Ghost Writer (The Ghost Files Book 7)

by Chanel Smith

  The memory of the aroma of his burning pipe while he typed brought back all sorts of warm memories to her. It also caused tears to begin creeping over the rims of her eyelids and spilling down her cheeks. “I miss you, Granddaddy,” she whispered as she stood mesmerized by the keys tapping out a much more steady rhythm, just like she remembered from watching and listening to him. Suddenly, the bell rang and the carriage flew back into place, bringing her back to her own living room and the fact that the old typewriter was writing by itself.

  “A message!” she said suddenly. “Ellen said there might be a message.”

  There was no ribbon or paper in the typewriter, but the thought suddenly came to her that she could watch the keys and write them down, maybe she could figure it out from there. She scrambled or a pen and paper. Once she had them in hand, she started copying down each of the key presses as quickly as she could. It wasn’t as easy as she thought it would be, due to the fact that the keys were moving much faster than they had before.

  The typewriter continued for a only a moment longer and then went silent. She waited for several minutes, wondering if the evening’s typing was over or if it was only a pause. Still poised to watch the keys, she waited for several, very long minutes before she decided that the typewriter was finished.

  Satisfied that there were no more words to be typed, she sat down at the kitchen table and tried to figure out what words were formed by the letters. After some work, she had decoded what had been typed:

  …reflection of the stars in the small puddles left by the mid-night, summer shower.

  What sort of message was in that? It didn’t sound like any sort of message, but more like a description of something from a story or poem. Were these messages supposed to be cryptic? As hard as she tried, she couldn’t come up with any sort of message that was being left within those words. Then she realized that perhaps the message wasn’t in the words, but in the memories that had come along with them.

  She knew that she had smelled the sweet aroma of her grandfather’s Cherry Cavendish as she watched the typewriter type and yet, how could that be possible. They say that the sense of smell is the most powerful when it comes to recalling things from the past. Was the scent real or simply a part of her imagination? Was Granddaddy’s spirit here typing on his old typewriter? The thought spooked her, but not like it had before. Any ghost in one’s home had a tendency to give a person the shivers, but one that was so familiar and loved didn’t seem to be nearly as frightening. Was he trying to send her some sort of message?

  She wished that she had snapped out of it quicker and been able to record the letters from an earlier point. Maybe there was more of a message in the first part. My suggestion to put a ribbon and paper in the typewriter suddenly didn’t seem nearly as foolish to her and she decided that it would be worth the effort to see whatever was written and begin to find some sort of peace.

  She pulled out the yellow pages and started copying down any place that might sell typewriter ribbon. With word processors becoming much more popular, finding ribbon cartridges for the electric typewriters seemed like it might be hard enough, but finding the old ribbons on reels like the manual typewriters had would likely be completely impossible. Nevertheless, she was determined to get the typewriter into working order and see if she could find out what her grandfather’s spirit was trying to tell her.

  After about an hour of combing through any slight possibility of finding a typewriter ribbon for the old Olivetti Valentine machine, which was, no doubt, brand new in the early 1970s, was well out of date as Diana began to push her 30th birthday. Likely, she and the machine were pretty close to the same age.

  With her list sitting next to the thick yellow pages book, she finally decided that she was too exhausted to carry on. She hadn’t slept well in several nights and she was pretty sure that she’d soon be coming down with something if she didn’t give her body some rest. Once in bed, contrary to the previous nights, she was able to relax easily and had soon drifted off to sleep with the sweet aroma of Cherry Cavendish in her nostrils.

  Chapter Eight

  Things were a good deal different for her when she awakened to the alarm clock on her nightstand and started down the hall to awaken Jaxon. It had been so easy and clear to think of the ghost of her grandfather sitting in her living room and typing on his old typewriter as 2:00 a.m., but at 7:00 a.m. it seemed like silliness. Had she really had the experience that came rushing back into her head as she watched her son eagerly slide out of bed and head down the hall to the bathroom? Why was she entertaining the idea of getting a ribbon and paper for the old typewriter? It was pure foolishness, right?

  “Mama,” Jaxon said walking into the kitchen, already dressed for school while she was pouring waffle batter into the waffle iron.

  “Yes, Jax?”

  “Somebody put Granddaddy’s typewriter in the middle of the desk. It wasn’t me, I swear!”

  With that one statement, it all came flowing back to her in a sort of simplicity that lightened the cloudy mood with which she had been questioning herself. The moving typewriter and the mysteriously self-automated keys and carriage had become a bit to common of an occurrence in their house for her to continue to deny. “I know, Baby,” she replied simply.

  “Did you move it?”

  Should she tell him the truth or dance around it. She’d always felt like it was best to tell him the truth and then figure out how to deal with his reaction. Is this one of those times?

  “Did you move it, mama?” he repeated after she didn’t respond for quite some time.

  “No, I didn’t move it,” she replied. Maybe she wouldn’t have to go into any more detail.

  “Did Ellen move it?”

  No such luck in hoping that she could dodge the issue. He could be pretty persistent when he wanted to be, especially when she was hoping to avoid something. She wondered if all kids have that innate sense of knowing when their parents don’t want to talk about something, so they press the issue. “No, Ellen didn’t move it.”

  “So, that just leaves PCR and a ghost, right?”

  He had to have impeccable logic working for the morning, didn’t he? “I guess it was one of the two then.”

  The waffles were finished cooking and she prepared them with peanut butter and jelly and presented them along with a glass of milk in front of Jaxon at the table. He seemed to be in deep thought as she set down the plate. Should I ask him what he’s thinking about? I may have to go back into this discussion again. She decided not to ask him.

  Jaxon dug into his waffles as though he hadn’t eaten in several days and Diana sat down at the table across from him, looking at the list of names, numbers and addresses that she had copied down the night before. Was she being completely foolish in assuming that if she put a ribbon and paper in the machine, she would receive some urgent message from her grandfather who had been in the spirit world for almost 15 years? She’d told me that fooling around with that sort of thing probably wasn’t right and in that moment, she nearly returned to that point of view.

  “Mama?” Jaxon piped in, having just finished off the last of his waffles and milk.

  “Uh hum?” she responded.

  “I don’t think PCR moved the typewriter.”

  “Why don’t you think he did it?”

  “Geez, mama, he’s a toy.”

  His simple logic was enough to bring her back to the fact that even if she hadn’t accepted that a ghost was moving and typing on the typewriter, he had. He didn’t seem to be concerned about it. She decided to quiz him further. “So, that only leaves a ghost moving it. Doesn’t that scare you?”

  “As long as he doesn’t try to get me in trouble for moving it and doesn’t jump out at me and yell boo, then I’m okay with it.”

  The response seemed to be well beyond what a child his age ought to have said. And they think my son had language development problems. “I doubt he’ll try to scare you or get you into trouble. But you better get going or yo
u’ll miss the bus.”

  With Jaxon out the door and on his way to school, Diana sat down with her phone and the list that she’d compiled the night before. Just like she had assumed the evening before, it was extremely difficult to find a ribbon for the old Olivetti Valentine typewriter. In some cases, the person who answered her call had been quite entertained by the fact that someone would even be thinking of such a thing. She had been advised several times to give up on those old things and use a word processor and printer if she really had typing that she wanted to get done. As her list grew smaller and smaller, it began to feel like she was never going to be able to find what she was looking for.

  “It’s probably better if I don’t,” she told herself aloud, as discouragement took over once more. “We’ve got financial problems, I’ve got to figure out how to stretch every dollar, my son has some sort of learning disability and I’m wasting my time trying to find a non-existent ribbon for an ancient typewriter so that I can see what message the ghost of my grandfather is sending me. And Ellen doesn’t believe that I’m going out of my mind?”

  She put her arms on the table, rested her head on them and closed her eyes, trying to gain some sort of perspective over the craziness that had become commonplace over the past week. As she relaxed and might have even dozed for a moment, she caught the sweet aroma of Cherry Cavendish all over again and smiled. “That’s not fair Granddaddy,” she muttered. That soft bit of encouragement was enough for her to make two more phone calls. Neither of those last two that she called had ribbons, however, one of them, a woman with a shaky voice who sounded like she might be the same age as her grandfather if he were alive, suggested a place that hadn’t even crossed her mind, nor was it listed in the yellow pages.

  “An Olivetti Valentine typewriter ribbon?” the man asked after listening to her request.

  “Yes, sir, that’s correct,” she had replied. It was her last ditch effort and she was beginning to feel that even it was going to be a failure by the tone of the man’s voice.

  “I haven’t had a request for one of those in a while,” he chuckled. “You haven’t switched over to an electric or a word processor like everybody else?”

  “No, sir,” she felt like she should explain a little bit, but she didn’t think that going into the ghost story would be necessary. “It belonged to my Granddaddy and I was just hoping to make it functional again. Call me crazy.”

  “I won’t call you crazy. I prefer the old things myself. I think I might have what you’re looking for, I’ll be right back.” He set down the phone. She could hear stirring somewhere in the background, evidently, he didn’t have one of those phones that you could press the hold button and hang up. After a few minutes, she heard the sound of the man returning and picking up the phone. “You’re in luck, I have three of them.”

  “I’ll take them all,” she replied.

  “Do you mind leaving me at least one, you know, just in case someone else needs one? I’m not sure about the supplier anymore,” he requested.

  “I understand,” she smiled, suddenly feeling a great deal better about the whole ordeal. “I’ll be right down. Where are you located?”

  After getting directions and leaving her name so that he could set them aside for her, she danced down the hall to the shower. She’d accomplished the impossible in order to explain the improbably. Who wouldn’t feel a little bit of joy from something like that?

  Chapter Nine

  Diana had gone to bed that night with a sense of excitement. She had considered staying awake and watching the typewriter, but she as exhausted from a very heavy Friday night rush and finally decided that the sound of the bell on the carriage return would awaken her whenever her grandfather’s spirit came to do his typing. Besides, she wouldn’t miss a word, since there was a ribbon and paper in the machine.

  She hadn’t pushed the machine back into the cubby-hole that evening, but left it centered on the desk and ready for use. She was anxious to know what would be typed on the paper. What sort of message would her grandfather have for her?

  She might as well have sat up and waited for the typewriter to start typing, because she didn’t get even a moment’s sleep while she ran through all kinds of scenarios in her mind. She looked at the clock on her nightstand a number of times and watched the hours and minutes slowly ticking toward 2:00 a.m. When the hour finally arrived, she heard the faint sound of the keys of the typewriter clicking and then the unmistakable sound of the ringing bell and the zing of the sliding carriage.

  Without wasting a moment, she slipped out of her bed and went down the hall. The moment she entered the living room, the aroma of Cherry Cavendish was much stronger than it had been the night before. Immediately, in her heart, she felt the presence of her grandfather. “Granddaddy?” she called out as she flipped the light switch and crossed the room toward the desk.

  He might as well have been there, for the memories of standing behind his chair with her hands resting on the back of the chair while she watched over his shoulder were as strong as if they were actually taking place. Fascinated by the moving keys and the words that were being formed on the page in front of her, she watched in a dreamlike state, reading the words and feeling the feeling of being swept away into one of her grandfather’s novels.

  She was beaming as she watched, though she also felt tears of joy rolling out of her eyes and tumbling down her cheeks. The moment was over much too soon for her and she immediately felt a surge of regret the moment the machine stopped. As she had done the night before, she waited to make certain that there were no more words coming before she slowly reached forward and gently pulled the paper from the machine.

  Without taking the time to sit down, she began to read what was written on the page.

  The blackness of the night began to withdraw as Herman urged the carriage forward along the mud-soaked road. The dancing white horse in front of the black carriage was slowly coming into better view as the clouds drew back, allowing the stars begin to twinkle above them in the night sky.

  With Olivia at his side, he was certain that his life was going to begin to take a turn for the better. His only regret was that he had stolen away with her into the night rather than having a proper wedding, but Olivia’s father had remained firm and there was never going to be a wedding as long as he lived and breathed. They’d had no other choice.

  Listening to the sound of Camelot’s hooves splattering in the mud, the ringing of the trace chains and the splashing of the wheels of the carriage as they moved along, Herman wondered if Olivia’s father would come after them. Would he hunt for them and kill him when he caught up to them?

  His fear had been much greater during the storm and the pitch blackness that had followed it while the clouds still hung heavily over them, but as they began to clear, he could see the reflection of the stars in the small puddles left by the mid-night, summer shower.

  The words were very familiar to her and she knew them the moment that she read them. They were her own words; words that she’d written as a teenager. She had shared her story with her grandfather, hoping to win his approval for her work, but she had mostly received criticism. As she looked back on it, she recalled his exact words.

  “There’s some good stuff in here Diana, but you need to keep working on it. The key is to show rather than to tell. Do you understand what I’m saying? Show me what your characters are seeing. Show me their emotions and what they are thinking through their actions. Paint me a picture. If you’re going to be a writer, my dear, you can’t be lazy and simply throw in whatever word will fit, you have to choose the right one. You have to choose the word that will not only describe what is going on, but evoke the emotional response of the reader as well. Keep working on it.”

  As an adult, she understood that he was coaching her in order to make her better. The red lines that he had drawn on her pages had overwhelmed her and the questions that he’d written in the margins had been beyond her understanding. In her young mind, she had fe
lt that he’d rejected her work, but in reality, knowing the way that her grandfather worked, he was spurring her on the way that he had likely been spurred along before people were the least bit concerned about whether or not they damaged a child’s self-esteem.

  Since her grandfather and her mother were the only two people who had ever read her story, she knew that it was impossible that some random ghost had been sitting in the chair only moments before, typing out the very words from her own story. The tobacco had been a pretty good clue as to who her mystery spirit was, but those words were even more convincing. Whatever happened to that story? Do I still have it around somewhere? It’s probably in that trunk in mother’s attic along with all of the other keepsakes that I have never bothered to go get. I’ll call mother tomorrow and see if she knows where that story is.

  Placing the paper on the desk, she decided that she would go ahead and put another piece of paper inside the machine. Perhaps, her grandfather came and sat at the desk on numerous occasions when neither she nor Jaxon were there, if he did, then at the very least, she could provide him with what he needed to continue writing.

  With her mind swirling, she’d had a great deal of difficulty going back to sleep. Remembering her grandfather’s critique and remembering the story line that had never quite left her, she continued rolling it all around in her head for several hours before sleep was finally able to overtake her and she drifted off into dreams that she hadn’t had since she was a teenage girl.

  Chapter Ten

  “I’ve got no time for this mess,” she complained to me as she sipped her coffee in my apartment the following Saturday morning. “I’m up to my ears with financial problems, I have a job to tend to, Jaxon to take care of, especially now that we have another issue with him to solve. I haven’t even had a chance to figure out how I’m going to tend to his learning issue.”