Category: Anatomy of Typewriters

Anatomy of Typewriters Story / 3,798 words / 15min Read Time

An Anatomy of Typewriters Story / 2,642 words / 10min 30sec Read Time

An Anatomy of Typewriters Story / 4,008 words / 16min Read Time

The content below was originally paywalled.

I don’t know how long I was sitting there, in the corner at the bottom of the stairs, in the basement, staring at twelve graves. Twelve bodies buried by my birthmother? How could this be? I tried to stand up but my hands couldn’t seem to hold my weight when I tried to lift myself up onto my knees so I fell back down. I’ll try again later. For now I willed myself to look around the rest of the basement. Take my eyes off the graves for a moment. That might help me get my energy back.

There were at least three shovels hanging on a large peg board against the wall nearest where I sat. Around them were other, more sinister tools that I feel I’ve only ever seen in horror films and didn’t know their technical names. Nor did I particularly want to know them.

A long table stretched from the middle of the wall with the shovels and stopped at the furthest away wall. On it were neat stacks of notebooks. One common trait I could see right away, that I noticed when I first walked into this house, was how neat and tidy everything seemed to be. I fully expected a mess but instead I was met with order even in a room that felt like chaos.

I wanted to see what was in the notebooks even though I had an inkling what I would find. But I used that motivation to get me to my feet and walked over to the wooden table that I noticed was bolted to the wall and floor. I found a swivel chair pushed under and pulled it out so I could sit, thankful for it as my knees were still a bit unsteady.

I pulled down the first notebook and read the cover:

I gulped, suddenly my mouth was totally dry, and opened to the first page. A picture of a middle aged man smiling. I could tell it was cut out of a larger photo as there was a shoulder in the bottom corner. I couldn’t be sure but I guessed it was a woman. His wife, perhaps? And judging by the size of the picture I also guessed this might’ve been a picture he kept in his wallet.

Under it was a picture of the same man, only his eyes were closed now as if asleep. But I knew better. He wasn’t asleep. He was dead. I could see redness around his mouth and I’d read enough mystery books to know this could mean poison. I turned the page, noticing a slight yellowing of the pages. This book was clearly very old by several years. Information about the man who was buried in grave #1. I didn’t really read what it said as I wanted to know as little about him just in case I was asked by police or anyone. The less I knew, the better. I flipped through and saw journal entries with dates going back nearly forty years, before I was born. It seems she had been following this man, learning his daily routine, before she was finally able to get him, poison him, and bury him down here.

For a brief moment I admired the process she had created for herself. I had a feeling this wasn’t her first time doing this but it clearly was her first time thinking of disposing of the body in her home. Probably less likely to get caught.

I closed the book and pulled more towards me to confirm they were similar. Each grave had at least two notebooks worth of notes. Then I pulled a most interesting stack. By now I was way more invested than I’m sure I should’ve been and the sick feeling I had knowing there were twelve dead bodies, complete strangers to me, buried just behind me, had completely disappeared. I felt…at home…

Notes on Poison
How to Dispose of the Body
Read First

Each book read like an instruction manual but a personal one. I quickly realized she was writing all of this…to me…

She must’ve known from the moment she had me that all of this would be a part of me and not wanting to leave me to figure it out on my own, she wrote all of this. Catalogued everything. I pushed the books away. This was wrong. Wasn’t it? Why was she doing this? There had to be some sort of reason. Something to justify murdering all of these people and possibly more that just aren’t buried down here under her house (my house…).

I had to find out. I had to read all of this in the hopes that I could find something to justify why my birthmother was, by definition, a serial killer.

I grabbed the notebooks belonging to the first two graves and a few of the instruction notebooks before making my way back upstairs. Once out of the basement I felt a sense of relief. Being down there had done quite a number on me. I looked at the stairs leading up and fear crept back in. What if another bedroom had someone else inside, waiting for me to open it just before they killed themselves as well? I couldn’t take that chance. I wouldn’t take that chance.

“If someone else is up there, I’m not coming up. If you kill yourself it won’t be because of me!” I shouted up to anyone or no one. I didn’t hear anything.

I entered what must be the living room, an oversized couch and matching loveseat with a rectangular mahogany coffee table in the middle. A rug that covered almost the entire floor underneath. I plopped down on the couch and spread out the notebooks on the table. I was about to open the first notebook and stopped. This was clearly going to be a long night and I could still smell the delivery I had ordered earlier. I decided to grab it along with pouring myself a large glass of red wine from the bottle I found on the kitchen island, almost as if waiting for me. I honestly couldn’t recall if I’d noticed that bottle there earlier.

I then returned to the couch with food and wine in hand. I ate voraciously, drank liberally, and read all night, refusing to sleep until I had gone through every book I brought up, cover to cover.

DING-DONG.

DING-DONG.

My eyes shot open. I could see the ceiling. A crystal chandelier hung down, ominously. Where was I? My head throbbed. I went to touch my forehead and found an empty wine glass was still in my hand. I lazily placed it on the coffee table before forcing myself to sit up. A notebook was opened on my chest and fell to the floor. There were notebooks everywhere on the table and floor.

DING-DONG.

Shit! The doorbell. When had I fallen asleep? What time was it now? I looked towards the curtained windows in the living room and could just make out sunlight creeping through around the edges. That didn’t really tell me much. A clock on the mantel over the fireplace showed it was half past eleven o’clock. 

DING-DONG.

Who the hell was that at my door and why hadn’t they left? After ringing a doorbell twice with no answer I would assume the person wasn’t home. Then again my car was in the driveway. Kind of hard to pretend you’re not at home.

I shook my head to try force myself to wake up and be alert much faster than I wanted. Before I could answer the door I needed to do something about these notebooks. I quickly put them all into a tall stack and carried them to the kitchen. The island had cupboards all around it. I pulled one open and managed to place them inside on a shelf beside a bunch of baking ingredients.

I then stopped at the kitchen sink and turned on the cold water, splashing my face.

DING DONG.

I grabbed a dish towel to dry my hands as I walked slowly to the front door and yanked it open. A man fresh out of college, perfectly combed black hair, slick back and shining in the morning sun. He wore a short sleeved sky blue polo shirt that fit him perfectly, ironed white khaki pants that hugged him just right, and low-top Converse that matched his polo shirt. If not for the pencil tucked behind his ear, his square framed glasses, and a black leather portfolio tucked under one arm, I would’ve thought he was going to ask me if I wanted a relationship with God. Instead, I knew exactly what he was; a reporter.

“Can I help you?” I asked impatiently. He seemed to just stare. More surprised to see me than I was to see him.

“Oh, yes. So sorry,” he said, fumbling in his back pocket to pull out a business card and handed it to me. I glanced down at it.

“How can I help you, James?”

“Jimmy, please. I’m here to see Delphine Patterson,” he said, pulling out a small spiral notebook. 

“Why?” I asked, folding my arms defiantly.

“Well,” he started, and looked around behind him to make sure none of the neighbors in the surrounding houses were outside watching him. “Do you mind if I come in? I’m sure what I have to say you don’t want someone else to overhear.”

My eyes may have given me away as they widened. I didn’t want to let him inside. I hadn’t exactly checked behind every door in the house to see if there were other dead bodies I needed to worry about but something about what he said made me curious. I stepped aside and let him in. He smelled of a fresh spring shower and a cologne familiar to me that I couldn’t quite place.

I led him to the living room where my empty wine glass and the empty bottle were still on the coffee table.

“Long night?” He asked, looking down at them. I scooped them up and took them to the kitchen. When I returned he had made himself at home, sitting on the couch. I at on the loveseat and folded my legs casually. Or as casually as I could be with thirteen dead bodies in the house. “Ms. Patterson, let me be honest. This house is quite a mystery to the town. You may not know this but it’s been the center of many investigations and rumored missing persons cases.” He leaned forward and put his portfolio case on the coffee table. He unzipped it all the way around and opened it to reveal a mass of papers. Most of it was newspaper clippings. He took some of them from the top and handed them to me. I just glanced at the headlines, trying not to act unfazed by their words:

I handed them back to him. “I don’t see what this has to do with me or this house. I only just arrived last night. How did you even know—”

“That’s just it. I received this letter from your mother. I’d been investigating these cases, and others just like it—”

“I’m going to stop you there. She’s my birthmother. I never even knew her,” I said argumentatively, but he ignored me and kept right on talking.

“I’m sure they were all last seen on Juniper Street. The house this street is on—”

“As are others,” I said.

“Yes, but they all let me search their houses. All except this house. I could never get past the doorstep. This is the first time I’ve even been let inside the house. And this letter. It says that you’ll be here and that you’ll let me in to finally have a look around. Unless, you think there’s something to hide?”

My heart started pounding in my ears so loudly I thought he might hear it or at least see it through my shirt. “Can I see this letter?”

He leaned forward again and flipped through the articles and papers he had in his portfolio before pulling a letter from it and handing it to me. I could tell right away it was on the same typing paper as the letter Mr. Chisolm III gave me only yesterday.

“You expect me to take some typed up letter as proof of something? You could’ve typed this up yourself in some underhanded attempt to snoop around my house.” I knew it was authentic. I knew she typed it and mailed it. What was her reasoning? If he looked around he would discover the dead woman upstairs and the graves down in the basement. I could never let him look around. And yet she sent him to me. Then there were the notebooks in the cupboard in the kitchen. Suddenly I was remembering the one notebook about poisons. Where she kept them and how much to administer to kill someone instantly. It seemed so easy.

“Are you not going to let me look around, then?” He asked a second time. I snapped out of it and smiled at him.

“Of course, but, as you can see, I haven’t even had a chance to unpack,” I said, pointing to my suitcase that was in the foyer. “Would it be possible for you to come back, say, five ‘o clock tonight? I can cook you dinner and then we can have a full look around the house. Top to bottom. I promise,” I said, keeping the fake smile on my face. I could tell he couldn’t believe his luck.

“It’s a date,” he said, gathering up his papers to put back in his portfolio.

“Would you mind if I took a look at what you’ve been working on? I’m terribly interested in all that true crime stuff. I listen to the podcasts all the time. This sounds so fascinating,” I said, trying to sound as innocent as possible. “I promise it’ll all be here when you come back tonight.”

He hesitated, which told me this was all he had in this portfolio. He probably had a folder dedicated to this house in a folder on his computer at home but there was little I could do about that. Right now I just needed to see just how much he information he had gathered and if it was something he could take to the police that would be believed.

“No problem, you’ve got a trusting face. I’m sure there’s no truth to my hypothesis. I just need to be sure. You understand. It’s not like I think your mother has bodies buried in the basement!” He chuckled. I laughed to thought it might’ve been less believable.

I walked him to the front door, closed and locked it once he was gone. I leaned my back against it. My hands trembling from fear. I needed a plan and I had less than five hours to come up with something. I sniffed my pits and realized I also needed a shower. It meant going upstairs but right now I was less afraid of some dead corpse in a bedroom and more terrified of the possibility of police sirens closing in.

I took my suitcase and ran upstairs, found a bedroom that was empty of a person (alive or dead), with an ensuite attached.

The shower was exactly what I needed. I felt more refreshed and my mind was clear. I knew exactly what I needed to do and the time for second guessing the only option I had was over. I needed to get down to business. It was already three o’ clock and James—Jimmy, would be returning in a couple hours. 

I found tarp neatly folded right where the notebook told me it would be, in the hallway linen closet. I took it into the bedroom where the dead woman was, laying there with her eyes and mouth wide open, and got to work. I unfolded the tarp on the floor and pulled her onto it then rolled her up and used large pieces of rope that were already pre-cut to the perfect length to tie knots at either end before dragging her down the hall and letting gravity get her from the second floor to the first floor. This needed to be done today, one more day and the smell would be difficult to get out of the room, I learned.

Getting her down to the basement was easier than I thought it would be. When I got to the graves I noticed something I hadn’t seen before. It was probably because I hadn’t really looked closely at the area where the graves were. There were two holes dug already. Almost like she knew I would be needing it. I couldn’t remember if those holes were already there when I arrived last night, but they had have been…

I dragged the woman to one of the holes and took the next hour throwing dirt in her hole. It was only about half-full before I stopped from exhaustion. The rest would have to wait till later tonight.

I stupidly neglected to put on the overalls and boots that she used whenever this work needed to be done so I had to return to the shower, but this time I made it a much shorter visit.

With my hair back in a ponytail and my fanciest dress on, I sat at the kitchen island with his portfolio and the second notebook for the woman I just buried in front of me. I made myself a cup of coffee and got to work. First, I made an entry in the notebook about time of death, when I prepped her, and how for her final resting place. I also made note that I didn’t finish the burial and needed to return to the task later. I put the notebook with the others in the island cupboard and started to read the notes Jimmy had compiled.

My phone rang just a few minutes into reading his notes. I looked at the caller ID and recognized the number; Mr. Chisolm III.

“This is Delphie speaking.”

“Hello, Ms. Patt—er, Delphie. I was just checking to see how you’re settling in at the house?”

“Thank you for checking. The first night was…different than I’m used to. I’ve lived in an apartment most of my life. But I’m sure I’ll love it here.”

“So you’ve decided to stay?” He asked. I wasn’t aware there was an option? But the time for me to walk away had past. I knew too much already.

“I have. But, Mr. Chisolm, I wonder if you can answer something for me. Did my birthmother ever mention a journalist who was harassing her?”

Long pause. “No. I only handle her estate.”

“I see. Thank you.”

“If there’s nothing else?”

“Nope. I think that’s it.”

“Well, in that case. Enjoy the house, Delphie,” he said, and hung up. I had another question I wanted to ask him but part of me didn’t want to know the answer. I had a sinking feeling I knew the answer already…

At five o’ clock exactly the doorbell rang. Jimmy was definitely punctual. I took the liberty of ordering pizza delivery. I didn’t want to give him the wrong impression that my inviting him back for dinner was actually a date like he jokingly said. I figured pizza would be an easy way to rid him of any false ideas.

I took the liberty of pouring us each a glass of wine and brought his with me when I answered the door. He wore the same outfit from earlier and had his own bottle of red wine that he handed to me.

“My momma always taught me never to arrive at a woman’s home for dinner empty handed. Just good manners,” he said, taking the glass of wine from my hand and passing me the wine bottle.

“Thank you very much. I was looking over your notes. Pretty extensive work you’ve got there. How long have you been working on this story?” I wanted to put him as much at ease as possible. Ask him more questions than he could ask me.

“I started a few years ago when I was given an assignment about a missing dog, actually. I know, not that interesting, right?” We walked into the kitchen together and he saw the large pizza box on the island. “Ah, a working dinner,” he said. I furrowed my eyebrows, confused. “It’s what I eat whenever I’m working. Nothing like greasy pizza to help the mind work overtime.” He lifted the lid and seemed glad to see a half plain, half pepperoni pizza. “What did you make of my research so far?”

“Well, I was confused as to what you believe the connection is between this house and the missing people? Or what their connection might be to each other? The only common thread I see is that they’re missing—”

“And that they were all last seen in this town, on this specific street,” he added, pulling up a slice of pepperoni. He hadn’t taken a sip from his wine glass yet.

“What exactly are you implying?”

“Well, I know you never met the woman but she was weird. I hope you don’t mind me saying this to you. I mean no offense,” he said, taking a sip of his wine.

He meant offense. But I wasn’t offended. I was…excited.

“None taken,” I answered, picking up a plain slice and taking a bite. It was rather good.

“She immediately became guarded when I first came by. Showed no interest in the missing people she must’ve heard about on the radio. Even in the police report,” he said, putting his half eaten slice down and wiping his fingers before rifling through his portfolio which I left open for him on the table. I did promise he would get it back. And I keep my promises. “Here,” he said, turned a piece of paper towards me so I could read it. I had indeed already read it, “she was interviewed but you can tell by his wording here that even he felt something was off about her.”

“So why not take it up with him? If you feel so strongly that she’s behind all these missing people—which I think is hilarious, by the way—take it up with them. Are you a journalist or a wanna-be cop? Cause you’re doing pretty badly either way.”

He didn’t answer.

He loosened the top button of his polo shirt and his head started to sway from side to side. He looked down at the pizza then back at me. Then at his half empty glass of wine and his eyes widened with fear.

I walked over to the cupboard with my mother’s notebooks and pulled out one that looked the oldest. Pages crinkled. The cover was so faded I could barely make out what she wrote on it: My First Kill.

I plopped it down on the island, watching Jimmy out the corner of my eye, and opened it to the first page.

“Turns out my mother was rather efficient with her work. I’m sure she didn’t think she’d get caught and since she’s not here now then I suppose you could say she never did get caught.” Jimmy’s head dropped onto the island with a thud, his eyes open, staring at me, lifeless. “The real question is, do I bury you now or wait till after dinner?” 

I put the pizza box in the refrigerator and went upstairs to get another tarp from the linen closet. I’ve always wondered how delicious pizza might taste after my first murder.

An Anatomy of Typewriters Story / 1,988 words / 8min Read Time

The content below was originally paywalled.

I drove for most of the night till I arrived at the house. I had definitely never been there before and never seen it beyond the photograph left to me by my birthmother but for some reason it felt like home when I turned into the driveway and turned the car off. I sat there, staring up at the two story house. It was dark and the only light I had to see the house came from the crescent moon in the clear sky. It reflected off the bay window in the front, a black door tucked around the corner, a pathway and three steps leading up to it.

I grabbed my overnight duffel bag and suitcase that I came with from the trunk of my rental car and unlocked the door. I felt around on the wall beside the front door till I found a switch that turned on a single light in the entrance. The house felt warm and cozy, not at all what I was expecting when I walked in. If no one had been in the house since my birthmother died, how was it that it felt so clean. No cobwebs, no musty smell in the air. In fact, I could swear there was a faint smell of hot chocolate in the air and it made me crave a cup. I left my suitcase by the front door and decided to inspect the lower level of the house. I was tired but I was fueled by my curiosity.

I followed my nose towards where I assumed the kitchen must be. Along the way I couldn’t help but notice the wallpaper in the house was bright red roses, a stark contrast to the cherry oak floor and railing for the stairs leading up to the second story. A black runner on the floor led me down a hallway where I could see the faint glow of the moon illuminating a stainless steal refrigerator. It was newer than I expected, then again I had no idea who the woman was that lived in this house. I suppose I was making assumptions based on the only mother I ever knew in my life. My mother would never have felt comfortable in this house. 

My childhood home was a mess. Well, not such a mess that I couldn’t have friends over, but there were pictures of us all over the wall. She had figurines on tables and in glass cases in every room. She even had her own plant room that made the house smell like an inside garden. I missed that smell but before I could shed a tear I pulled open one side of the French doors on the refrigerator, not surprised to see it was empty. Actually, I almost wished it was full of groceries. So I could know what food she ate. Did she eat the same foods I did? Something that would tell me about this woman I’d never met but who shared a bond with me in some way.

One wall had upper and lower cabinets, a large basin sink with windows that overlooked the backyard. I couldn’t see it well because of large trees that blocked the moonlight. I would have to wait till morning to find out just how well the hired gardeners are. I learned a thing or two from my mother about tending and keeping a garden.

My stomach started to grumble so I went to work confirming the cupboards were bare before pulling out my phone to find a nearby restaurant that would be open so late and deliver. There was no way I could get to sleep on an empty stomach. I pulled open the cutlery drawer, hoping there might at least be some inside that I could use in case the delivery forgot to provide them. A red envelope with my name on in shocked me so much I pulled the drawer completely out and it crashed to the kitchen floor with a clatter. Luckily it was empty, except for the envelope.

I stared at it partly sticking out under the upside down drawer. My hand shook as I picked it up. It didn’t weight much. The size of a Hallmark card but what could it possibly be celebrating?

I opened it and slowly pulled out the card. It said “Welcome Home” on the front with a gravestone beside it and a graveyard in the background. I dropped the card on the island in the middle of the kitchen and went to another part of the house. I wanted to get as far away from it as possible.

I grabbed my suitcase from the hallway and rolled it into the living room that was opposite the kitchen and plopped down on the long sofa. I was surprised how neat and clean it was. There didn’t seem to be a speck of dust to show its age or lack of human contact on it. In fact, I could just make out where someone had sat in the same spot every time. I sat just next to the indentation in the couch and stared at it. I must’ve been doing it for far longer than I realized because my phone pinged, letting me know my food had arrived. A picture popped up showing me where it had been left for me.

Strangely, it was left at the end of the driveway, near the mailbox. Pissed off, I went outside to fetch it before the chill in the night air made it cold. With food in hand I turned back around to face the house and saw a light come on in one of the windows upstairs. It was faint but I could just make out it must be a bedside lamp. Than a shadow moved across the curtained window. There was someone in the house.

I’d read my share of squatters stories. They were a nightmare to deal with. I had a decision to make. I could go back inside and get my things, hoping whoever it is doesn’t try to confront me, or I could call the police and take my chances that they could do something about it. I knew the latter was a long shot. 

Maybe it was my hunger that took over my decision to go inside and confront the intruder myself, but I marched inside and slammed the door behind me. If we were going to do this, I wanted to at least let them know I was here!

“Whoever you are, I’ve called the police. So, you better not try anything or do anything stupid!” I shouted up through the ceiling. I could hear movement and muffled sounds coming from above my head. I started to walk up the stairs slowly, wishing there were things in the kitchen so I could at least have a kitchen knife to defend myself. As it stood, I had my wits and my cellphone. Not exactly a lethal combination. And it didn’t help that I could smell my dinner calling to me downstairs.

At the top of the landing I saw three doors. I assumed two were bedrooms and one might be a bathroom. I looked at the bottom of each door till I spotted the one with a faint glow. Bingo!

“I’m opening this door! Whoever you are, I’m sure we can work something out,” I said, suddenly my voice getting shaky. The confidence I had when I started walking up the stairs suddenly vanished and left behind a terrified woman. I gripped the door handle and pushed the door open just in time to see an older woman sitting in a chair beside a bed, a half filled glass in her hand.

“She’s been expecting you.” Those were her only words to me before she downed the glass and let it fall from her hand, shuttering on impact with the floor. She made a gurgling sound and instinctively clawed at her neck. Her eyes grew wide and her jaw opened so big I thought it would come unhinged. She managed to look in my direction and reach out one hand towards me. But fear had settled in and I couldn’t move. I’m not even sure I was breathing.

The old woman pitched forward onto the floor in front of me. She was dead. I didn’t need to check her pulse to know it for sure. I’m not a doctor or an expert on dead people. But I could tell she had stopped breathing. For some reason she had poisoned herself and was now lying dead on the bedroom floor of a house within an hour of my having stepped foot inside. I suddenly covered my mouth, afraid of the scream that I felt deep in the back of my throat would escape and someone outside might hear it.

I felt sick. I was going to be sick. I backed into the hallway and the next door I pushed open was a bathroom. I just made it to the toilet before I puked my heart out. When I was done I turned on the sink and washed my face. 

“What the fuck have I got myself into?” I asked myself. I looked up to see my reflection in the mirror, instead I was faced with another note. This time it wasn’t in an envelope. It was on an index card, taped to the mirror.

My hands were still shaking violently when I ripped the card off the mirror. What sort of sick joke was all this. With a dead body in the other room I needed to think about my next move. I could call the police and try to explain. But how would I sound to them.

‘You see, officer, my birthmother, whom I never met before and who’s dead, set me up from beyond the grave. Leaving me to take care of this dead body in the bedroom. Only just arrived—’ 

No way. Even I don’t buy what I’m saying. I slowly walk back towards the bedroom to push the door open and make sure that woman is still there, on the floor. I stop and look back towards the bathroom. That note about the basement. It permeates my mind. And I much rather deal with whatever is down there, right now, than what I know is waiting for me behind this bedroom door.

Standing in front of the door that leads to the basement I’m suddenly terrified and still very much hungry. But I can, and will, reheat my dinner later. Right now I need to investigate the basement before I can do anything else.

I take in a deep breath and square my shoulders before opening the door. Automatic lights blink to life, illuminating a dozen stairs leading to a cement floor. The railing on either side is surprisingly sturdy as well as the stairs look well maintained for a house this old. I was half-expecting to be met by a hellhole and the other half a smell that would require covering my nose. But so far I felt neither. In fact, I smelled…dirt?

I started down the stairs and the door to the basement shut behind me. I stopped breathing and listened, hoping it wasn’t about to lock on me. Especially, as I didn’t have my phone on me. Why didn’t I have my cellphone on me?!

At the bottom of the stairs I stumbled back into the corner at the sight before me. I was right. Dirt was what I smelled. But what I didn’t realize I was also smelling. Does it really have a smell? I don’t know. But death was definitely in the air. In fact, death was resting as peacefully as can be expected in twelve marked graves, in the basement of a house that I now owned.

“Well, fuck me…”

An Anatomy of Typewriters Story / 2,731 words / 11min Read Time

The content below was originally paywalled.

His hand was cold when I took it in mine though they told me he wasn’t gone yet. He started awake at my touch and looked over at me. The nurse told me to prepare myself for how he looked but how could I prepare properly for the last time I would lay eyes on my father. He looked much older than the last time I saw him. 

It was at mom’s funeral. For three days he sat unmoved by her casket while friends and neighbors came by to pay their respects. He looked at me just once my entire visit and all he could say was “I’m sorry.”

I thought he looked older then. But now, his skin was a different color. The skin around his eyes and cheeks seemed pulled tightly. A mask covered his mouth and nose to help him breath. I closed my eyes for a moment to try and remember how he looked before. When I was just a little girl and I took his hand then to cross the street when we walked to the ice cream shop like we used to do every Saturday, rain or shine. I managed a smile then. His hand still felt the same. He was still with me. For now.

The nurse told me he shouldn’t speak and I wasn’t to encourage him. But he was nearing the end of his time here and I just wanted him to know he wasn’t alone. 

“It’s okay, dad. I’m okay. You can go be with mom now.” The last sentence broke me and I let one tear drop fall down my cheek. I let go of his hand to wipe it away and when I reached back for it, he had moved it. I looked down to see he was pointing to a folder that was on his bedside table. I hadn’t noticed it when I first walked in but it had my name printed on it in black sharpie: DELPHINE PATTERSON

“What’s this?” I asked him, knowing he couldn’t answer me, as I pulled the folder off the table and opened it, a photograph fell out and I dropped the folder beside him on his hospital bed while I bent down to retrieve it.

A picture of a house I had never seen before in my life. At least, that I could remember.

When I looked back up at him he had tears in his eyes. He wanted to speak but couldn’t. I pulled the folder towards me and opened it to find an envelope, also with my name on it. But it was written in a handwriting I did not recognize. It was old. I could tell by the greying around its corners. And it was sealed, probably from a long time ago. For some reason my hand shook uncontrollably when I picked it up. It felt thick and heavy in my hand. I have a feeling it might just be his Will, the last thing I wanted to think about right now. But that was how my father had always been. He was a man of action. Never needed any help from anyone. When mom passed away he simply pressed on and did what needed to be done. Sorted through her things, sent me what I asked for and got rid of the rest. I was surprised when a family friend told me he had gotten rid of everything from the house. My childhood home. They said it never looked emptier. He was never sentimental. So it was odd that he kept something that was clearly old, like the picture, and this letter.

He watched me closely, his eyes darting from the letter in my hand to my face and I suddenly felt my mouth go dry as I opened it. Clearly he wanted me to.

I’ll admit I didn’t expect to chuckle the way I did when I read the first line. It’s a line you’d expect to hear in a movie or a book but not in real life. I covered my mouth to stop from laughing as I kept reading. Laughter seemed to be a coping mechanism of mine. I’d come to find out many others I inherited much later.

I don’t think I took a breath the entire time I read the letter. I read it again, this time slower, just in case I misunderstood it. The room started spinning and I heard a long loud beep. He was gone but I couldn’t bring myself to move. The world moved around me. Eventually, I was lifted from my seat and escorted out of his hospital room. 

There were people talking at me and I nodded my head when I felt it was appropriate to do so. Many of them wanting to help me. Guide me through this difficult time. The next few days were like that. Planning and packing and throwing away. 

I had no siblings. No cousins. No aunts. No uncles. Everyone in my family was gone. Or at least that’s what I thought. All the while the letter and photograph remained in their folder on the kitchen table. Then on the fifth day came a knock on the door of my parent’s home. My childhood home. 

I thought it might have been my taxi cab. But instead I was met by the stern face of an elderly gentleman in a suit. The letter came back to my mind. “…my solicitor will bring you the keys…”

I looked back at the folder still on the kitchen table. I wasn’t really sure what to do with it. I didn’t want it for some reason. Keeping it felt like I was denying the parent’s I already had and lost. In the last five days I went through what Google tells me are the many stages of grief and betrayal. I may still be on the anger stage.

“Who are you?” I asked him. I knew who he was but I wasn’t in the mood. Dealing with my parent’s estate and preparing the house for sale was enough for any only child. But to then be reminded—

“Are you Ms. Delphine Patterson?” He asked me, pulling a set of keys from his waistcoat pocket and looking at a tag that dangled from the key ring.

“That’s me. But, listen. I don’t want the damn house—”

“Oh,” the man said, and for the first time in a while I felt sorry for someone other than myself. He was easily more than twice my age and the many wrinkles on his brow folded over onto themselves as he frowned at me. “This is most irregular. Do you mind if I come in? The drive out here was longer than I realized.” He took a step towards me and I felt compelled to step aside and let him in.

“Sure, why not. Make yourself at home,” I said, following behind him as he made his way to the kitchen, the only room in the house that had any seats left. I managed to have a junk removal company come on short notice and charge me twice their normal rates for the privilege of taking away all the furniture in the house. Everything except the kitchen table and chairs, which I used to go through boxes and papers and clothing that was left behind. Whatever I didn’t keep or couldn’t give away I loaded into more than a dozen trash bags. I’m sure when garbage day rolled around the men will not be happy about it. But I’ll be long gone by then.

“You see, Ms. Patterson—”

“Delphie, please. That’s what my friends call me,” I said.

“Delphie,” he said with a smile as he sat down in the only empty chair available. It creaked slightly and I prayed to myself that this wouldn’t be the moment it gave way. I had been putting pretty heavy boxes on it and every time I feared the worse. “My name is Mr. Chisolm III. Of Chisolm and Sons. If you can believe it, I’m the ‘son’ part of the name. My father…well…he’s the one who dealt—,” he stopped himself and smiled again. “He made the arrangements with your mother—”

“Birth mother,” I interjected, correcting him. I never met the woman and whether or not she was my mother was still debatable as far as I was concerned.

“Right, birth mother. Well, the stipulations of her wishes are quite clear and if there is one thing my father drilled home to me from when I was just a boy is that Chisolm never lets a client down. Especially, when they are no longer with us. And my father, well, he’s taken ill and soon I’ll be in charge.” He straightened his back in the chair. A boy sat before me even though he couldn’t have been younger than seventy. But to hear him talk of his father as if he were still a boy trying to step into his father’s shoes, almost brought a tear to my eye.

“Fine. I’ll take the keys. But I’ll probably never use them.”

His face suddenly went white with fear. “Oh, you must use them, Ms. Patt—uh, Delphie. I was to make sure you understand that as owner of the house you are now required to maintain it inside and out. You see, ever since your mother—sorry—birth mother past away, we made sure the exterior was taken care of. The front and back yard are mowed regularly, trees trimmed, mail collected. Oh, that reminds me,” he said, and slammed a large black briefcase down on the table. I didn’t even realize he had it until this very moment. He pressed on the clasps and the lid popped open. He then handed me a large bundle of what I assumed to be mail.

I reached for it reluctantly. “What is this?”

“Mail we’ve received since your mother’s passing of course. Now, the gardener comes once a week this time of year—”

“Wait, how exactly is all of this being paid for? If you think I’m paying for some gardener—”

“Oh no, Delphie. All of that is taken care of by your…birth mother. She was a very wealthy woman. I suppose that makes you one now.” He slammed the lid shut on his briefcase and stood up. “But I can see you are busy. I mustn’t take up any more of your time. Here is the address of your new home. As per the arrangements made we have not stepped foot inside the house since her passing. So you may want to bring along some cleaning supplies. Oh, and before I forget. She said you might want to see what she looks like. Would you?”

“Would I what?” I asked. He was talking and moving so fast I was hardly able to keep up with everything he was saying.

“Would you like to see a picture of your birth mother?”

I remember nodding my head. I couldn’t quite say the word. He reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and handed it to me. I pressed it to my chest without daring to glance at it. He must’ve realized I wasn’t go to look while he stood there so he made his final goodbyes and was gone just as quickly as he came. I stood there in the empty house of my childhood. Memories of running through the house, my mother yelling at me to slow down before I hurt myself bounced against the empty walls. 

I could hear my heart pounding in my ears and suddenly I could hardly catch my breath. Without thinking I ripped the bandaid off and looked down at the picture in my hand. I pulled it away from my chest and held it shaking in my hand. It was like looking in a mirror. She had my hair, my eyes, even my sharp pointy nose. A tear fell from my face onto the picture and I quickly wiped it away. This was the only picture I had of her and I wasn’t about to let it get ruined. 

Then again, part of me wanted to rip it up. Throw it away. Do the same with her letter and the keys, both of which sat on the kitchen table. 

A car horn honked outside and I screamed with fright. I wiped the remaining tears from my eyes and looked through the peep hole of the front door. The taxi was here. I opened the door and shouted, “Be right there.”

I grabbed my suitcase and rolled it to the front door, then I went back for my backpack and stopped. I put the folder inside and her picture into the folder as well. Then I grabbed the house keys and met the taxi driver who took my suitcase and put it in the trunk of the car.

“Airport?” He asked and for the first time since I arrived I was unsure of my answer. I looked down at the keys in my hand. Mr. Chisolm III was right. The drive would be long. Too long for a cab driver to take me. I would need to rent a car and then drive there. 

“Yes, airport,” I said. But I knew I wouldn’t be flying back home. I could rent a car at the airport. I just wanted to to see the place once before I left it forever. What harm could come of that?

Anatomy of Typewriters Story / 1,399 words / 6min Read Time

The content below was originally paywalled.

An old station wagon pulls into view on the CCTV in the control room and a young man exits on the passenger side, hoody up to shield him from the pouring rain, he runs around the car towards the side entrance. He stops. The driver side window rolls down and a woman sticks her head out, shouting to him. He turns and hesitates but walks towards the car eventually, bends low, and kisses the driver on the cheek before hurrying inside the mall. The driver sticks her head out the window, a mop of wet grey hair blowing in the wind, and spits at the ground, then pulls her head back inside the car and pulls out, leaving her window rolled down.

The young man wipes his boots on the mat just inside the heavy metal door and starts to unzip his jacket. His boots echo in the corridor accompanied by the grumble of his stomach. He preferred the morning shift because it meant he could buy breakfast at one of the many options in the mall food court and didn’t have to suffer through his grandmother’s lack of cooking skills.

He reached the control room and knocked like he does every week night, expecting Tripp to be there to let him in. But this morning there was no one. He looked through the long, thin, rectangular window next to the door handle that stretched the height of the door and saw the office was empty. He punched in the four digit code on the door handle and pulled it open when he heard the buzz and click.

Taped on one of the CCTV monitors was a typed note:

“Loading dock.”

That was all it said. The monitor the note covered happened to be for the loading dock and the man squinted to try and make out if who he saw bent low with gloves and a bucket and mop on the screen was Tripp.

Unable to make out who it was, he made his way down to the loading dock. It was frowned upon to have overlapping time cards so he couldn’t clock in until Tripp clocked out. He needed every penny this job was paying him so he could  move out of his grandmother’s tiny cramped two bedroom house. He only agreed to move in temporarily when grandpa died, with no other siblings and his own parent’s gone, she needed him to help out around the house.

The way he saw it he had two options: Wait for her to join his grandpa, who died of natural causes in his sleep, or work two jobs so he could afford a home aid to help his grandmother and he could finally move out. It was coming onto a year of living under her roof and it didn’t take him long to understand why his mother moved out when she turned sixteen. How his grandpa lasted as long as he did living with her, he couldn’t figure out. Maybe he really did love the woman.

At the start of the long corridor towards the loading dock he smelled the bleach first, it was strong and it made his eyes squint. It was only six in the morning and the cleaners weren’t due in for another hour.

“Hey, Tripp, that you? Man, are you cleaning down here? It’s six, man. Time to hit the—” He stopped talking when he got to the end of the corridor and rounded the corner, surprised to see Guy standing there, yellow gloves on both hands, a mop in one hand, sitting in a bucket of sudsy water, and a large sponge in the other, that was once yellow but was now clearly pinkish red.

“You must be the new guy, right? Remind me what your name is again?” Guy let go of the mop and dropped the sponge in the bucket so he could take the gloves off  and extended one hand to shake.

Not making eye contact with Guy but instead surveying the area around them that had been recently mopped down heavily with bleach, he extended a hand and said, “Yeah, I’m Lonnie. But I’m not new. I mean, I started here six months ago so I don’t feel like the new guy anymore. You must be…Aaron?”

He met Tripp before, every morning in fact, and he knew that Aaron was the relief should Tripp ever need to leave early, from studying the calendar on the wall inside the control room.

“Oh, no, I’m Guy. Seems Tripp had an emergency and Aaron just wasn’t as obliging,” Guy said, a big grin on his face. “Cut his hand and left blood everywhere on his way out. Crazy night, but now that you’re here I guess I’ll leave the rest for the cleaners. I’m sure you want to clock in.”

Guy put his arm around Lonnie’s shoulder and directed him back around the corner and back down the corridor. “Man, musta been a lot of blood,” Lonnie said, observing just how much mopping and scrubbing of the walls Guy had done. 

“Yeah, I told him to take a couple weeks off to heal. Between you and me, I don’t think he’ll be coming back. Some guys just can’t hack the night shift. They get a wild imagination. Scared of what happens in the dark,” Guy said, making his voice low and almost like a whisper to sound spookier. “How about you, Lonnie?

“Me, sir?” Lonnie winced at calling Guy ‘sir’ but it was a force of habit he picked up from his grandfather to give his elders the proper respect and Guy was clearly much older than him.

“Are you afraid of the dark, Lonnie?”

“Uh. Uhm…” Lonnie stammered, for some reason he felt unsure of how to answer.

“Relax, son. I’m only kidding,” Guy said, patting Lonnie hard on the back to reassure him. “But seriously, if Tripp doesn’t come back, how do you feel about covering the night shift for a while? At least until we could find a replacement.”

Lonnie wondered why Guy seemed so sure that Tripp wasn’t coming back, just from cutting himself. Then again, it seemed this injury caused a lot of blood loss and that might make anyone rethink coming back to work. Lonnie never got injured while at work. Not even at his night job working in the kitchen of an all night diner. And there he comes into contact with all kinds of sharp knives regularly as the washer.

As he clocked in he thought about the extra money he could make working the night shift. Everyone knew, or at least, he’d heard, the shift to get if you wanted to make way more money was the night shift. And while Lonnie had been working there for six months he was only able to get the morning shift on the weekends. It already earned him more than twice as much as working five days a week at the diner.

Lonnie looked at Guy and smiled as one man clocked out and the other clocked in. “Sure, man. I could handle the night shift. How hard can it be? I ain’t scared of the dark.”

“Excellent,” Guy said, his grin making Lonnie feel a bit uneasy. “That’s what I like to hear. I’ll let corporate know. I’m sure we’ll be fast friends, Lonnie.”

The control room door buzzed and clicked open and the morning cleaner burst in without a word to grab the small trash bin. Lonnie thought he caught a glimpse of a name badge inside but couldn’t be sure as the silent cleaner moved quickly and in an instant was gone. Guy gave one final pat on the back before he left as well, leaving Lonnie alone in the control room to watch the monitors as the mall started to come to life and start the weekend rush.

From his chair, Lonnie leaned forward to take a closer look at one of the monitors that was showing the view of an escalator and some old antique shop that always seemed to give him the creeps. A fact he’ll never tell Guy, he thought to himself. In their display window he could barely make out a doll, rocking. It’s head seemingly looking up at the camera, at him? Then the monitor blinked and showed a different camera in a different part of the mall.

An Anatomy of Typewriters Story / 2,150 words / 9min Read Time

The content below was originally paywalled.

To say I continued my cursing tirade would be an understatement. When the flashlight hit the floor it fluttered a bit then went out. This wasn’t the first time I’d dropped it clumsily and I’d been meaning to replace it as it’s been known to stop working if knocked about. I pulled my phone out and turned on its flashlight to help me find what I was looking for, completely forgetting why I dropped it in the first place.

“There you are,” I said, getting down on one knee and reaching under the counter where I could see the long end of the flashlight sticking out. “Ouch.” I pulled my hand out quickly, clutching the flashlight in my hand. I shine my phone light over it to see a thin, long, slash on my side of my right hand, blood is slowly trickling from it. “God, damn it!” I turn off my phone’s flashlight and put it back in my pocket, then retrieve my large black handkerchief that I keep in case of a sneezing emergency, or there’s something gross I don’t want to touch with my bare hands. Using my teeth, I manage to tie it around my hand, blood already beginning to seep through.

I know I need to get it looked at right away and can’t leave it for too long. At least I’ll have an excuse to leave work early tonight. I turn the flashlight back on to light my way to the entrance of the shop when the familiar sound of tapping on keys starts up again.

With as much speed as I can muster I rush to the back room where the desk, chair and typewriter are all exactly where I remember them last time I was back here. Except, the chair starts to turn slowly. My light shining on it tells me there’s no one sitting in the chair controlling it. The chair stops turning just enough for me to see the little girl doll, smiling at me. I can’t see if she’s holding anything in her hands. Her head spins in place from facing me back towards the typewriter.

To prove to myself I’m not afraid of some porcelain doll, I walk up to the typewriter and shine the light on the paper sticking out of it:

YOU MUSTN’T LEAVE ME. I AM FRIGHTENED. PLEASE SAVE ME.

I feel something cold and hard graze my bandaged hand. I step back from the desk and look down at the doll, her stiff arm is extended. I turn around on my heels and make for the exit. A sign illuminated over the door guides my way. Once outside I fumble with my large keyring to find the master key that can open and lock all the stores in the mall. I quickly lock the shop and breath a sigh of relief. This place was giving me the creeps and I needed to leave.

I make my way back to the control room to gather my things and call my relief in case I need to leave work at any time during my shift. In all the time I’ve been here I never had to call in a relief worker before. But looking at my bandage and all the blood that’s already soaked into it, I knew it would be a bad idea for me to wait till the end of my shift which wasn’t for another eight hours.

“What?” The voice on the other line was gruff and grumpy. I expected it. No one would appreciate being woken up in the middle of the night, especially if it’s to report in to work a night shift at a mall.

“Hey, is this…” I forgot his name already and rushed over to the calendar on the wall that listed all of our names and phone numbers as well as who our relief call should be. “…Aaron?”

“Yeah, who the fuck’s asking?” I was about to match his tone but I really needed him to come into work and if he refused, which he can do a certain number of times a year, then I’d have to call Guy to come back in and work a double. I really didn’t want to call Guy. I knew he’d make a big deal out of it and I’d never hear the end of it.

“It’s Tripp over at Sheffield Mall. So, I cut my hand pretty bad and it looks like I’m gonna need to go to emergency, like, right now…”

I could hear Aaron grunting and fumbling as I imagined he was turning in bed to hopefully sit up.

“Who’s that?” A female voice asked.

“Some prick at work, baby. Go back to sleep,” Aaron said, not doing a good job, if any, of covering the phone when he said that to his lady friend. “Listen, you’re SOL tonight buddy, cause I’m not in town and even if I was, I’m not coming in so you can get off work over some fucking paper cut bullshit.” He hung up before I could say anything back. I didn’t blame him. If it were me, I might think the same thing about someone calling me to come in because they cut their hand.

By now I have blood dripping down my arm and I look on the calendar for Guy’s number. I sigh deeply and dial.

“This is Guy,” he shouted into the phone, picking up on the first ring. It sounded like he was a club? Which seemed odd to me cause I never thought of Guy as the club going type.

“Hey, Guy, it’s Tripp. You think you could come back? I cut my hand pretty bad in Ander’s Shop and—”

“I’ll be right there,” Guy said and hung up, leaving me in silence. I thought I would need to do more convincing but I didn’t and while I was relieved I also was apprehensive about what Guy would say when he got here.

I sat down in the office chair and held my hand up over my head to try and stop the bleeding while I waited. I wasn’t sure how long it would take Guy to get here, especially if he was at some club. 

The CCTV screens cycled through each camera as usual and the screen I used to watch a show while I ate my dinner was no longer playing anything. While I tried to decide what to watch in the meantime a light over the LOADING DOCK camera started flashing. It only did that when the loading dock door was opening to let a truck in. I checked the clipboard beside the door where all the delivery dates and times for future shipments were kept. The last one happened during Guy’s shift and the next one wasn’t scheduled until an hour after my shift ended. This was normal. The mall never had shipments in the middle of the night.

From the camera I could see the shadow of the loading dock door slowly opening. “Fuck me,” I said as I grabbed my flashlight again and headed for the loading dock. 

While it wasn’t a place I needed to visit often, I knew how to get to it without a map because it’s where the cleanest and nicest bathrooms were to use during my shift and some nights I find myself taking a smoke break after I take a piss, using the door beside the loading dock truck entrance.

I stopped short before walking down the long corridor because all the lights were on. They definitely shouldn’t be. I turn off my flashlight but keep it in my hand to use as a weapon if necessary. It’s certainly long enough and heavy enough where it could cause some real damage if I were to swing it at someone’s head.

I walk slowly down the corridor, my keys making their usual jingle-jangle sounds with every step I take. I feel a breeze coming down the long hallway, telling me the loading dock door is definitely open. But I don’t hear the sound of a truck engine or any sign of life at all when I round the corner. The door is open but there’s nothing there. I start to walk down the stairs to the ground level, gripping the railing with my bad hand, streaks of my blood left behind.

“Don’t leave me.” The voice comes over the loudspeaker and makes me fall back to a seated position on the stairs. It was a little girl’s voice. “He’ll get me if you leave.”

I look up towards the loudspeaker. “What are you doing? I told you never—” It was definitely a man’s voice. Then the speaker cut off. I pulled myself up using my bad hand and winced, the pain was getting worse and this time moving up my arm towards my shoulder.

Before I leave the docks I push a large red button on the wall beside the open door that is a manual way to close the door. I wait the few minutes it takes to make sure the door closes completely. When it does all the lights in the corridor go out. I pull out my flashlight and start to make my way back to the main office. 

“I do apologize for my daughter. She…doesn’t realize her circumstance the way you and I do. Is that right, Tripp?”

Things were starting to get dizzy around me and I swear I hear loud music, like the person talking to me through the loudspeaker is at a club? I shake my head and try to focus my eyes. I just need to get back to the control room and wait for Guy, who’s on his way.

“Are you hurt? Has my little girl hurt you? Don’t worry. She’ll be punished accordingly. I do hope we can still be friends after all this.”

The voice sounds familiar to me. Like I’ve heard it before but I can’t quite place it. At the end of the corridor where the bathrooms are I decide to go inside, pushing the door open with my bloodied hand, leaving a sloppy print behind me as the door swings back and forth.

I splash cold water on my face and look at myself in the mirror. I see multiples of me, bouncing in and around me. I close my eyes tightly. “Stop it, Tripp. You’re just psyching yourself out. None of this is real. None of this is happening. SNAP OUT OF IT!”

Then I open my eyes to see Guy standing beside my in the mirror.

“Hey there, Tripp,” he says, smiling like nothing’s going on. I step away from him, holding my hands up to protect myself. Though I’m not sure why I feel like I need to protect myself against Guy. “You don’t look too good, buddy. Here, let me help you.”

I can feel his arms wrap around my shoulders, holding me tightly as he guides me to walk. My head bobbles back and forth, my vision going in and out as well as my hearing. I think I look over at him at one point and smile, happy to see him. Now he can deal with whatever is going on and I can go home and sleep. Wait! No! I need to go to the hospital. I’m sure I lost too much blood at this point.

“Sit yourself down here. I’ll be right back,” he says, the voice from the loudspeaker. Or is that Guy’s voice in my ear?

I try to focus my eyes and look around. I expected to see the CCTV’s but instead I see a cuckoo clock on one wall with an owl perched on top of it. The owl looks like it’s going to attack me! I let my head fall to one side and see a typewriter on a desk. The typewriter! I must be in Ander’s Shop. But how did I get here? I don’t remember. I can’t…remember…

“I want you to meet my daughter, Tripp. I’ve been meaning to introduce you two for a while now. It’s been a long time since she’s made friends with the night shift guard, isn’t that right, dear? I guess she’s picky about who she wants to be friends with. Afraid I might disapprove or something.”

The chair I’m sitting in is turned so I can see who’s talking to me. Though I know exactly who it is. It’s the same voice I heard when I started my shift earlier. The voice from the loudspeaker. The voice I thought would come and rescue me or at least tell me what was happening was all in my head.

Guy is standing in front of me, carefully holding the girl doll in his hand. The girl doll looks frightened. I see a tear roll down her cheek before I black out.

An Anatomy of Typewriters Story / 2,538 words / 10min Read Time

The content below was originally paywalled.

I let out a nervous chuckle to fill the room that suddenly felt quieter than usual. Perhaps I was mistaken and the doll was never there to begin with. I hate this store so it’s possible I thought I saw—

Something moved behind me. That I know was real. I quickly move the flashlight in my hand to try and catch it.

“Stop, whoever you are,” I said, putting my hand on my hip, looking for my gun but remember it’s safely in the drawer of the control room. I stop the flashlight at the counter that is cluttered with trinkets and old toys that look like they’ve been featured there since before the mall existed. Though they are surprisingly clean. Not a speck of dust on anything. A small gold plated piano. An old lamp with a multicolored lampshade. Statues of cherubs and other children looking happier than normal.

The cash register was just as old as the rest of the store. I doubted it even worked properly and wondered if it might just be a prop since it goes so well with the rest of the merchandise. Leaning against the register was the doll from the window. There was no denying it. She was turned away from me, almost in a seated position though her body seemed unable to bend all the way. Her hand moved up slowly, straight and stiff, to move her hair full head of doll hair out of her face when she turned it towards me.

“Have you seen my daddy? He doesn’t like me. But he likes you,” she said. Her voice shrill and high pitched just like I remember from my childhood. My sister had a doll just like this one. She pulled the string over and over again. The damn thing only have four lines but I heard she pulled it so often I would hear them in my sleep. That is, until I cut the string near the base so she could never pull it again. My sister never forgave me for that. Even to this day she doesn’t send me a Christmas card. But she’s always been selfish that way. I’ll be damned if I’m going to let this doll scare me!

“Who’s there? I swear I will go and get my gun and bring it back here and I will shoot you,” I threaten. I’m sure I wouldn’t really do that. Whatever damage I cause would come out of my paycheck and I’m sure this crap was all overpriced.

Just behind the cash register was the backroom. The door swung open slightly and I could see light coming from inside. I moved the flashlight without thinking and quickly moved it back but was too late. The doll was gone. A moving doll? No way. Someone was clearly playing a joke on me.

The sound of typing fills the quiet. First it’s slow, sort of how I type. Then it started to speed up, then I heard a ding and the sound of the typewriter moving to the next line on the page. Someone was back there typing? Seriously.

“Hey, asshole. Get the hell out here, now!” I shout. I’ll admit my voice wasn’t as loud or forceful as I wanted it to be. I was starting to question whatever was going on but I had a job to uphold and seeing as the mall had never been robbed while I was on the job I wasn’t about to let tonight be the night.

The typing continued and I realized whoever was back there was either deaf or stupid so I decided I was going to have to go back there and deal with them. I started making my way behind the counter when there was a tap on my shoulder. 

Hector learned his lesson this time and backed away quickly before I had a chance to grab him by the wrist and tackle him to the ground. 

“You are way too high strung, man. This job is supposed to be easy, no?” Hector asked.

“You left,” I said, eyeing him suspiciously. Hector wasn’t the type to play a joke, at least, I never thought of him as a jokester. But I didn’t know him for very long and it’s not like we were close friends.

“That rain is crazy out there. I called my lady and she’s coming to get me. You mind if I hang in the control room while I wait? It’s locked. I thought you’d be back there by now. What you doin’ in here?” Hector asked, looking around the room. “This place always gives me the creeps. I make Tony handle this one.”

“Shh!” I say, I want Hector to hear the typing too so I know I’m not going crazy. We stand together in the shop in silence. No typing. I look over at the door to the backroom. It’s not swinging anymore like it was and the light that I could see creeping from the bottom of the door isn’t there either.

“Am I supposed to be hearing something,” Hector asked, whispering.

I shake my head. “Nevermind. Come on, let’s go. The store was unlocked so I had to just make sure no one else was here.” As we walk towards the exit of the store I hear the typing of keys. This time I don’t say anything, I wait to see if Hector will point it out. If I can hear it, surely he can hear it too. But Hector says nothing. He just stands outside of the store, holding the glass door open for me. I step outside and as I pull my ring of keys from my belt and find the master key to lock the door I can still hear the faint tapping.

I continue to eye Hector suspiciously. “Would you stop staring at me, man. It’s creeping me out. What is your deal?” Hector asked.

“Nothing. Sorry. I’m just on edge. I haven’t had a chance to get coffee in me yet. You know how that is.” Hector nodded. We reached the control room and I unlocked it to let him in. “How long before your lady gets here?” I asked, making conversation. I hated having someone around during my shift but for some reason, tonight, I was glad for any company right now. I couldn’t help but feel like someone was watching me even though the control room is the only place in the entire mall that didn’t have cameras inside.

“Not long,” Hector says, looking at his watch. “In fact,” he continued, pointing towards one of the exterior CCTV camera’s, “there she is now.”

I saw a small sedan, dark blue (maybe black?) pull into view of the camera. I have to admit my heart sank when I saw Hector quickly leave. At least he shook my hand on the way out the door. This time I watched him on the cameras as he walked down the corridor and pushed the heavy storm door to the street. He ran and got into the passenger side of the car that pulled out and drove away. I locked the control room door behind him and made a quick check that all the automated doors were shown as closed and locked on the computer before deciding on following my own advise and having coffee. I even opened up my brown paper bag and pulled out my footlong sandwich. It was several hours earlier than I should be eating it, but I needed a distraction and a freshly made sub was it.

I inhale deeply. I love the smell of roast beef. My mouth waters at the sight and my stomach makes a low gurgling sound. I know this was the right decision. I pick up half and bring it to my mouth. Before I can take a bite the monitors on the desk in front of me start going in and out. Not the normal transitions I’m used to as it cycles through various cameras throughout the mall. This is different. Someone is messing with the system.

At the moment I have two options; finish my sandwich or put it down and go investigate. I go with the better option instead. I finish my bite of the sandwich that is already in my mouth anyway. My eyes roll in the back of my head as I savor every chew. I wipe the corners of my mouth which now have mayonnaise caught there from my large bite and make for the door. I stop and turn back. Whoever this is wasn’t going to catch me unprepared this time. I pull open the desk drawer and grab our standard issued gun and clip it to my belt. I was ready.

I take one more look at the screens to try and ascertain if I needed to go to a specific location in the mall or the room with all the wires and cables first. That room was in the basement directly under this room and I hated going down there. I’d only been there once, when I was given the grand tour of the place by a fellow security guard who was not Guy. He felt he was much too important to do something as mundane as walk me around so he made someone else do it. The second we went down there I instantly didn’t like it. For starters the lights only flicker on by motion and only for ten seconds. The further down the hallways you go the lights behind you start to go out. Made my skin crawl just thinking about that time. Even the kid who was with me was a bit on edge and made that visit the fastest of the whole tour. Not that there was much to see. It look like the standard fuse box in any home, only multiplied by ten with the amount of power this mall needed to generate. There was one smaller one, tucked away from the main area that was specifically for the monitors and cameras throughout the mall. I was told it was the only one I needed to concern myself with. The others were for lights and power throughout the different stores and they were never to be touched by us; security. I couldn’t care less as I never planned on visiting the damn placed anyhow. I should’ve known just how wrong I was. 

I could tell by the way the monitors were flickering that the problem couldn’t be solved by going to the cameras themselves. I would need to get my ass down to the basement. 

“Damn it,” I curse out loud to myself. I prepare to leave when I stop and notice the flickering has stopped. The feeds seem to be acting normal again. Normally, I would be required to investigate the issue anyway, in case it happens again, but my stomach had other plans. I sat back down to finish the first half of my sandwich. 

There’s an extra monitor that we’re allowed to use for other things and doesn’t cycle through mall cameras. Most of us use it to check our emails, stuff like that. I use it to watch a tv show. It’s not like anyone is here to tell me I can’t. I lean back in my chair, put my feet up on the desk, and grab the other half of the sandwich, getting ready for my first of two naps for the night.

WOOOOOOOOP! WOOOOOOOOP! WOOOOOOOOP!

The alarm was slow and rhythmic almost. I was used to more alarming noises than that so while others may have woken with a start, I yawned and stretched before opening my eyes. The lights in the control room dimmed and went brighter, following the same cadence of the alarm currently going off. I probably should’ve been more alert and worried than I was, but that sandwich hit the right spot and I was feeling rather sluggish.

I pulled a key from the large keyring on my belt, it stretched along a long retractable cord. This key was specific to what was happening. We in the security office call it “the silencer” because it does just that. Whenever the alarm goes off, no matter if it’s the whole mall or just one store, this key will stop it. On the desk is a square with a clear lid. I lift the lid back and suddenly I feel like I’m some major military general about to stop the bombs from launching. I put the key in the hole and turn it, holding it there for a count of three beats before turning it back and putting the lid back in the closed position. The alarm stops immediately.

I look at a switch board that has a series of lights that only activate when an alarm has gone off. It saves time to know where the intrusion is happening before we set off on a wild goose chase in a mall this size. My heart sinks when I see it’s that damn antique shop.

“That’s it! I’m gonna get the bastard this time,” I said, grabbing the flashlight off the desk and walking with great speed towards the escalator that will leave me right in front of Ander’s Antiques.

I try the door again and it’s unlocked. Now, I know I locked it before I left it earlier so it proves that someone is inside. Or at least someone is in the mall other than myself. I turn on my flashlight and point it out in front of me before stepping inside. So far it’s quiet, just the sound of my keys jingling and my heavy combat boots filling the room. I stop and turn my flashlight to look back towards the display window.

I move slowly from one side of the window to the other. I know what I’m looking for and I don’t see it yet. I know the last time I saw that damn doll was at the cash register but I’m sure my mind was just playing tricks on me. She’s got to be back in the window. The display is a bed. Her bed, I wouldn’t wonder. A dresser that’s made for a doll or perhaps a small child. And a rocking chair where the doll is meant to be sitting, a book in her lap. The flashlight hits the bottom of the rocking chair and I start to move it upwards slowly. I see her feet. Black shoes. Why do all creepy porcelain dolls wear black shoes on their fat legs? Then her dress. I want to stop there. I’m satisfied she’s sitting in the chair and I was imagining things. But the chair starts to rock back and forth. Back and forth.

The light in my hand shakes slightly. Okay, my hand is shaking slightly. I know I’m a grown man with a gun but seriously?

The doll jumps down from the chair and I swing the light up to see it standing there with a large kitchen knife in its hand.

“Are you my daddy?” I hear the sound of keys typing in the back room as I let my flashlight fall to the floor.

An Anatomy of Typewriters Story / 3,261 words / 13min Read Time

The content below was originally paywalled.

The rain outside was falling so hard around me I ran out of my car, through the side door, and into safety. The night shift at Sheffield Mall was probably the easiest job I’ve ever had. And after my years of service to my country I felt I earned a cushy job where I could just put my feet up and take the occasional nap. Nothing ever happened during my night shift at Sheffield Mall.

My boots squeaked on the linoleum floor as I stomped my way down a narrow hallway to the security office. The lights along the corridor flickered, probably from the storm happening outside. I could hear the buzzing of the lights and expected them to fizzle out before I reached my destination, but they held fast. I looked back down the hallway and saw I had trekked wet footprints.

“I hope the cleaning crew hasn’t left for the night,” I muttered to myself as I pushed through the heavy fire safety door. The familiar beep overhead, signaling whoever was in the control room that I had just entered. I saw the small red dot in the corner of the dark hallway; the closed circuit camera capturing my every move in the next room. I wave in the camera’s direction. A buzz and a click unlock a door opposite the one I just walked through and I push that one open, letting in light emanating from a bank of monitors. Nine screens to be exact. They cycle through different points of the mall. The best security has to offer malls of this size.

“Evening, Tripp. How is it out there?”

“Cats and dogs, Guy. Cats and dogs.” Guy had the most active shift of all of us. The security agency we all worked for provided this particular mall with five office managers who radioed the men ‘in the field’ whenever suspicious activity was caught on camera. We each worked six, twelve, or sometimes eighteen hour shifts depending on the need and if there were any call outs. I was working a double shift tonight as I always do on Friday nights. No one wanted to work Friday nights. It meant sleeping most Saturdays to catch up and missing out on time with family and friends. As I’m an only child with deceased parents, an ex-wife of ten years who’s moved on, and no children, I looked forward to my Friday night double shifts.

Guy looked tired. It must’ve been a busy shut down. “You missed quite a dust up,” he said as he sat up in his chair. It squeaked under his weight and his belt of equipment; keys, gun holster, flashlight, handcuffs, the works; made their familiar sounds of movement around his rotund waist. I took a step back to give him room to maneuver past me. The room wasn’t small by any means but it seemed like Guy was getting larger and larger. His shirt buttons stretched to their max. I even witnessed one pop and fly over the monitors. We both stood silently as we heard it ping, ping, ping, and finally land on the floor. I quickly changed the subject to save him from embarrassment and we both pretended like we hadn’t heard, or seen, what just happened. I wondered if that button was still there as I noticed his shirt was fastened with a new, different size and color, button tonight.

“Oh yeah, what happened?” He pointed to the place where his handcuffs normally are, and I saw it was empty. “Really?” In the five years since I’ve been working at this mall I can’t remember handcuffs ever needing to be used on someone. Guy gets all the luck.

He nodded and added, “I noticed him acting suspicious outside Ander’s Antiques.” I felt a chill down my spine. I hated that store. It just didn’t fit with any of the other stores in the mall and I couldn’t understand why it was in the mall to begin with. I couldn’t imagine anyone ever went inside there and if they did, that they sold anything. But they paid their rent on time. I know. I checked. “Then it was like he knew I was looking at him cause he looked up at me through the camera. Creeped me out I don’t have to tell you. I radioed the guys and when he saw them approaching he started running,” Guy continued, pulling a key from his massive key ring that held dozens of keys on it. It extended to a file cabinet under the desk and unlocked it. The top drawer was kept empty at all times. Its purpose was to store our firearm. It was mostly used for the night shift to store our gun. The other shifts typically kept theirs on them even the managers who rarely left the control room. Tonight, Guy opened the drawer to take out the other half of his sandwich that must’ve been his dinner, and his car keys. He handed me the large ring of keys for the mall, leaving the drawer open for me. I pulled my gun and holster from my hip and placed it inside, closing the door and locking it. I knew I wouldn’t need it tonight.

“How did you end up using your cuffs?” I asked, knowing Guy wanted me to ask. He could draw out a story whether it was true or not, interesting or boring. It was up to you to discover which it was and make up your own mind when he was done.

“I knew where he was headed so I ran there to hopefully cut him off,” he said. I raised my eyebrows. I can’t imagine Guy running. He just wasn’t built for speed. He looked at his wrist watch, it was about one minute before our shift change was to take place. He pulled out his timecard from his breast pocket and I did the same. We both stood in front of the antiquated machine to punch in and out of our shifts. According to the other guys who’d been here far longer than myself, this was an “upgrade” from the system before which was done by signing in and out of a log book. 

Guy put in his timecard and it made the punch sound on his card. I followed immediately after him. We both pocketed our card.

“So, you got him?” I asked. I had to.

He nodded. “Got there just in time. I stuck my foot out like this as I walked through the door,” he said, demonstrating it for me. “Caught his foot and he went sliding about five feet that way. I pulled my cuffs and held him down with my knee, waiting for the slow guys to catch up,” he continued, winking at me. Yeah, right. The guys who walked the mall averaged ten to twenty years younger than us. It’s why we’re managers in the control room. But I’m sure for Guy this was as good as it was going to get. I let him have this.

“Damn, I envy you guys in the morning and afternoon shifts,” I said.

“You should think about switching one day. I’ve always felt your talents were wasted in the night shift. You’d definitely see more action here during the day.”

“That’s alright. I leave the real hairy stuff to the pros,” I said, patting Guy on the shoulder. I hoped he didn’t catch on to my sarcasm and he didn’t.

“Well, if you ever change your mind let me know. I can always put in a good word,” he said.

I pushed the button under the table before I sat down to unlock the door for him to leave and watched him on one of the monitors as he waved to me one last time before leaving. Finally. Alone.

Every shift had a manual that outlined our duties down to the most efficient route throughout the mall we should take. It was meant to maximize our time spent on foot versus back at the control room. All the binders for every shift were thick; filled with added pages of suggestions and changes. The night shift didn’t have a binder. Just four pages held together by a staple. I considered it the first perk of this shift. Not much needed to be done when a mall was empty.

My first duty was to sit. But with Guy having been here I knew better than to plop down in the chair he’d used. We all did. I sat down cautiously and reached down to adjust the various knobs and levers till the chair was back to normal human use. My first night on the job I sat down right away and immediately fell backwards. The chair was set to lean back further than I expected or even knew that it could. Luckily, Guy had already gone so there was no one there to witness my blunder.

I leaned forward and eyed each monitor carefully. Before I did my very first round I liked to see a birds eye view of each camera angle and make sure there wasn’t anyplace I needed to check, thereby changing my route.

It was then that I saw a light go on in Camera 7 in the west wing of the second floor; the food court. The control room is on the first floor of the south wing of the mall. I already know it will take me several minutes to reach the food court, even if I were to take a short cut through the service walkways that security and certain staff used to move throughout the mall during open hours and avoid tourist traffic.

Then I saw a shadow moving around. “Damn it,” I muttered under my breath. I grabbed the large keyring and hooked them on my belt. I made sure I had my flashlight. All I needed to check it out. Then I stopped myself before I walked out the door. It could be the cleaning crew. They start the cleanup immediately after the mall closes, sometimes earlier if it’s not too crowded. I could easily check this by viewing the parking lot cameras. The cleaning crew had their own special area to park that afforded them quicker access to the rear entrance of the mall. There was one monitor just for showing the exterior areas of the mall, specifically the various parking lots, of which there were many. The monitor did its usual slow cycle through each camera, then it got to the parking area for the cleaning crew and it was empty. So, it couldn’t be them up there. I had to check it out.

On my way to the west wing of the mall on the second floor I pulled out my notebook and quickly jotted down the time and where I was headed. At the end of each shift if I did something outside of the norm then it had to be logged. Every now and then our security were audited. This entailed a third party coming in and watching the video footage of any given shift on any given day and then comparing it to the manual and the logs. If something doesn’t match then we could lose our contract with the mall.

I decided to take the more scenic route and entered the main part of the mall. I pulled out my flashlight and pushed the button on the base to turn it on. It’s one of those really large and long ones that can double as a weapon if need be. There are emergency lights that are on in the mall and some light that comes in from the moon when it’s full so the flashlight is important to have. I know every part of the mall by heart after having worked here for over five years now so I could probably find my way with what little light is there but I wanted to get there as fast as possible. 

I walk past the carts that are littered throughout the center of the mall, each of them at one point open and selling little things like phone cases, make-up, watches, and other knockoff cheap items. I found a nearby escalator and took it to the second floor. It wasn’t until I was halfway up with the flashlight pointing straight ahead of me that I remembered which escalator this was. There at the top was Ander’s Antiques. The shop where Guy noticed that weirdo he ended up running after and slapping handcuffs on. I should probably check the logs to see if that all really happened. Guy’s been known to exaggerate what happens during his shifts.

I step off the elevator and let my flashlight survey the display window of the antique shop. There’s a little girl doll in a green stripe dress with long auburn hair; ringlets. Her eyes were wide and her smile just a bit too wide for me. I moved my flashlight to the store next door; lingerie. I never understood why they’d want to be next to a store that sold really old and really strange things but as Guy explained it to me, they had no choice. The location next to Ander’s was the only one available at the time. It seems there have been many different shops that open up in this location. None of them manage to remain for very long.

I swing round the flashlight to the far side of the floor that is open in the middle. All the stores are on the second floor along the perimeter with a waist high glass railing. A few yards away is where the foodcourt area is located. The first thing I see are the tables with all of the chairs turned upside down on them.

The different restaurants are further in. I make my way to the camera where I saw the light come on and find it straight away. A sandwich shop with an empty display case and counter. Everything has been put away. I turn off my flashlight as the light coming from this stall is bright enough. 

“Hello,” I call out but my voice seems to bounce off the emptiness of the place and disappear in the distance. My left hand is poised to grab my gun and groan when I realize I left it in the drawer in the control room. I don’t know why my mind went right to pulling my gun. There’s never been a break-in while I was here so I doubt it would happen tonight. I move behind the counter and towards the back area where the food is prepped. The strong smell of bleach in the air makes my stomach turn and not in a good way.

There’s a closet back here that I’m about to open when I feel a tap on my left shoulder. I turn around quickly and grab the hand of the person, spinning them around and pinning their arm behind their back I slam them down onto the empty table in the middle of the room.

“Coñaso, Tripp! Let me go, man!”

“Hector?” I said and quickly let him go. He grabbed at his arm and rubbed it. Sometimes I don’t know my own strength. “What are you doing here? I didn’t see any cars in the lot.”

It’s important for the night shift to not only know the names of the cleaning crew but their cars as well. It helps to know when they are still on sight, though by the time I show up they should all be gone.

“That moron today made such a mess through multiple stores during the chase, man. They call me in earlier than usual. It took so much of my time I’m just now finishing my regular route. Then, mi mujer calls me up and tells me she’s taking the car.”

“No,” I respond, shocked. I know Hector’s wife. She’s not one to be messed with, for a start. He’s definitely whipped by her though. It’s because she makes more money than him. She bought him the car in question for Christmas last year and since then she’s been known to take the car whenever she wants and he has to either catch a ride with a co-worker or catch the bus. With everyone gone it looks like Hector is going to be waiting for the bus in the rain. A constant reminder why I’m divorced. “You really gotta set her straight, man. Why she take it this time?”

Hector waved me off, like he always does whenever I try to get him to man up to his wife. “Who knows. She means well. And the sex is banging, my guy!” He always says this to me. I’ve seen his wife. I still don’t believe him.

“Hey, sorry about the arm. I saw the light come on and I had to check it out.”

“I understand. I’m just glad you didn’t rip my arm out. I got a game on Sunday,” he said, rotating his arm, pretending he’s throwing a baseball. “I’m actually all done so I’m gonna head out. If I hurry I might catch the bus. Otherwise, I’m gonna be coming back. You better let me in.”

We fist bumped, as men do, and he made his way towards the exit. All crew and security use the same exit. I decided to continue my walk through of the mall, starting on the second floor and doing the loop around before going back to the escalator I used to come up here. I didn’t get an alert to my phone that someone was at the entrance so Hector must’ve caught the bus.

As I approach the antique shop my antennae go up immediately. A light is on that was definitely not on when I first walked by. I grab my flashlight and shine it through the main door. Just behind the counter is an office door that is smaller than the doorway and the light is spilling over the top, flickering, almost like it’s being made by a candle. I reach down with my other hand to the door handle expecting it to be locked. To my surprise it pulls open quite easily.

I take one step inside and shout to whoever is in the back room, “The mall is closed!” No reply. I enter completely and let the door close behind me. From my right I hear someone giggle. I point the flashlight in that direction, where the display window is, but no one is there. I hear footsteps running across the floor, like tap shoes, and I move my flashlight to try and find the source of the sound. All the while the giggles continue.

“Whoever you are, this is not a game!” The faint tapping of keys on a keyboard…no…a typewriter emanates from the back room where the flickering light is. Then the footsteps move again, this time back towards the display window. On route they manage to bump into one of those spinning stand that usually hold things like postcards. But in an antique shop like this, postcards would stand out. Instead, this stand had pocket watches dangling from chains. As the stand spun the watches took flight, some of them falling off and shattering when they hit the ground.

I quickly pointed the flashlight to the display window and noticed something I hadn’t before; the doll. The creepy doll with the auburn hair and green stripe dress. She was gone.

An Anatomy of Typewriters Story

The content below was originally paywalled.

Suddenly, thick dark clouds rolled in and covered what little sun was peaking through. It was only two in the afternoon but it felt and looked like it was the middle of the night. Nat pulled her jacket closed tighter around herself, put her head down against the wind, and power walked all the way back to her apartment, looking over her shoulder every now and then. Was someone following her, watching her? She couldn’t shake the feeling.

Back at her apartment she took off her jacket and hung it up, leaving the note in the pocket. She didn’t want to see it anymore. Then it dawned on her that her phone had not once pinged or rang in all this time, which was odd for her.

Nat pulled her phone out of her pocket to see she had ten missed calls from Bernice! She was not one for sending a text message ever. She also never left a voicemail either, except this time she did. That couldn’t be good. Nat gulped when she saw the one unheard voicemail left from Bernice. She tapped the message and put it on speaker:

“Nat, I sweat to God if you don’t pick up your damn phone! Today was not a day for you to be playing hooky from me. The cops were just here. Seems someone over there reads our magazine. I lied, for you, and told them you’d be in right away. Well, here we are several hours later and they walked into my damn office, Nat! The police were here. God damnit!” There were muffled sounds. Bernice had put her phone to her chest to scream at someone who interrupted her phone call. Nat couldn’t quite make out what was being said. “Okay, here’s what you need to know cause I’m not covering for your ass on this one. I gave them your address. Had to or they wouldn’t leave. So, good luck explaining yourself. It’s…” There was another pause. Nat could picture Bernice throwing her right arm out and flicking her wrist towards herself to get a look at the current time. Never mind the fact that she could just as easily see the time on her computer in front of her. “…1:45pm now. Shit. I’m late for an appointment.” And that was the end of the voicemail. 

The ease and calm that Nat had for most of the day had disappeared almost as quickly as it had arrived and she was left with a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. The police were interested, very much so, in her story. She cursed Kate out loud and shook her fist in the air at no one before throwing her phone, with considerable force, into her cushioned couch. It bounced and landed face down on the rug on the floor. Kate was an excellent liar.

Frozen in place, Nat surveyed her apartment. For a place to hide? No. They’d probably break down the door. Anything incriminating she needed to hide? The typewriter? Yes! She grabbed it and looked around for a place that could hide such a large and heavy object. Her stove? Yes! Perfect!

Crouching down in her kitchen and holding it precariously on one leg with one hand she used the other to pull open the oven door. She never cooked so there was only one rack that was in the lowest slot, leaving just enough room for her to place the typewriter inside. There was a paper that was in the typewriter that she reached in to read, not having noticed it earlier, but was interrupted by a knock on her apartment door.

Less of a knock and more of a banging, actually.

She slammed the oven door shut, rubbed her hands on her pants to try and wipe away the sweat and took a few deep breaths before she opened her front door with a smile.

Just on the other side of the door were two police officers. One male. One female. 

The man stood behind the woman, both in uniform, both carrying a gun in their holster’s.

“Are you Natalie Winter?” The female officer made a point of looking over Nat’s shoulder into the apartment, casing the place before they were even allowed entry. For some reason Nat couldn’t stop her over the top Cheshire Cat grin as she managed to nod her head ‘yes’ to the officers. “Can we come in? We just have a couple questions about your story.” The female officer snapped her fingers over her shoulder to the male cop behind her. He was clearly younger, fresh out of the academy. He quickly handed his colleague a rolled up magazine over her shoulder. 

“Of course,” Nat said, stepping to one side, her grin beginning to hurt her face. “I must say, when my boss called me to say the police were interested in my little story…I was shocked…” Her voice cracked when she let out the last three words and suddenly her throat went very dry. She needed water. Anything to keep her hands busy so they’d stop shaking from fright.

The two officers entered her apartment, their black boots stomping on the hardwood floor. They both rested their hands on their massive belt they wore around their waists.

“I’m Officer Halloran, and this here’s my partner, Officer Kirt.”

Nat waved at each of them instead of shaking their hands which made her feel stupid as she walked between them towards her kitchen to get a glass of water for herself. As she poured the glass she turned back to them and asked, “Can I get you two something?”

“No thank you. As we said, we just had a couple questions about your story. It’s nearly identical to the statement we released to the press only twenty four hours ago and we were just wondering, how you came to write your story?”

Nat downed the glass of water completely and as she was about to put the glass down in the sink she heard a familiar click. She let go of the glass and gripped the edge of the sink. It shattered as it fell from her hand.

“Are you alright?” Officer Halloran asked.

“Yes, of course,” Nat answered quickly. “I’m just so clumsy. Always have been.” She wondered if they heard it too.

Another tapping sound and her knees buckled a bit. The damn typewriter was typing again! She thought. But she mustn’t let on. Clearly they would think she was crazy or something. Nat managed to gain enough composure to walk back across the living room floor and sit on her couch. 

Tap. Tap. Tap. Ding.

It reached the end of the line and was working its way to the next line. Surely they heard that. Though their facial expression didn’t change much from that of concern for Nat’s sudden behavior.

“Anyway, you wanted to know about the story right? Well, it’s fiction, see. Just fiction. Not sure why a made up story would interest the police,” Nat said, rubbing her hands on her pants again. A defense mechanism she did even as a child to calm herself whenever she felt stressed. The feel of the fabric of clothing on the palm of her hands. Tap. Tap. Tap. Always made her feel better.

Nat looked over at the oven she could see from where she was seated then looked back at the officers. She hoped they hadn’t noticed her subtle glance in its direction.

“That’s just it, Ms. Winter, if it were made up then it wouldn’t describe our killer so vividly. Did someone tell you about him beforehand? Cause if that’s what happened here we can…”

Suddenly, Nat could no longer hear what Officer Halloran was saying. All she could hear was the slow and methodical tapping. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tapping. Ding. Next line.

Nat was terribly thirsty again. She looked over at the oven. No. Now she looked at Officer Kirt. He eyed Nat suspiciously. She appeared more and more distressed. He followed her eyes the next time they darted to the kitchen.

He took a step towards the kitchen and Nat jumped to her feet.

“Yes, you’re right. Yep. That’s exactly how it happened,” Nat said. Her voice very high pitched and shaky now. 

“What happened, exactly?” Officer Halloran asked, stepping in front of Nat to block her view of what Officer Kirt was doing as he made his way towards the kitchen. Towards the oven.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Pause. Tap tap tap. Pause. TAP TAP TAP.

DING.

The typing just got louder. Maybe it was because of the oven. A typewriter in an enclosed space surely would echo when the keys were pressed. Yes, that’s it, Nat thought to herself.

“What’s he doing?” Nat asked, stepping on tip toe to see over Officer Halloran’s shoulder. But it was too late. Officer Kirt already had his hand on the oven and as he opened it, Nat let out a blood curdling scream, “NNNNOOOO!!!!”

Officer Halloran helped Nat to sit back down on the couch while Officer Kirt carefully removed the red typewriter from the oven. He put it down on the desk and with a gloved hand lifted the page that was in it to read it. Nat slowly turned her head to read the words:

Typed over and over and over again on the page. What happened after that is a bit of a blur for Nat. 

“It’s good that you keep coming by to see her. She needs all the friends and support she can get,” Doctor Emil said. He was an elderly gentleman. Gray hair. Thick rimmed reading glasses that dangled around his neck. He wore a white coat over his white button-up shirt and brown tie. He clutched a clipboard to his chest as he watched Nat through a two-way mirror.

Nat was sitting at a desk that was in front of a window overlooking a lush green yard outside. She just sat at the desk, unmoving, while she could hear muffled voices behind her, on the other side of her mirror. She knew they were talking about her.

“How much longer do you think she’ll be like this, doctor?” Kate asked. She has been visiting Nat ever since she was admitted. Even took on her case when the state arrested her and charged her as the shadow killer.

“That all depends on when she’s willing to tell me who wrote that confession. She still won’t admit it was her all along.”

They both stood at the window watching her. Then they heard it, same as Nat heard it that day in her apartment. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Pause. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Ding.

Nat looked down at the typewriter on her desk. The one thing she was allowed to keep. Her doctor insisting it would help with her recovery.