to Rade's books and journals not only to find clues but also to understand his personality. A brilliant author can hide reality in mysteries.

The last few pages in Rade's journal conveyed the tension in his life. He too, was searching for evidence for something.

Am I losing my mind? a dead mouse... the wilted roses. The dye.. I can't let this go on. I won't finish more stories unless I know what's going on. Why does the ending...

Rade wrote five short stories, but Droy could was able to find only three. Little Supergirl was Rade's first short story based on the heroic act of Joy, his teenage neighbor. When Timmy ate a peanut bar and suffered an anaphylactic shock, Joy saved him by injecting an EpiPen. The story ended on a cheery note.

"Little Supergirl, Joy saved her brother Timmy and they lived happily ever after."

She was thrilled to be christened Little Supergirl and read the last few lines of the story over and over when Rade showed her the first draft. A week later, Timmy suffered another allergic reaction and died. All the efforts to save him were in vain. This incident had disturbed Rade and was evident from his journal entry.

I was missing Timmy today and started reading his story kept neatly next to the typewriter. It didn't make sense. I don't remember writing about... Timmy's death. No, I definitely did not...?

When Rade gathered the courage to read the story, he was confused to find that the ending of the story had changed.

"Little Supergirl, Joy, her family and doctors could not save Timmy and he died."

A writer believes in everything and yet nothing. Droy sensed the innate guilt Rade would have felt. "Did he jinx Timmy's life by writing his story? What if Rade changed the story and forgot about it?" Droy wondered as he flipped through the pages and came across the second story, The Hair Affair.

Like his other stories, this one was also based on a real-life incident. Rade's mother decided too to dye her hair and went through minor hurdles to achieve a beautiful brunette colour. Only Rade had the talent to spin a mundane task like this into a witty story. A few days after writing the story, he got a frantic call from her. She had dyed her hair again, but this time within a few hours they turned green.

Considering that his mom had been colouring her hair for more than a decade, Rade found it challenging to think it as a mishap.

With an anxious heart, he decided to edit The Hair Affair but was amazed to find that the last line had already been modified.

"She failed to follow the instructions written on the back of the hair dye and ended up with green colour."

He poured his disbelief about the story in the journal.

It has happened again with another story. Somebody changed the ending.. No one visited me .. Even if someone did, they wouldn't' dare touch my typewriter. Mum was always particular about the brand and the colour. How could this happen? Am I going insane? Should I talk to someone or mum? Well, definitely not mum.

The unnerving and similar theme of his journal entries was teasing Droy. He kept the journal aside and got up to inspect Rade's room. Everything in the place served a purpose and had an exciting backstory. The abstract art on canvas kept near the window was a gift by a secret admirer. His pen was a family heirloom. The sleek and contemporary table was gifted by his close friend after Rade's third novel was published. His recent purchase was a typewriter which was the right blend of old and new. The owners of the garage sale weren't sure about its origin but seemed like in a hurry to get rid of it. Rade bought it, mostly to work on short stories. The permanence of the ink and the harshness of the keystrokes challenged him to be sure about each word. This machine demanded patience. 

Droy's observed the make of the typewriter, and his eyes trailed to the piece of paper with the title, Rade's Dare. He admired the anagram and picked the paper to read the short paragraph.

"Rade plans to go for a swim in the lake behind his house. It has been months since he enjoyed a swim in the cold Water of the frighting deep lake. He will finish a cup of peppermint tea followed by a cigarette and leave home around 4:00 PM. Half an hour later, his neighbours will venture out to the lake. Some will enjoy a cold beer with their families, and others will simply steer their boats. It will be essential to have an audience for what's coming next. “

He will swim long enough to tire himself and then tread in the deepest end of the lake. After a while, he will start struggling to stay afloat, and something will begin pulling him downwards to the bed of the lake. Water will slowly fill his lungs. No one will watch him struggle for breath. It will be a while before someone rushes to rescue him. Everyone's efforts will be wasted. Rade will die an unexpected death."

Droy was baffled to read the story, which sounded like a cruel suicide note. The writer had a pleasant personality. Despite his occasional mood swings, he was good to people. Even his last three stories couldn't have tortured him enough to commit suicide. Droy immediately picked up Rade's journal to read the final entry. It matched the story in his hand. Well, almost matched.

"I will swim up to the centre of the lake and stop treading the water. The family closest to me rushes to my rescue before it's too late."

His journal entry was optimistic and confirmed Droy's suspicion that the writer had no plans of committing suicide that day. He repeatedly read the last lines of the story.

"Water will slowly fill his lungs. No one will watch him struggle for breath. It will be a while before someone rushes to rescue him. Everyone's efforts will be wasted. Rade will die an unexpected death."

He compared all of Rade's stories with his journal entries once again, but the more he read, the more convoluted everything seemed. There was only one way to untangle the situation; continue testing Rade's hypothesis. Droy had to think of a story that led him to the suspect while avoiding the same fate as Rade.

The next day Droy entered Rade's study not as a detective but as a writer who was going to create a dangerous reality. The warmth of the room slowly settled on his forehead. He knew that only avid writers start firing keys on a typewriter. He wasn't one, so he turned to his stressbuster, Marlborough Mild, and dwelled upon his story one last time. It was vital to be specific and careful with the words because it was a matter of life and death. His life and death. He sat in Rade's chair and started typing a short and decisive story.

"Tonight, Droy decided to visit the cellar in his basement and pick a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon which he purchased from a boutique winery in Hunter Valley in Sydney. He would finish the bottle within an hour and easily slip into a deep and peaceful slumber."

He looked long and hard at the paper and left the study. If something dangerous was going to happen tonight, he wanted to face it with the best red wine in his cellar. He never slept well, and ergo had nothing to lose, but whoever was going to flip the ending of the story did not know that. Droy spent 30 minutes searching for the bottle of wine but couldn't find it. He decided to settle with a cheaper one gifted by the department on the success of his last case. "I better not die with this excuse for a wine flowing in my veins", he thought while filling the wine glass up to the marking. It was unsettling that his plans had already begun to change. He resisted the compulsion to go to Rade's home and check the story.

Patience, his mind tried to silence his restless body. A few glasses later, he started to doze off and tried to suppress the sleep but soon enough sunk on his sofa. He was asleep but far from peaceful. Every 2 hours he woke up drenched in sweat and chills. Just like the mind, his body was always turning and tossing. He didn't want to sleep anymore but struggled to stay awake.

His last nightmare ended at 4:00 AM, and he rushed to take a shower. 8 hours through hell were enough for him to chug a cup of coffee like an elixir. He had woken up as a furious and confused man and decided to gun the accelerator till he reached Rade's house. It seemed like the longest drive of his life, although he had worked on a lot of cases with a higher sense of urgency.

Years of training had taught him to scan any room before entering it. Within a few seconds of opening the door to Rade's study, it was clear that he did not have any company. The only familiar smell was that of the leather armchair. Everything in the room was tranquil. With the gun in one hand, he cautiously opened all the cabinets to sure that no one was hiding in plain sight. His next and last option was the window which was tightly locked from the inside. There were no signs of a forced entry from the outside. He had conducted a thorough search knowing that almost 12 hours had passed since he wrote the story. Even if someone came, they would have fled by now. Droy had failed to realise the simple logic.

"I am going crazy. did Rade feel the same strangeness?", he thought before rushing towards the typewriter. The paper with his story was intact in the typewriter. He slowly rotated the roller and removed the paper and gazed directly at the last line.

The story he wrote a day before was replaced by the happenings of the last night, verbatim. 

Droy resigned to the situation momentarily, sat on the chair, and stared at the typewriter. A few minutes passed, and he leaned his back on the chair and slowly closed his eyes. Within a few seconds, he heard a soft rumble. He stood up, and his hand reached for the gun. It was futile to scan the room another time as the noise came from the table. He looked down, and the platen on the typewriter turned, and the guide shifted slowly to the right. Shocked at the sight, he slowly took a few steps away from the table.

Like a pendulum, his gaze oscillated between the typewriter and the empty chair which he occupied a few seconds earlier. The keys automatically started to strike the paper and words appeared on it.

 "Droy reached Rade's study and looked with disbelief at the typewriter.

                                   The End"