Ghost Writer

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow by eight in the morning. 

That’s what she had said. 

Six hours from now, and here I am with palms sweaty and shaking, but somehow supporting the weight of my head in my hands. Shoulders tensed and caved in, sending ripples of pain to my lower back. I can barely bring myself to peer through my fingertips at the blank and blinding computer screen in front of me, cursor blinking methodically. Mocking me. 

Eight in the morning.

That’s what she had said.

Like it was a favor.

I suppose that it was. She had made that very clear. It was a risk for her to keep me as a client, to put any more faith in my abilities. Like anyone else, she had trouble seeing past her own encapsulated existence. 

Yesterday, I had sat across from her, a large mahogany desk devouring the space between us, feeling like a student in the principal’s office waiting to be punished. She narrowed her eyes at me, looking over the top of her horn-rimmed glasses and pursing her lips. Perched upright and motionless in her black leather chair as if it were a throne, she curled her perfectly manicured hands around the edges of the chair arms like talons. 

“8 am,” she repeated, “You think you can handle that?” she continued, jabbing her pointy chin in my direction so that the thin skin on her outstretched neck threatened to tear and expose her true humanoid form. 

I nodded, hoping my vigorous head shakes would somehow come across as confident instead of how I really felt - like a colossal failure. She narrowed her eyes into even tinier slits and leaned back in her chair, folding her arms across her chest. Her mouth was a faint line threatening to disappear; yet, she spoke again.

“I mean, are you good?” she asked through nonexistent lips with a false note of concern rising through her voice. I watched as her eyebrows knit together in an attempt to match the expression to her words, but it was a moment too late. Underneath was frustration and disappointment.

“James, I’ve known you for a long time. I care about you.” She was really trying to sell it. That was her job after all. 

“I know, Tanya. Thank you. I appreciate it, I really do. I’ll make sure to have it to you by tomorrow morning.” 

“First thing,” Her eyebrows dropped their act and jumped to form arches across her forehead.

“Of course.” I packed up my things and turned towards the door, feeling her piercing eyes burning into the back of my head. 

Even then, I had been lying. She knew it, too. This was my final shot to bring my dreams of becoming a successful writer to fruition, and even the pressure of that couldn’t motivate me to finish the manuscript. 

A crashing sound erupts in the present and drags me back to my makeshift study. Back to the blinding white page with nothing except the blinking cursor - fleeting and temporary like it could disappear at any moment. Threatening to leave for good. It didn’t believe in me either.

I take one last swig from the whiskey glass sweating in front of me, draining the remainder of the auburn liquid from the bottom before I go investigate the noise. Liquid courage, I think to myself.

I feel the warmth of it scorch down my throat before finally settling in the pit of my stomach. It feels like it might burn a hole right through me, but somehow I feel less empty than before. I stumble over to the kitchen, in the direction of the disturbance I had heard. It’s probably Toby in the kitchen sink again, licking up whatever bits of food didn’t get completely washed down the drain. 

“Toby!” I scold him under my breath as I march through the hallway that connects my study to the kitchen. I flip on the light switch as I enter the kitchen, expecting to see my troublemaker cat huddled in the sink, his paw halfway down the drain, fishing for scraps of day-old food, wide-eyed and tense now that he’s been caught in the act. 

But he’s not there. In fact, there are no dishes in the sink and nothing has fallen to the floor that would explain the clattering sound. 

After surveying the kitchen pantry and cabinets to see if any canned goods or pots had mysteriously fallen, I shrug and set off for my bedroom to find the elusive Toby. Both my bed and the cat tree are empty. 

“Toby…” I call in a sickeningly sweet voice, trying to make up for scolding him. 

Nothing. I pull back the drapes to see if he’s perched behind them on the windowsill, hunting bugs outside under the lamplight. No luck. I begrudgingly lower myself to the ground and tilt my head sideways to look under the bed where he sometimes hides when startled. I don't like small spaces. Again, the underside of the bed is empty save for a few cardboard boxes I still haven’t unpacked and a lone, dirty sock. I stretch my fingertips towards the sock to collect it and - BOOM!

Another crashing sound thunders through the air, causing me to bump my head on the bed frame in surprise. I hurtle towards the kitchen once again, determined to discover the source of the noise this time - only to find nothing out of place, except for the liquor cabinet slightly ajar. Perhaps, I didn’t close it all the way earlier.

I close the door gently and let my hand linger there for a moment, making sure it stays. I must be losing it. A heavy sigh escapes my lips as I collect the cat treat tin out of the pantry to entice Toby. I shake the bottle, holding it high in the air, continuing to call out Toby’s name in a sing-song voice.

Pausing for a moment, I listen for the soft pitter-patter of cat feet on the linoleum. Instead, I hear a soft scratching coming from the opposite side of the apartment. I follow the sound, continuing to shake the treats and listen for a response periodically. Shortly, I find myself standing outside of the coat closet by the front door.

I open the closet and see a dark shadow fly out of the space, spitting and hissing, eyes flashing madly. A puffed up tail is all I get a real glimpse of as Toby darts away and curls himself defensively in a corner underneath my desk. 

“What’s the matter with you?” I ask him, frowning. I look back into the closet, which at first glance appears to be its usual mess of shoes lining the floor and jackets haphazardly hung upon hangers. Then, something catches my eye. 

Light.

A shimmer of light cutting through the shadows of the closet. I bend down to the source. A distorted face looks back at me - my own face, looking confused with my hair flattened against my sweaty forehead. I pick up the hand mirror, running my fingers along the many textures carved into the ornate brass backing.

 Sprawled across the center of its backside is an octopus, its tentacles twisting at all angles, reaching over the edges to create beautiful waves along the front. The mirror is cool to the touch, except for the handle which is strangely warm. I have no idea how it came to find a home at the bottom of my coat closet; yet, the weight of it is reassuring somehow. I can’t seem to stop twirling it in my hands, like there’s a magnetic force between it and something deep below my skin. 

It must’ve been a decorative piece left by a previous tenant. Odd that I’ve never noticed it before. Pocketing the mirror so that the handle sticks out of my oversized sweatpants, I trudge towards my bedroom yet again to find a spot that feels worthy of its intricate design. I clear away some old mail and lay the mirror next to a pile of books on the bedside table. 

By the time I return to my makeshift office, it is three in the morning. Both the page and my glass are still empty. If I am going to do this, I’m going to need to get more than just my creative juices flowing. I lazily grab the glass and shuffle off to the kitchen. 

When I finally settle in once more to scrape something together for Tanya, another crash rams through my home - the sound like shattered glass. I turn towards the side window and see a diminutive figure draped in all black with a paper bag obscuring its face aside from two circles cut for its eyes. It crouches over the fresh, reflective glass, moonlight streaming in from behind it. Before I can react, it scurries into shadows. Suddenly I am surrounded by a cacophony of noises - creaking up above me, scratching sounds below me, and even a soft whimpering in my ears coming from no direction in particular. Then a flash of light cascades down my wall, and the childlike figure is behind me, the mirror in its hands. I can see the moon reflecting back at me, iridescent and glowing as it seems to grow larger and larger, overtaking the space.

Beep. Beep. Beep. 

My eyes fly open, and it is sunlight that is streaming through my now unbroken window. Before my heart rate can fully slow from the realization it was just a nightmare, I remember that my piece is due. I frantically tap my laptop until it shudders awake. The welcome screen greets me first: 7:57 AM. 

My heart drops into my stomach, hollow and no longer beating at all. It’s over. Once again, I have let my lifelong dream slip through my fingertips. I enter my laptop password and start thinking of what pathetic excuse I can send to Tanya this time when I see a new document entitled “Your Manuscript” saved to my desktop.

I stare at it unblinkingly, wondering why I would save the empty document from the night before. I double-click on it, and text floods my screen. Pages upon pages of solid paragraphs blur before me as I scroll. 

7:59. I have no time to waste. I address an email to Tanya and attach the document, not knowing what it contains but feeling too dissociated to care. I hit send, but I can’t bear to open the document again to read it. Not yet.

I feel myself being pulled towards my bedroom, not consciously knowing why yet my eyes travel to what I am looking for as soon as I enter. The mirror is still nestled safely upon my bedside table. A couple feet away, Toby is sitting motionless in front of the table, staring. I move towards him, and still he doesn’t break eye contact with the mirror as if it is showing him things I cannot see.

When I look at the mirror again, a tentacle along the handle appears to twitch. The longer I watch, the more it seems like the tentacles are slithering towards me, reaching for me. 

I need a shower. And a coffee. 

I start brewing a pot before heading to the bathroom. The warm water awakens me, bringing me back into my body. As I wash my hair, I imagine all the stress from the strange occurrences over the last several hours leaving my body and swirling down the shower drain alongside the shampoo. 

Yet, I can’t stop wondering where the manuscript came from. How did it appear on my computer while I slept through the early hours of the morning? Despite the warm water flooding over my skin, I suddenly feel cold. And like I’m being watched. Goosebumps ripple across my skin. I pull the shower curtain back and scan the bathroom. Nothing. 

Abruptly, my skin is on fire. The knob of the shower is turned all the way to the left, and I am melting. The scalding water blazes against my skin as I scramble to turn the knob back towards the center, but it won’t budge. I clamber out of the shower, my skin feeling blistered and raw. Breathing heavy, I am finally able to shut the water off from the lower spout. 

I stand and gingerly dry myself. The mirror in the bathroom is opaque with steam, and I cannot see my own reflection. Then patches of the mirror begin to clear, and I see the words, “It’s me.” 

I burst out of the bathroom and lock myself in my bedroom. Toby is no longer hypnotized by the mirror; instead he is curled in a patch of sunlight filtering in, seemingly unbothered by my unexpected presence. 

This is all in my head. I drank last night. I’ve been stressed. I barely slept. This is simply the result of that. I quickly dress and walk to the kitchen. A lone mug sits on the counter, already filled to the brim except for residue left at one edge of the cup where it looks like someone else's lips have been. 

I shake my head, urging the paranoia away. I pour out the full mug and grab another one from the cabinet overhead. As I’m pouring a new cup for myself, my cell phone rings from where I left it on my desk. Almost spilling coffee down my front, I hasten into the study. Tanya.

This is it. She’s read the manuscript, and now she’s going to call me out on being an imposter. She knows I didn’t write it. I take a deep breath and answer, my mind racing.

“James?”

“Hi, Tanya. Look, I-I, uh…” I splutter, but she cuts me off.

“I love it. Your manuscript. It’s the best thing you’ve ever written.” 

When I hang up, I’m in shock. Is this a joke? Am I being set up by Tanya to prove a point about my ineptitude? What’s written in that document and where did it come from?

I spend the rest of the day working up the courage to read the curious document. Every time I sit down at my laptop to read it, I can’t get past the opening line.

I pace around my apartment, fabricating tasks to take care of yet still feeling the pull of the manuscript all the while. Finally, I give in. I spend the evening engrossed in the story of a young child who grew up isolated in a closet-like attic with nothing and no one. Food and water given sparingly through a flap in the door. An infrequently changed bucket in a corner used as a bathroom. And a mirror. A mirror that allowed him to study how every shade of sadness and loneliness manifested on his face. A mirror that allowed him to sometimes pretend like he wasn’t alone. Like there was someone else seeing him.

As I scour the pages, I sense the end drawing near but can’t finish it. I crawl to my bedroom and slip into thoughts about the mirror on my bedside table and who it belongs to. Perhaps the weird events that have been happening are not something to be afraid of. Perhaps this entity, this ghost writer, deserves to have his story told. 

Eventually I submerge into the same dream as the night before. This time, however, the small figure removes the paper mask to reveal the ghostlike, sunken face of a young boy. He looks familiar. His sallow skin is pale, and I can barely make out shadows beneath his dark, impenetrable eyes. And suddenly I am the ghost boy staring at myself. I raise the mirror in my hand and throw it to the ground. 

I wake in a puddle of cold sweat, my t-shirt sticking to my back. I look at my bedside table, but the mirror is no longer there. Jumping from my bed, I will my eyes to see in the darkness. With my next step, I feel something soft beneath my foot and hear a vehement yowl. I stumble over to the light switch and turn it on, seeing Toby’s black form slinking underneath the bed. 

The mirror is laying on the floor near the spot where I had stepped on Toby’s tail. I approach cautiously and see a large crack splitting through the mirror’s otherwise smooth surface.

As I bend nearer, another face appears and overtakes my own reflection. Sallow and ghostlike with somber, overcast eyes. 

The boy.

My breath catches in my throat, and I lurch backwards. I instantaneously drop down to the floor and yank one of the boxes out from under the bed, sending Toby to find a new hiding spot. 

I smash the mirror into the box with the sound of breaking glass and advance through the apartment, back to the coat closet. I shove the box inside and shut the door, grabbing nearby objects to create a barricade.

As I retreat back through the darkened hallway towards my bedroom, trying to calm myself while doubting the possibility of sleep, I see something stationed in a streak of moonlight upon the floor. A photograph. It must’ve fallen out of the box as I hurried to put it in the closet. I pick it up but can’t make out the shapes within it using only the moonlight. The bathroom is closest to me, so I go inside and turn on the light.

As my eyes adjust, the first shape reveals itself as my mother. She is smiling, but it doesn’t touch her eyes. With a jolt, the other shape materializes in the photo as well. The boy. Holding the ornate octopus mirror.

It’s me.

Before I was put in that room. Before I was no longer wanted.

I look  into the bathroom mirror - into my overcast, somber eyes - and truly see.