You buy an antique typewriter. One day while writing, you realize that the soul of the previous owner is living inside of it. He writes to you requesting you to find his wife and family, as he "disappeared" on them 78 years ago.
Date: June 19, 2023
Word count: 1889 words
Written by Alana Anne
The corner of my eyes blurred as static vision threatened to take over. One more paragraph, I thought, as my eyelids began to droop. Blinking rapidly, I stretched my fingertips and ran them over the letters of the board in front of me.
The grandfather clock behind me stroked a deadly bell, reading 3:00 am. Devil’s hour. The balete tree branches outside rustled, slamming against the window pane, as if trying to break in from the rain pouring outside. The wind howled like a ghost wailing over the loss of his life, and unfair death. They said the sounds of a typewriter were similar to the sounds of rapid speeding gunshots, also known as the Chicago Typewriter. At least, the one who sold it to me said so.
I typed away despite the noise simmering in my ears and altering my thought process. This manuscript had to be ready within a month’s time, and yet, I still haven’t surpassed 10 thousand words.
This typewriter was supposed to help me get rid of my writer’s block, and put me in the zone. When I saw it while walking down the street passing the antique store and sitting alone on the window sill, I knew, that it had to be mine. The only place for it worthy enough to be used, was here at home on my desk. The all black vintage design, it’s golden keys standing tall and proud. The dial just waiting patiently to be turned. It was a bit pricey, but worth the money. Now if I only knew how to shape my words.
The gunshots rang as Carmen ran down the busy streets, her scarfed mask suddenly flying away from her face. The wind pushed against the soft lush of her cheeks as she breezed alongside it, distancing herself away from her trackers. How could she have been so foolish? Unsuspecting hunters waiting to attack. Traitors of the nation everywhere. If they were to catch her now, she’d be dead.
Carmen placed her elbow just below her eyes, trying to cover as much of her face as possible. Cold, salty blood trailed down from her head to neck as it began to dry against her skin. The gunshot earlier had just barely grazed her head, narrowly missing her by a hair. It was God’s gift and a warning, she thought.
Tomorrow’s newspaper headline: The Scorpion Sniper, dead by the liberators. The country’s invaders, more like.
She turned the corner, jumping to grab a pipeline by the building’s door–
And then she died. Stop writing, I need your help.
My fingers froze mid-type as I stared at the inked paper hanging backwards behind the platen. I reread the last two sentences. Turning towards the grandfather clock, it read, 3:15am. I must’ve been word vomiting so fast, I couldn’t keep up. I rubbed my eyes to clear my vision, before starting again. I would scratch out those sentences later.
This time, I set a goal to finish at 3:30.
One foot in front of the other, she stepped, climbing towards the top. The rain poured on her face, blocking her line of sight. “Get her!” they yelled. She slipped, just narrowly catching a crevice in the wall’s building.
She fell to her death. The end. Listen up!
I push myself away from the desk and stand up. What the hell is going on? Now I was paying attention. There was no way I would’ve written that despite the speed at which I was typing. Again, I reread the sentences.
Leering closer, I carefully typed, Carmen jumped–
And fell.The end.
“What the fuck!” I jumped onto my chair, the wheels rolling away. At the same time, lightning struck, causing me to fall over when the dark shadows of the typewriter quickly flashed in front. No, I wasn’t delusional.
My head throbbed as I got up, the thunder drumming in my ears. Again I looked at the paper. Then, as if in a hypnotized state, the golden keys began to rise and fall on their own, emanating the sounds of rapid gunshot.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I screamed, running towards my bookcases. I grabbed two, three books and began to vigorously hurl them towards the typing typewriter. The typewriter moved an inch when Pride and Prejudice hit them by the knob. Still, it continued to type. More faster if I was imagining correctly.
A glass vase I threw shattered as it crashed onto the edge of the wooden desk. The thunder outside clapped like bowling balls as the balete tree branches hit my windows more aggressively. Its hairy, hanging leaves resembling that of a ghoul-y woman making its way towards me.
I quickly kneeled and wrapped my hands together. “Dear God,” I said, my voice shaking. “I promise I won’t ever deny you again. Just please make it stop.”
I repeated that phrase two times over, before silently curling into the corner, waiting for everything to just stop.
About a couple of minutes later, everything quieted down. I checked the clock, and the time now was entering 4 am. When I felt safe enough to move, I stood up and walked over to my desk.
Nature outside was now quiet like her tantrums were over and she had reached serendipity. Books, shattered glass, and pieces of paper were scattered everywhere, like a typhoon had hit inside.
I turned to face the demonic typewriter, and to my surprise, it was empty. The paper, had fallen to the side scattered amongst the piles. But it was there, inked and filled against all the other empty whites. Shining like a diamond against the sun. With my hands shaking, I picked it up.
About half of the page was filled with my writing, but the second half was all the typewriter’s. Its Lora font underscored, as if demanding me to read it.
To the very beautiful lady who’s panicking at the moment. I can assure you that I mean no harm. After all, I cannot do anything due to the fact that I am stuck in here. At least, my soul is. If you do not know, I am the ORIGINAL owner of this typewriter, that was made and purchased in 1919. My name is Eustace San Juan, and I was a resistance fighter during the Japanese occupation of the Philippines from 1942 to 1945. Unfortunately, I died during that time just before they surrendered, and have since been stuck inside this typewriter. Now to make matters worse, my wife to my knowledge did not know if I died, or left her. She did not know that I was part of the resistance. I am running out of space, so please if you can, replace this paper so I can continue to tell my story. I need a favour to–
The sentence cut off as it had reached the end of the paper. Unable to comprehend what the hell I just read, I buckled and fell to the ground. My fingers were shaking as I once again read over the paragraph. This couldn’t be real. This is not real. Wake up!
I rubbed my eyes and slapped my face. It stung as my vision blurred. I pinched my arm, my nail piercing like a needle through my skin. No this was real. Too real.
Gathering my thoughts, I decided to follow through with this supernatural request. My hands were numb as I caught a piece of empty paper, and rested it behind the platen. Curiosity was getting the better of me. Then, I waited.
I waited and waited, but nothing came. There were no sounds of gunshot, and no words. Just an empty paper. “Wake up, you’re stuck in oblivion,“ I said.
Then, the typewriter began to type by itself. I jumped and grabbed a book to throw, just before stopping myself. I read on as it typed.
Thank you for replacing the paper. As I said, my wife if she’s even still alive, does not know where I am, or if I died. She was pregnant with our first child before I disappeared on her. She must’ve been so lonely and angry with me gone, I can’t image her ever forgiving me.
“What does that have to do with me?” I asked, my voice low.
To my surprise, the typewriter responded. Everything. I waited so long for someone to help me, and you were only one who picked me. All bloodstained from the hearts of our enemy invaders. I need you to do something for me. Please. Find my wife, if not her, my child. I need to tell them what happened, and how sorry I am for leaving them.
I blinked, shaken by the absurdity of the request. I was dreaming. Definitely dreaming. “No,” I said, flatly. “I don’t even know you, and what you’re requesting is impossible. Your wife is likely dead. And your child, if they ever even existed, would likely not know who you are. Just saying.” It was crude, but a high possibility.
Please. I gave you my last name, perhaps you can find them.
“No! It’s been 78 years! If you really think your wife is alive, you’re delusional. Your child, maybe. But like I said, impossible to find. San Juan is a popular last name, too.”
I am begging. Please if you do this for me, maybe I can finally move on to the next life.
“No. In fact, in the morning, I will return you. I am an unsatisfied customer.”
Please don’t, you’re my only chance.
I turned away, crossing my arms. I didn’t want to do what he was asking. And I wouldn’t. I was too busy to even think about other matters. My manuscript would always come first.
Yet, a part of me wanted to weep for the old typewriter’s request.
As a historical fiction writer, I was fascinated with anything war related. The spies, the resistance, the people fighting for freedom. And all the innocents who were caught in the middle as collateral. The unfairness of it all. It was dramatic, but truthful. And no one could change history, no matter how hard they tried.
My heart sank.
“What’s in it for me if I help you?”
The typewriter typed. If you help me, on your off days I will help you finish your manuscript. After all, what better way to do research when you have an actual eye witness. I took a step back. It was almost tempting. Do this for me, and I will tell you everything I experienced, and what happened during my time. Your character is an assassin during Japanese occupation? I know many assasins. A couple of whom were women as well.
My jaw dropped. Of course, it just made sense. Maybe this was how I could get rid of my writer’s block. Maybe I could steal his experiences and write them as my character’s own. Damn, I could see the vision.
“Okay, let’s do it. But you have to promise, that you will tell me everything.”
So long as it’s written truthfully, I will follow your lead.
I laughed, my voice getting caught in an echo in the dark room. I’m a fucking lunatic. “Deal.”
I gave him my hand, almost forgetting that I was speaking directly to a typewriter.
First lesson. This country had many traitors.
