The Ghostwriter

"I heard the dogs howl in the moonlight night;

I went to the window to see the sight;

All the dead that ever I knew

Going one by one and two by two."

(A Dream, by William Allingham)

All of a sudden the silver rays of the moon vanished behind some dark clouds, frightening him. It took him little time to realize that the temperature dropped a few degrees. He felt a presence walking amid the trees. Silently, the imposing silhouette was approaching. A strange state of paralysis seemed to cover his whole body. He could speak no more; nor run.

The job of a ghostwriter presupposes writing for others and staying anonymous. I'm writing someone else's story; a guy, named Jack. Well, not any guy. He's pretty famous for his works. He doesn't always appeal to a ghostwriter, but this time it seems he got caught up with other businesses; still he wanted to finish a story he began. That's how the writers are; they have to end what they have started in order to go on. Thus, I'm writing this story based on the notes I have from him.

He was lying inside a tent, covered with all sorts of blankets. A man, dressed as a Sherpa came in. He looked extremely surprised to see him awake.

- Sir, are you alright?

Before giving an answer, the Sherpa ran away calling for someone. A few moments later, some familiar faces entered hurriedly the tent.

- We're glad to see you're conscious, sir!

Little by little things started to make sense. He was back in the camp. The familiar faces were the locals who helped him during his expedition in the Himalayas. They knew the places and were of great help. However, the day before, he decided to explore by himself, though the Sherpa people warned him not to go too far. Yet, how did he get back to the camp?

- We found you in the woods. When we noticed your absence we left to look for you.

- Was I... alone?

- Yes, sir. But, we thought we lost you. Apparently, you only passed out.

The Sherpa people gave him no further details; neither had he asked other questions.

I found Jack, or he found me by chance. As a ghostwriter, you are not always well-paid. Sometimes, the named authors don't even want to talk to you after you finish your job and the story is published; unless the story you wrote made them famous and then ask for more. I wrote for many famous authors but also for ones less known. If someone asks me this favour, then why wouldn't I help a person in need? However, I never write twice for the same person.

He went back to England. The happenings from the woods kept coming back to his mind; someone or something was there. However, he returned to his daily life, hoping that everything would go back to normal. A few days have passed with no particular unordinary event. Until, one day, Friday evening, after finishing work, on his way home, he realized he had forgotten some papers at his office. Without thinking too much, he went back to recover them, hoping he'd get to his apartment by midnight. The old buildings created a magnificent image at night, but he had no time to admire them. The coolness of the air triggered some memories. Startled he looked all around him to sense something, but couldn't see anything in the end. Nevertheless, he had the feeling he was watched. His steps seemed heavier. He could hardly control his breathing. Indeed, something was moving towards him. He could see a silhouette and then his eyes closed.

On the front pages of the local newspaper, there was a picture of a dead man. It seems he was found that morning in an alley. His body was cold as ice; the heart had long ceased to beat; these were the only signs of death.

It's a weird combination of satisfaction and distress I feel when ending a story. After closing the written document I went to open the windows. I could see that familiar sight. With almost mechanical steps, people were passing by. A particular person who was walking alone caught my eye; he was probably a new guy here.