The Typewriter Haunting

The Typewriter Haunting

I knew there was a ghost haunting our new house weeks after we moved into it. He'd died in my room back when it had been his. Tuberculosis, town records said, though I wasn't able to find out anything else. He hadn't been much older than I, and I guess he looked a little peaky in the family portrait I'd dug up—one shoulder clamped in the fingers of his tight-postured father, the other in those of his tired-eyed mother. Still, his mom's sister hadn't mentioned anything about him being sick in any of her letters. I don't know, maybe it just wasn't something you talked about in 1826. The house was pretty far away from town, deep in the woods and everything—exactly the kind of house you'd think would have a ghost. The town doctor, or whoever, probably hadn't been able to call often enough. Not that it would have made much of a difference back then.

He didn't tell me any of this. Well, not directly, anyway. I guess communicating across the veil is pretty tricky; I've never heard his voice, never seen his face. Instead, he painstakingly reveals things to me. He finds clever ways to direct my attention to what he wants me to know. Coming home to a misplaced floorboard led me to his sketchbook full of drawings, woodland animals mostly; he was really good at deer. Being sent to the attic to fix a draft bumped me into the box of letters to his mother, none of which contained a medical record of any kind, but then again, I guess most moms wouldn't want to keep much regarding their

seventeen-year-old son's death. Piece by piece, he showed me his story. Piece by piece, he became my friend.

You know, I never would have guessed you could ever feel comfortable around a ghost.

I'd learned to tell when he was in the room with me; he usually gave the lights a little flicker, dropped the temperature a few degrees. At first I'd felt silly talking to a person I couldn't see. I'd wait until my parents were out, and even then, it was a few days before I could rasp out anything louder than a whisper.

It got easier as it became clearer—I wasn't going to make any friends at school, having moved here from an even smaller town than this one, where I'd known all of my friends pretty much since birth. I'd never really developed a grasp of what making new friends entailed. I wasn't in any position to reject the one person willing to reach past this handicap. I mean, all the stories and the movies and stuff, they don't really make it seem very likely, do they?" I continued, hopping back onto my bed and blowing on my now-blue nails. "But now that I think about it, I guess it's probably more likely that you'll get a nice ghost than a mean one. I mean, I think most people are generally pretty nice, right? Or they at least try to be. So, I wonder if most hauntings are just like this. And I wonder, if that's the case, why people have put such a bad spin on it. Like that one movie that came out a couple summers ago, what was it called? Poltergeist. I wonder how often it's really that bad, y'know?" I looked up for a second, eyebrows raised, then looked back down with a sigh. "I really do wish you could answer me every now and then, you know. I mean, don't get me wrong, it's really comforting to know that you're there and all—that you're listening. Sometimes, I guess I just wish I knew what you were thinking. You'd find a way to let me know if I was annoying you, wouldn't you?"

Nothing. I sighed again, shaking out my hair; I was still getting used to the fact that it now only went to my chin. My eyes settled across the room, to the typewriter on my desk. I stared absently at it for a few seconds, trying to decide whether or not I should paint a second coat. Then, with a blink, it clicked.

"D'you think you're strong enough to press a typewriter key?"

I chewed on my bottom lip in anticipation of something, anything. But again, nothing. After about a minute of holding my breath I let it go, dropping my eyes back to my blue nails, deciding to paint another coat after all. Cli-clack!

My heart jumped to my throat as my eyes flashed to the typewriter. I could see the dark splotch of a letter on the previously blank page that had been set in the machine. Swallowing, I crept to the edge of my bed to read the letter he had chosen: 1.

After a few seconds, the adrenaline in my veins began to diffuse, making me giddy. I started to laugh. "Oh my God. Cli-clack!

This time I was watching when it happened: with seemingly nothing there to press it, the 's' key dipped, then popped back up, leaving "is" on the page.

"You're doing it!" I squeaked past a racing heart. He'd shown me his story and I'd rambled him mine, but this was real time. This was communication. '"Is,' is what?"

Cli-cla-cli-clack! Twice the "a" key went down, and just before he reached the "c," I realized what he was typing: the name from the town records, from the sketchbook.

"Isaac," I whispered. "Yeah, it's nice to officially meet you, Isaac.

I stood and took the step separating my bed from my desk, shivering when I put my fingers to the icy keys, and typed my response: "Nelly."

We talked a lot more after that; really talked, instead of just reminding one another we were there. He usually stuck to one and two word phrases, and I didn't blame him, based on how long it took him to gather the strength for each key, but it was enough. It was something. Mostly I'd ask him questions that he could answer with a "y" or an n. It must've been awfully lonely here before," I mused one spring evening, flipping my geometry book shut on my homework and shoving it off my bed so I could stretch myself out. "I mean, did other people live here before us?" But could you talk to them?"

n

"Did they still know you were here?"

"l bet they were afraid of you.

"Yeah. Everyone's always afraid of ghosts. Imagine being afraid of you, though. If you couldn't talk to people, though, what'd you do? I mean. .. why'd you stick around, y'know? Rather than, I dunno. Moving on, I guess.

There was a pause in which I thought maybe he'd slipped out without me noticing—he usually tried to flicker the lights again before he left, but there'd been times when the temperature had kicked back up without warning and I'd presumed he'd just gotten tired and sort of fizzled out. Then I heard the familiar clacking of the keys.

cant say

I furrowed my brow.

"You mean you don't know? Or like you actually can't tell me for some reason?

Each lowering of the keys seemed agonizing to me now. Something felt wrong about the chill in my room.

dont worry

Which, of course, did nothing to assuage the discomfort creeping into my chest.

"About what?" I pressed. "Are you under some kind of curse? Is that why you can't say?"

n

I tried to think of books I'd read and movies I'd seen, tried to piece together what might keep someone bound to earth in this way, because I liked Isaac.

"Are you looking for something?" I asked. "Is there something you need to find to move on? Or maybe is there another ghost here that you don't want to leave?

stop

But I want to help you!

Nothing.

Isaac?"

Still nothing. I sat and I waited for a sound or a movement. He was still here; I still needed my sweater, so I figured he'd do something eventually, even if that something didn't necessarily answer my question. The longer I sat, though, the sharper the jolts of tension were that shot through me at every creak in the wooden floorboards, the more visibly I flinched at motion in the corner of my eye (only moths flitting past my window). The longer I sat, the surer I became that something awful was about to happen. For the first time since I'd met Isaac, I was scared.

Isaac?" I whispered.

Then everything went black.

A little yelp from my mom, the sounds of my dad fumbling for a flashlight.

"You okay, Nelly?" he called to me.

In spite of the outage, I could feel my room warming up. I shrugged off my sweater. Isaac was gone.

"Yeah," I answered, willing my hands to steady. "Yeah, I'll be right out.

Isaac stopped typing to me after that. He'd still visit my room, and whenever I felt him there I'd question, I'd apologize, I'd plead, but for nothing. It was just like it had been before. I knew he could hear me, but he was just a presence—a coldness, a flickering, a shape in my periphery. Eventually, I stopped talking, too.

"Nells, Jeopardy's on!"

"Coming!

I slid into the living room on woolly socks, frigid hands wrapped around a mug of hot chocolate. It was almost a year after my last conversation with the ghost in my room and I had all but forgotten he was there. I'd joined Quiz League and convinced a handful of people at school that I was capable of human social interaction; I'd made some living, breathing friends. And while I still missed my ghost from time to time, I couldn't deny that things were better for me now. I was finally comfortable with all the parts of my life instead of just one.

I snuggled up next to my dad on the sagging brown couch while my mom rolled her eyes at us from her favorite armchair. Jeopardy nights were always a bit loud for her taste.

Ready to get smoked, kiddo?" Dad asked.

"Actually, I feel pretty good about tonight," I replied as convincingly as I could before the self-assured furrow of my brow relaxed to accommodate a self-depreciating grin. He barked a laugh, ruffling my hair.

"Ah, that's cute, Nelly babe, that's really cute." "I mean it! You're goin' down, old man!" Okay, I half-meant it. I had been slowly closing the gap between our scores as the weeks went on. It was only a matter of time.

"Maybe next week, sparky," he chuckled. I rolled my eyes before turning them back to the screen to catch Alex Trebek reading off the categories.

Tonight, however, the first disturbance of the cozy living room's peace was not the simultaneous shout of an answer, in the form ofa question, but a loud slam from upstairs. What was that?" my dad muttered. There were a couple seconds of silence before it happened again.

It sounds like it's coming from your room," he said, moving to stand. I stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. "Oh, it's OK—just my door. I must have left the window open. Don't worry about it. I'll be right back."

"You're gonna miss the first round!" he said as I stood, and I grimaced at the note of disappointment in his voice. "I'll be right back," I repeated, dropping a kiss on top of his balding head. "Go ahead and get your head start; I'll catch up.

Is everything okay, honey?" Mom's lips were tight, and rightfully so. Giving up opportunities to score points on my dad wasn't exactly my style. "Roy, maybe you should go with her. "

"No!" I said a little too quickly. I took a breath through my nose. "No. It's really fine. It just does this sometimes. It's why I usually keep my windows closed, y'know. Old door, crosswind, it's not a good combination. I won't be a second!" I tried to swallow my rising apprehension as I mounted the stairs. It was probably just Isaac. Hey, maybe he wanted to apologize for the months of silence. Then again, Isaac had never shown that he could move anything heavy enough to make that loud of a noise. I stopped on the landing in front of my bedroom door, wiping my palms on my too-big sweater. Dread pooled in my stomach when the door slowly creaked open without any help from me.

Isaac?" I croaked. A fight or flight shock of adrenaline jolted through my system when my door pulled violently shut, the slam echoing through the hall. I closed my eyes and counted to ten, then walked the three steps to the door before I could chicken out. I half-expected it not to open when I turned the knob, but it did.

Isaac?"

He'd apparently been pulling records off of my shelf and dropping them on the floor before discovering that slamming my door was louder, especially since the sleeves on the records kept them from breaking.

Isaac, what the he —?"

Cli-clack!

I whirled to face my typewriter, hands leaping to my mouth to stifle a scream. The last letter had been added to the three words on the page:

he is awake"

"Who —?" My voice cracked. I cleared my throat and tried again. "Who's awake? Isaac, what's going on?

The typing started again, faster than it had ever gone before, feverish almost. Something was buzzing in the air, thrumming through the cold presence that had grown so familiar. Isaac was scared.

get out"

For once, I was too afraid to question him. I bolted for the door, only to have it slam shut once again. This time I couldn't stop a scream.

Isaac?" I called, desperation tearing at my voice. I slammed my shoulder into the door when the doorknob didn't turn. "Isaac?"

not me

Before he had even finished typing, my parents began to scream.

"Mom?" I rammed myself against the door again. "Mom! Dad! No! Let me out! Isaac! LET ME OUT!"

I turned briefly away from the door to look at the typewriter and saw a row of text appearing midway down the page: "i cant i cant i cant i cant

I hammered my fists on the door, fear magnifying the sounds of tearing cloth and tearing skin and nails scrabbling for purchase on the wooden floor and the screams and the screams and the screams. I could feel the old wood creaking beneath my hands but it wouldn't give. I screamed until I was hoarse. I screamed long after my parents had gone silent. Long after the typewriter keys had gone still.

"LET ME OUT! ISAAC, LET ME OUT!"

The temperature dropped again an hour after my voice had given out. When the lights flickered, I was curled up on the floor with my back against the still-locked door. My throat ached from screaming; my head ached from crying. The keys began to clack again, slowly. The way I was used to. I knew what the words said before I found the strength to lift my head and read them:

"im sorry

"Why did you lock me in?" I wasn't sure if he'd be able to hear my wheezy not-voice, but more keystrokes dispelled my concern.

not me," he said again.

I closed my eyes.

"Then who?"

The clacking didn't start again for almost a whole minute, but just as I was opening my mouth to ask again, I saw the first key go down.

my father"

I felt my chest constricting as I remembered the tight- shouldered man standing behind Isaac in the family portrait. I concentrated on keeping my breathing steady.

"You didn't really die of tuberculosis. "

n

"You stayed to protect your mom from him. To protect the families who lived here after you—to protect us.

"And how successful have you been?"

Silence.

I sniffed and wiped my eyes, trying to swallow the sob that crawled up my throat. I pulled my knees to my chest and buried my head in my crossed arms, as if it would dampen the echoes of my parents' screams still ripping their way through my skull. Whatever was coming was going to be painful. I almost didn't notice when, tentatively, the clacking started one more time.

"i will keep you safe," he said. "i WILL." I think we both knew that he couldn't. His father had already shown how powerful he was; even fueled by fear, Isaac wouldn't be able to stop him.

Without answering, I pulled myself to my feet. I tried the door again; still locked. I forced myself to exhale before moving to the window; also locked, and the latch wouldn't budge. I growled my frustration, dashing tears from my cheeks as I scrambled for something heavy to break the glass. Everything I touched that had any heft to it was as hot as if it were on fire, and even with all of my fear-fueled adrenaline behind them, my fists couldn't do the job.

Finally, with bruised knuckles, blistered palms, and a severe deficit in the energy department, I dragged myself into my bed and pulled the covers to my chin. Isaac's coldness settled next to me and I could practically feel his apologies, but I didn't have the energy to respond. I accepted, almost casually, that I was going to die. And once I did that, I was able to find sleep.

When I was torn out of my bed three hours later, fingernails biting deep into my ankles, I could feel Isaac's cold hands wrapped around my wrists, too weak to pull me back. I slipped from his grip and hit the floor hard, stars bursting in front of my eyes as the back of my head connected with the wooden boards. The fingernails from before reached for my face, clawing ribbons out of it. I tried to bat them away, but it was useless.

Glass splintered through my back as I was slammed into my mirror. Through the brilliant zigzag of pain, I could hear Isaac's voice just faintly: "Stop this, Father, please?" Not the voice I'd imagined for him, but one that made sense, nonetheless. I tried to crawl toward it and was apprehended again by the snarling spirit of his father.

When it was all over—when I lay in a bloody heap on the old wooden floor, bones broken and jutting out every which way, I could finally see Isaac's face, young and pale and twisted with grief. In a lot of ways, this glimpse was better than the portrait; it really hadn't done justice to his features. His nose, his freckles, his thick, disheveled hair. It's okay," I said, reaching for him as my eyes slipped shut. It's okay. It's not your fault." I somehow managed a smile. "I'll talk to you soon.