Ghostwriter: Part 1

Rows of weathered book bindings lined the shelves at the Pearson Grove Library. The room smelled of old pages and clean carpet, and the only sound beside the quiet turning of paper was the squeak of a broken wheel on a trolley being pushed by an old lady. She pushed the trolley past Orson, who glared at her behind her back for disrupting a fairly sacred building in his eyes. The older lady walked past Orson in row ­­­­G-H and reached the end, turning left.

Orson was in his late-twenties, thin, dark brown hair, wide ears, and a bit lanky. Orson faced the wall of books in front of him and breathed in the collection of novels at his feet. The abundance of knowledge was almost euphoric – sometimes Orson would visit the library and not even check out a book but simply admire the possibilities of literature at his disposal. It excited him greatly how much information he could take in. He had always wanted to one day write his own novel but he couldn’t come up with any ideas he felt worth pursuing. But Orson was an avid reader, and found that this Person Grove Library felt as much like home as his own living room.

Orson was in no specific mood for any genre, fiction or non-fiction, but had that rush of creative inspiration that one does when they’ve decided to be a better reader; of course, in Orson’s case, he was already a great reader. He could draw that feeling from the well of his emotions regularly. And so Orson perused the creased paperback covers from generations of readers transported to the imagination of its author, the torn cloth binding on the hardcover novels, and the bent cover sleeves that readers had often used at bookmarks to keep their place between sessions. He searched for the right book to lure him into a world of wonder.

His index finger scanned over the titles and slowed to a stop, hovering over one book. The title read The Great Case of Vivian Myers. That’s it, he thought. The book was thick, a long tale for him to indulge. He opened the front cover and saw inside on the left was an old checkout card where school students used to write their names when borrowing it. Orson reminisced his days as an elementary kid discovering his love for stories when he checked out books by the week at the school’s library. He pulled the checkout card out of the sleeve and saw only one word was written on it. No names, just the word Hello. Orson amused himself and took out a click pen from his back pants pocket. He scribbled a reply. Hello. He made himself smile; and then he looked around him to make sure no one watched him do that. Orson unclicked his pen, put it back in his pocket, and carried The Great Case of Vivian Myers to the checkout counter.

As Orson walked to the counter, he skimmed the book blurb on the back. The story was about a missing woman, Vivian Myers, who was stuck in another dimension trying to communicate to others in various ways in order to return to reality. Orson was intrigued; he was glad he chose it. He reached the counter and looked up and saw the same older lady who wheeled the broken trolley earlier sitting in a grey swivel chair reading a romance between a 15th century monk and a vampire. Orson was very glad he chose his book.

The older lady looked up and peered over her square glasses. She swiped his library card – the corners were bent and the plastic was peeling off – and carelessly handed his book back to Orson.

Orson made himself a marinated chicken breast for dinner, using Italian dressing overnight in the fridge and pan seared it with a side of roasted potatoes sprinkled with rosemary. He sat alone in his apartment and cut into his hot chicken. A cloud of steam escaped from within the meat like a ghost. Letting the chicken cool, Orson stuck his fork in a wedge of roasted potato and bit into the soft mash. He sat on his living room couch and leaned forward to grab his TV remote resting on his coffee table, but he pulled back. He didn’t want to watch TV, he thought. He was interested in activating his thoughts, drawing from the well of his emotions.

He stood up and walked to his dining table where he placed The Great Case of Vivian Myers. Orson returned to his maroon colored couch, bouncing a little off the cushion as he fell into his seat, and opened the book. The musty smell of worn pages filled his nose, transporting him back to elementary school once again. He closed his eyes and sniffed, enjoying the nostalgia. A smile spread across his face.

Orson thought back to the time when he stayed up late in his bed on a school night reading his favorite book series, using the crevice of light from the hallway into his bedroom to read the words. He could hear his mother walking up the stairs and remembered quickly shoving his book under his pillow, slamming his head on it, and shutting his eyes. She opened the door and he tried so hard to concentrate on his breathing to simulate his sleep. His mother didn’t say anything; she had just come to check on him. But when she left she turned off the hall light. Oh, he was devastated, he remembered. Little Orson had to wait another day to learn what would happen to the children in his favorite book.

The triggered memory through the smell of old pages caused him to once more return to the front of the book and revisit the checkout card in the manila sleeve, continuing his trip down memory lane. He looked at the words written. The first Hello, followed by his whimsical reply – Hello. He saw there was a third word. He only wrote Hello, he didn’t write anything else. He read it aloud. It said Help.

Orson felt goosebumps crawl along his arms. Since the moment he grabbed the book no one else held it. No one was near him at all today – he thought perhaps for some strange reason the older lady might’ve pulled a bizarre prank and written that in while she checked him out, but he distinctly remembered all she did was swipe his beat up card and hand it back; she was too interested in her romance novel to even speak to him.

Orson read over the words on the checkout card. First Hello. Second, Hello. Third. Help. Orson decided to slide the card back in the manila sleeve and try to ignore it. He decided to read the first chapter of the book. But as he read his mind was stuck on the mystery of the word Help and how it got there. He powered through as best as he could, reading aloud to help drown out his curiosity. Orson managed to muster through only two and a half pages before he was overcome with question, distracting him from the story. He flipped the book back to the front and opened the cover to pull out the checkout card. He had to understand where it came from. But once he took out the card from the sleeve he read a new note. First, Hello. Second, Hello, his own reply. Third, Help. Fourth, I’m stuck in here.

Orson dropped the book and rubbed his face anxiously, running his fingers through his hair rapidly. There was no question; he knew no one had written the third note and certainly not the fourth. He tried to deny it, but it was impossible for someone with the imagination of his. The book was writing back to him. Orson stared at the checkout card in paralyzing disbelief. Who was doing this? What was this book? Is it alive? Suddenly, he thought of a solution to answer those questions, and he dreaded it. Orson felt a hot wash of fear engulf him as he stood up and walked to his dining table. He grabbed his click pen and returned to the maroon couch, leaned on the coffee table, and took the ball point of the pen to the checkout card.

Who are you? he wrote. Orson replaced the checkout card in the sleeve and shut the book. He wasn’t sure how long he’d have to wait but he hoped forever. He picked up his fork and cut a piece of chicken off his plate. The chicken was presumably delicious but he was so worried that the pan seared poultry was flavorless to him. He swallowed. Orson gently placed his thumb on the side of the cover and slowly flipped the cover open. He stared at the checkout card, afraid to communicate with what could only be a ghost of some kind; to talk back to a book. Orson took his left index finger and thumb and gently pinched the card, carefully sliding it out. As he removed the card he read the conversation line by line. Hello. He slid it up more. Hello. A little more. Help. Again. I’m stuck here. He ever so slightly lifted the card to keep only his question in view. Who are you? He held the card in place, nervous to read the next line. He moved his index and thumb fingers upward and revealed the next line. My name is Vivian Myers.

The card fell out of his grasp. He couldn’t breathe. Yes, he was talking to the book, but it wasn’t just that. He remembered the book blurb on the back. This book was about a missing woman, Vivian Myers, who was stuck in another dimension trying to communicate to others in various ways in order to return to reality. This book, The Great Case of Vivian Myers, was happening now. Vivian Myers was trapped in another dimension – the very book that told her story. He was talking to Vivian Myers. It boggled Orson’s mind. Was this even real? How did this happen? What is going on?

Once more he pondered the solution to answer those questions and picked up his pen. He wrote in the next line. How can you leave? Orson put the card back and shut the book. After only a few seconds he reopened the hardcover and pulled the checkout card out all at once. He read the next line. Finish the book.

Finish the book? Orson set the card on the dining table and turned the book over. He opened the cover from the back and flipped to the last page. It was blank. He pressed his thumb against the sides of the pages and flipped through. They were all blank. As he flipped the pages he suddenly saw text. He stopped and turned the pages to the last written text in the book. He skimmed the last paragraph. Vivian Myers was currently hiding from a man named Ethan and needed a plan of escape. He thought to himself of the obvious solution. If it was true and all he had to do was finish the book, he could write any ending and save her then. He put his pen to the paper and quickly wrote these words.

Vivian ran away and Ethan never found her. She lived happily ever after. The end. Orson turned the book back to the front and put the checkout card back in the sleeve and shut the book entirely. He waited patiently, wondering how Vivian would be freed and where she would go once freed. But after a moment, nothing seemed to change. He decided to look at the card again. There was a new note. He’s stronger than that.

Orson took his thumb and flipped through the novel to the last written page and saw that his writing had vanished. Orson replied to Vivian on the next line on the checkout card – there were only a few lines left on the paper. What can I write? He returned the card, shut the book, and reopened it. She responded. Yourself.

He understood. A cold sweat perspired on his brow. He was going to write himself into the story in order to save Vivian Myers. What will happen to me? he asked. He followed the routine of communication. Return card. Shut the book. Open.

I will help you. Orson held the card in his hand and contemplated. He scratched his chin and paused. Orson flipped to the last written page and examined the text. He understood the context of the scene: Vivian was hiding from a man named Ethan. She hid in the floorboards of a house which belonged to an old shepherd, who agreed to hide her. And now Ethan was on his way to the house. Orson saw an opportunity to insert himself in the story naturally. He wrote these words: The old shepherd was sitting quietly in his rustic kitchen sipping on a glass of sheep’s milk. His only son, Orson, walked into the kitchen with sweat matting his long sleeve to his chest. Orson was in his late-twenties, thin, dark brown hair, wide ears, and a bit lanky.

At that moment, Orson felt his body vibrate, a constant buzz from head to toe. His vision faded into whiteness and all his senses dissipated. His living room was empty. Only his maroon couch and his cold dinner were left. Orson, his pen, and the book were gone.