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Ghostwriter by Andrea Speed
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Matthew looked at the nightstand. “That one almost killed me..."...said the ghost :-P
See, I thought the little joke would give me away. :P
On September 1, 2013, all authors will be revealed!
Important Note: The content for these stories belong solely to the authors that wrote them.
Ghostwriter
by Andrea Speed
Word count: 1,494
Chris first saw the man while he was shelving books in the mystery section.
It was odd for several reasons, the first being the library was closed and he was the only person here. Or so he thought. “Hello?” he said, abandoning his books and going off in search of the mystery man. “The library’s closed. You shouldn’t be here. Hello?”
He walked throughout the library, and even checked the bathrooms, but no one else seemed to be there. When he returned to his shelving, he wondered if maybe it was just some kind of optical illusion, but why would he think he’d see a man in such an old fashioned coat? He had no answer for that.
He’d forgotten about it until Mrs. Kaminsky, one of the regulars, came to complain about a man pacing between the stacks in the mystery section a few days later. Chris dutifully went to look, as it was near closing time, and for some reason the crazies loved to come out then, but he didn’t see anyone except another patron he recognized, Ms. Hall. He asked her if she had seen the man in question, but she said no. Mrs. Kaminsky described the mystery man he’d seen in the stacks before, right down to the old fashioned black pea coat.
The next week, he thought he spied the man when he came in early to help open the library, although he couldn’t find him then either. When Rachel, the head librarian, showed up, he told her about the mystery man.
She made a thoughtful noise before saying, “You know, that sounds a lot like Matthew Barnaby.”
“Who’s Matthew Barnaby?”
She paused from updating the computer records, and turned to face him, her glasses balanced precariously on the tip of her nose. “He was a writer. An obscure one of the ‘50’s, who died under circumstances so mysterious that to this day no one knows if he was murdered or killed himself. But supposedly, he haunts a copy of his last novel, found on his desk not far from where he died.”
Chris let out a disappointed sigh. “A ghost story.”
“Yes.” She double checked something on the screen, and then headed for the stacks. “We may have received that book. Remember the donation we received from the Conover estate?”
“I’m still trying to get the smell of mildew out of my clothes,” he replied, following her. The Conovers were wealthy but childless collectors of various antiquities, and they left most of their rare book collection to the library. The ones that were super rare and worth a good chunk of change were being held by the library trustees, but ones of little value and decent shape were sorted for distribution. The problem was, the ones of lesser value weren’t stored well, and the smell still seemed to linger in the back room.
Rachel stopped in the mystery section, and scanned the shelves until she found the book she was looking for and took it down. “Aha, here it is.” She held it out towards him, and Chris took it. It was an unassuming hardback with an austere, almost spooky drawing of a barren tree on the cover. Underneath the arching branches was the title “Hanging Tree” and beneath that, in more flowing script, was the name Matthew Barnaby. “This was classified as a second edition, which is why it was put into circulation. But now I wonder if it was misclassified.”
Chris looked inside the book, just to see if he could get an idea of what the story was about. “Don’t tell me you believe in ghost stories, Rach.”
She gave him a small but indulgent smile. “Not particularly, but that story is kind of romantic and charming. Can you imagine a writer haunting a copy of his own book?”
“Sounds like hell.” He closed the book and held it back out to her. “What’s this about, anyways? Looks depressing.”
She waved the book away, indicating he should keep it. “It is, a bit, but it’s very good. He was from the Capote/Williams school of gay Southern writers who liked to look at the troubles of average American families in all their ugly glory, and was born in the wrong time.”
“Capote was Southern?” he replied, trying to figure out if they’d said so in the movie. He couldn’t actually remember.
Depressing old books weren’t really his thing, nor was believing in modern fairy tales. Still, curiosity got the better of him, and since Rachel indicated he could take the book off the shelf, why not? He checked it out, and took it home with him that night.
TV was kind of dull, and during one particularly slow part of an episodic drama, he grabbed the book and read the first page. Before he knew it, he was twenty pages in. No, it wasn’t really his type of thing, but it was well written, and he found himself caring what happened to Maggie, the character at the center of the novel, and the mysterious death of her Aunt Lousie. He’d read about seventy five pages before he finally went to bed.
Something woke him up in the middle of the night. He wasn’t certain what, but then Chris noticed a man sitting on the edge of his bed. His heart lurched, instant fear making him taste something sour in his mouth, but then he realized the man was wearing an old black pea coat, and didn’t he look just a little bit … familiar?
Yes. The sleepy eyes, the thin scruff of beard, the short, dark hair and floppy bangs covering a pale forehead, perfectly matched an image of Matthew Barnaby he found that night in a Wikipedia article. For the ‘50’s, he had been pretty cute, and Chris had been shocked to read that he died at thirty three, which seemed ridiculously young. “Matthew?” he asked, sitting up. He was dreaming, right? He must have been dreaming. Even though he felt really awake.
Matthew looked at him, and he was both cuter and sadder than that publicity photo indicated. He also radiated cold like a frozen pond. “I was wondering if anyone was ever going to check out my book.” He had a bit of a drawl, hardly noticeable.
Chris looked, and saw the dark shape of the tome on his nightstand. “So that is your copy of the book?” Instantly, he knew that was a stupid question, and decided to ask another. “How did you die? I mean, I know you were stabbed, but did you stab yourself, or did someone stab you?”
“What? Oh my God, you mean that bastard got away with it? Jesus.” He ran a hand through his hair, then shook his head. “Figured. Maybe he had his Daddy fix it so no one ever knew.”
“What’re you talking about?”
“My lover, Franklin. His father was a senator, and thought his little golden boy was straight. Franklin even got engaged to this stuck up prissy bitch to prove he wasn’t a sissy, and I threatened to expose him ‘cause I was so angry at him, choosing phoniness and a political career over me. The next thing I knew, I had a steak knife in my chest.”
Chris marveled at his mind coming up with this scenario. It sounded a little Tennessee Williams, didn’t it? “That sucks. What was his name?”
“Franklin De La Roche.”
He scoured his brain, but it didn’t even sound remotely familiar. “Never heard of him.”
“Good. Maybe his career crashed and burned. It’s the least he deserved for killing me.”
Chris sat up, but while the bed moved slightly, Matthew didn’t. “I’ve been enjoying the book.”
Matthew looked at the nightstand. “That one almost killed me. When my family read it, they stopped talking to me. Which was the best thing that ever happened to me.”
Was that sarcasm? He couldn’t tell. “Really?”
Matthew nodded vigorously. “It’s a roman a clef. My family was a stew pot of insanity and horrible people. I was glad to see the back side of them all for good.”
“I hear you.” Chris’s family wasn’t quite that bad, but an alcoholic dad did bring much fun into your life. “So why are you haunting the book? Do you want to see your killer brought to justice or something?”
Matthew gave him a sickly smile, and Chris’s heart fluttered just a little. He may have been long dead, but he was still cute in that early Beatnik way. “I should, shouldn’t I? I’m afraid I had this novel I was just dying to write, and I did actually die before I had a chance to write it. I guess I’m just hoping for a ghost writer.” He seemed to size Chris up for a moment before asking, “So, have you ever wanted to be a writer, friend?”
Chris smiled. Maybe bringing the book home had been a great idea after all.
****
About the Author
Andrea Speed was born looking for trouble in some hot month without an R in it. She’s the author of the Infected series for Dreamspinner Press, the Josh of the Damned series for Riptide Publishing, and has a bunch of non-series stuff as well. She makes up stuff, just to be an ass. In her spare time, she arms lemurs in preparation for the upcoming war against the Mole Men. Viva la revolution! Visit Andrea’s website: http://andreaspeed.com/