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Miller H Caldwell, click here
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A writer's surprise
Invisible Fingers at Halloween.
It was after dark and Halloween, but my children had grown up and lived far away. I was now widowed and the thought of another Halloween made me sad that I had no-one to share the familiar spooky night. I had thought of going to bed and sleep through this pagan custom and wake up fresh the next day when all the celebrations would have been forgotten, save for those given a second airing in the playgrounds.
Then I heard a clicking sound as I added a suspicion of sugar to my hot chocolate night drink and brought it through to my desk. But when I looked at the keys on my desktop computer they were moving without being touched. I felt the chair, but no-one was there. I wafted my hand over the keys but the typing continued. I looked at the text and saw the hand was continuing with the short story I had been writing last week till I developed writer’s block. What was happening was unexplained but I was not frightened. I was intrigued to see how it was developing. No spell check was required. No hesitation to think of the next line. I simply could not understand how the words were appearing. Yet I was tense, anxious and looking behind myself regularly. I was on edge. I needed a release.
I placed the dog on the lead and went for a walk, longer than usual as I tried hard to understand what was happening. I heard excited children demanding a Trick or Treat as they proceeded down the street. It was now ink dark with distant sparkling stars taking pictures of the Earth beneath. But my thoughts returned to the strange happenings around my computer desk. I could not live with a poltergeist in the house. I''d never get to sleep.
I returned home and opened the front door. I listened. Not a sound was heard. I entered the writing den and saw the keys were at rest. I looked at the screen to see the last word the spirit had written. It was The End.
I read the book that night and was surprisingly satisfied with what I had read and promptly sent it off to my agent, Bernie. Two weeks later she replied that she''d found a market for the book and its rights had been secured. There was only one thing on Bernie''s mind about the book.
''You realise,’ she said to me. ''This is the first time you''ve used a pseudonym.''
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Ron