An Anatomy of Typewriters Story

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There seemed to be a gathering of people at his newsstand. The last time she remembers that happening was when the industrial building along the waterfront blew up. The incident and aftermath caused quite a stir for us and every newsstand across town for weeks. Everyone wanted answers and the local paper seemed to be the only place they could get any.

Nat approached the newsstand cautiously. She could hear him shouting over the crowd for everyone to calm down. People Nat recognized from this newsstand and in passing over the years as well as total strangers were reaching and practically throwing their money at him once they grabbed what they came for. In this case, the morning edition newspaper.

Nat was able to make brief eye contact with the proprietor who raised one finger at her. He knew exactly why she’d come and he spun around in his tiny booth till he found the magazine and held it up for her to see.

The covers were always a bit too art deco for her, splashes of colors that never seemed to make any sense. But Bernice said it’s what made their magazine stand out among the rest who relied on celebrity or pretty food that no one would ever be able to replicate no matter how hard they practiced or how closely they followed the recipe.

“We don’t need all that flash,” Nat could hear her saying. “Our quality inside is what will count in the end.”

After dealing with all of his customers who, after getting their hands on the morning paper, decided to mill around and read it like a collective gaggle of geese, he managed to exit the newsstand and hand Nat what she came for.

“I am sorry, Nat. I have not had an opportunity to read your story this morning,” he said. Reading her story was a highlight for him as he was more a racing pages kind of guy. Fiction was never something he was in and he was glad to be rid of it when he dropped out of high school. Now, he considered himself a literary critic just from reading Nat’s short stories every month.

“What’s going on, Pedro?” Nat asked as she thumbed through the thick magazine in her hands. Nat felt the increased number of stories featured in each issue watered down the really good ones but Bernice disagreed. It showed the public just how relevant they were. And in a way she was right and Nat hated agreeing with her. She knew for a fact that the magazine still received a sizable amount of new stories each month, despite Bernice’s insistence on keeping reams of paper to represent stories of yesteryear.

Pedro managed to squeeze through the throng of readers to grab the newspaper everyone else was reading but Nat didn’t need it, she finally looked away from her magazine to see in large black and bold letters on the newspapers everyone around her held up:

She nearly dropped her magazine when she read those words. He handed her the same paper and she swapped with him, giving him back the magazine to hold while she opened her newspaper to the first page.

She scanned the story for the part with relevant information. After years of working at the magazine she learned a thing or two, first, how to scan a story to get past the fluff, and second, speed reading.

“Can you believe the police had this information all this time and never made the connection or told us? Typical. They think they know everything. Now they cover their asses,” he said as he looked around at everyone continuing to read the rather long article that Nat managed to already get through.

She folded it closed and handed it back to Pedro. “Unbelievable,” she muttered, taking her magazine back from him.

“Keep the paper,” he said, pushing it back at her. “This shadow is more a danger to you than me.” And he was right. Her mother was right too. The police shared pictures of the women to be printed and they all were eerily similar not only to each other but to Nat. 

When the customers finally decided to poke their heads out from behind their papers they immediately started shouting at each other.

Comments on the safety of women, police neglect, public awareness, and a few choice opinions not to be repeated at the family table were barely audible as Nat ducked her head and returned to the comfort of her apartment. She did manage to look back as Pedro welcomed more morning commuters to his newsstand who were teeming to get their hands on the early edition.

It was colder than she expected outside so the first thing Nat did was to make herself a cup of coffee. She eyed the folded newspaper that she tossed on her dining room table that often dubbed as her mailbox. The word “BEWARE” seemed to follow her wherever she was in the kitchen.

She grabbed it and the magazine just beneath it and sat with them at her desk. She pulled out the magazine and decided to finish what she started downstairs at the newsstand. All she knew of her story was the title. Perhaps it had absolutely nothing to do with the latest shadow killer in the newspaper. The very real and very murderous phantom killer who attacks his victims in the darkness. Always managing to catch his victims from places where there is no light to help them identify him.

From what Nat read, the police likely would’ve kept all these details to themselves had his latest victim not been found murdered. They managed to connect him to several assaults on women that go back nearly a full year. But now he seems to have escalated to murder and keeping the citizens in the dark was no longer an option.

She found her story, nestled neatly in the middle of the magazine. She would’ve preferred to be nearer the front. More of a chance of being read by subscribers who take their time in reading each and every story. But as she quickly read through her story she was glad of its location. Her shadow and the shadow from the newspaper, her very made up and their very real shadow were indeed one and the same.

But how could that be?

She slammed the magazine closed and tossed it on the desk beside the typewriter. ‘The typewriter!’ She thought. ‘The damned typewriter! But wait, that’s absurd. Steady on, girl. Typewriters don’t write stories all on their own.’ She remembered what she most definitely saw it type on its own earlier as reassurance it was possible.

She lifted the page that was in the typewriter still as it was further out and saw more words were typed. Menacing words. Promising words.

She ripped the paper from the typewriter and started to crumple it then stopped herself. If something more sinister was up she’d need it as evidence. She smoothed out the paper just as her phone started to ring.

She knew from the familiar ringtone that it was Bernice. And she guessed why she was calling. Her story was out in the world now but there were at least two people who had read it and knew what it was about even before it went to press. 

“Yes, Bernice,” Nat said, answering her phone.

“What game are you playing at?” Bernice asked. “You’re either very smart or very stupid. I haven’t been able to work out which as of yet. So, I thought I’d call the source and find out. Where did the story come from, Nat?”

“Listen, Bernice, you know I wouldn’t lie to you.” As she said the words she cringed. Lying to Bernice was more of a foregone conclusion in their relationship and they both knew it. She sighed and tried to start again, “Trust me…” She stopped herself and found nothing else she could say to satisfy Bernice’s curiosity. That meant it was up to Bernice to fill in the blanks with her own theory.

Bernice always had a theory for everything. Nothing was a coincidence to Bernice. “You have someone on the inside who fed you this shadow killer and you thought you had time to share it before it came out. What have I always told you, Nat, ‘never fall for a cop.’ Sure, some of them are great in bed and good for a story idea but if you get too close then people will start to talk.” Nat rolled her eyes. For Bernice to insinuate that she’d slept with a cop in order to write a fictional story based on a recent true one was insulting. Nat would never do something like that. “I’m sure my phone will be ringing off the hook once our readers get to your little story and blab it all over town. Of course, any news is good news for us. But if the police come asking questions you better damn well have better answers than ‘I wouldn’t lie’ and ‘trust me’ cause that shit don’t cut it with me and it sure as hell ain’t gonna cut it with them.”

Nat heard the familiar click of the person on the other end having hung up on her. She slowly lowered the phone from her ear and put it face down on the magazine. She then grabbed her bottle of rum that she had several glasses of the night before and poured it into her coffee till it nearly spilled over. Then she brought it to her lips and sipped away.

Once the mug was empty she looked at the time. It was already noon and her stomach grumbled for food. She knew there would be none in her fridge or cupboard and decided to call her best friend who she hadn’t spoken to in weeks. She needed to get away from her dark apartment and get some fresh air.

“The stranger emerges from her cocoon. Any longer and I would’ve thought the shadow killer gotcha!” Her best friend was never one for tact when it came to making off color jokes that were better left unsaid.

“How about some lunch, Kate?” Nat said. She learned to just ignore her jokes after decades of friendship. Though this one stung a little and she poured a few drops more from her rum bottle for the road.

Kate was always a sure thing when it came to eating out. She was the golden child with her family and when she made partner at a law firm. As Kate always likes to remind Nat, “They are lucky to have me. So, if I want to take the occasional two hour lunch, I will.”

They made plans to meet at their favorite restaurant on Main Street. As always, Nat got there first and took the liberty of ordering their usual while she waited for Kate to arrive fashionably late.

Kate arrived just as their entrees hit the table. She sat down like she always does, out of breath. Nat thought she was a chronic jogger with how often she was out of breath whenever they got together.

“Tell me, what’s new. Tell me everything,” Kate said, taking a sip of her glass and cringing. The waitress who had just put down their plates of food looked concerned.

“Anything wrong, miss?”

“Yes, there is. It’s five o’ clock somewhere and you’ve brought me water? Take this away and bring me a tall martini,” Kate said, holding her hands out, palms facing each other to emphasize just how tall she expected her martini to be.

“I think I’m in trouble, Kat.”

Kat’s phone started buzzing and she did what she always does, put her finger up to signal Nat needed to wait while she dealt with whatever potential fire was happening back at the office. She scrolled through her phone quickly, decided it could wait, and put both her phone and finger down for Nat to continue.

“I wrote this story. Well, I think I wrote those story. I’m not exactly sure. I think the typewriter I inherited from my dead great uncle wrote the story—”

“The great uncle you mentioned a while back who’s completely crazy?”

Nat felt like her best friend had just stuck a dagger in her chest with that comment. “Yes, but, that’s not the point—”

“That’s not the point? Do you hear yourself? You’re accusing a typewriter of writing a story. If I didn’t know you I’d wonder if crazy runs in your family.”

“I’m serious, Kat. This is my don’t mess with me face. Do you recognize it?” Kate nodded her head and Nat continued. “The shadow killer,” Nat said, leaning in and whispering so no one else could hear her, “I wrote a story about the shadow killer two days ago.”

Kate shook her head. “That’s impossible. The police only just released information about the shadow killer yesterday.”

“Exactly.”

Kate’s martini arrived and she sipped it slowly, staring daggers into Nat who tried hard not to fidget in her chair. She knew what Kate was doing. She was “reading” her to find out just how truthful she was being. It was something she did with all her potential clients before deciding whether or not to take their case. Nat hated whenever Kate did it to her because they were best friends. Whether she was telling a lie or not, Kate was supposed to believe her.

“Let me read this story,” Kate finally said, then downed the last of her martini. She raised her left hand in the air holding the martini glass and snapped her fingers with the other to get the attention of their waitress. “I’m not saying I believe you, but I can see that you believe what you’re saying.”

“Gee, thanks Kat. I knew I could count on you…” Nat said, sitting back in her chair and crossing her arms in frustration. Kat was her only hope to figure out just what this all meant and how much trouble she could be in. “Besides, I don’t have the story. It was written on the typewriter. No copies but that one. If you buy our latest magazine you’ll be able to read it.”

“Funny. Very funny, Nat. Trying to get me to buy a magazine. You know I don’t read magazines unless I’m in it. But why call me? Are you in legal trouble?” Kate’s martini arrived and the waitress took her empty glass, delivering a nasty look as she walked away.

“That’s what I was hoping you’d tell me. If the cops find out about my story will they come looking for me? What do I tell them? I swear it’s a coincidence. Right? I mean…don’t you think it’s a coincidence.”

Kate sipped her second martini. “Say nothing. If they come looking for you, which I doubt, say nothing. What are the chances they’ll be looking in your little magazine today? They’re too busy trying to catch this psycho. No. They’re not interested in you or your fiction.”

This news received Nat. It’s all she needed to hear. Kate could be a total pain sometimes but every now and then she said the right thing to get Nat to relax and relax was exactly what she did.

After their lunch date, Nat decided to spend the rest of the day walking around a nearby park. There was overcast in the sky but she welcomed rain if it were to come. Help wash away the little bit of lingering fear she had left.

Her hands started to get cold so she reached in her jacket pocket for her gloves when her right hand felt something unfamiliar inside. She pulled out a folded piece of paper. She couldn’t remember putting anything in her pocket before she left her apartment. Folded over twice she slowly unfolded it to reveal the type sentence she saw earlier that morning and had forgotten all about:

Had she put it in her pocket to show it to Kate and completely forgot about it? Or was it put there as a warning for her to stay on guard?