Type m1a6y

TYPE A SHORT STORY

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KHALIL WOODS

Type: A Short Story Copyright © 2016 Khalil Woods Second edition © 2017 Khalil Woods Third edition © 2020 Khalil Woods All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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ISBN-13: 978-1-52-064278-9

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Type

Storage

The Typing Sounds

The Letter M

The Letter U

The Letter R

The Letter D

The Last Letter

Epilogue

About the Author

To my two mothers, all my siblings here and distant, my grandmothers, aunts, uncles, and to God for helping me finish this short story.

Storage

C rumple, crumple, crumple. That’s all you could hear when you have to spend your Saturday night rustling through a theme park of your mom’s documents...by yourself. It was a privilege I had to take when I didn’t take out the garbage Thursday, and she knew that it’d be difficult to find her latest draft. I don’t think it was just a privilege. It was like a punishment, a whip on the back. Ashton Patch, by the way. Youngest child of the Patches, then there’s Rosie next and my oldest sister Rebecca being last. The breadwinner is Mom, who’s the self-proclaimed best-selling author. I say self-proclaimed because there’s no tag that says that on her books. Just saying, Mom. Sorry. That’s probably why she has me searching for that next draft. It’s a mystery series she has called Beneath the Well, and the last book she recently published reached #1 on those Amazon Charts. Her fourth book is what I’m crawling in this room for. She packed it away in one of these boxes and I’m here being a one-man Mystery Gang for it. Each box of drafts were stacked by 5’s and I counted 30 boxes of drafts in all. They’re not A-Z, so that made the search even worse. I’ve been searching so much my brain even wanted to end it all. That’s it, I give up. I crawled out the cave and went to Mom, perched pretty at her desk writing in her little notepad. “Mom, how do you know where to usually find your manuscripts?” “I just told you that,” she said. “I put all of my manuscripts in an individual box by date of first draft. The draft you’re looking for was made in 2012.” “Well, I apologize,” I replied sarcastically. “I was too busy not dying and having my brain juiced in there. What happened to ‘I’ll clean up the storage room at some point?’”

“Exactly. At some point.” “When I crawl back in there, start thinking of my eulogy. I’d like a bronze casket with the whole My Beautiful, Dark, Twisted Fantasy album playing beside it.” “Ashton, it’s not that bad. Go get the draft and hurry out. It’s school tomorrow.” “2012, right?” “2012.” I was back in the void. I looked thoroughly at the boxes and realized that the boxes were labeled, all by years. I had to hurry though, because the walls in the storage room were compacting. The trash—I mean—storage stuff was starting to pile up and gulp me down in one papercut-filled swoop. There it is, that draft she had me looking for the past 15 minutes. It’s called The Runes, and it consisted of 400+ pages of long print. When I pulled it out, it became a bible in my hands. Man, this thing is a woolly mammoth, but I’m glad to be alive again. Once I head back to the door, I take one wrong step and I end up stubbing my toe on one of her stupid file cabinets and knocking down what appears to be an old, web-filled typewriter. The worst part is that it knocked down on the same foot, the same toe that I stubbed. “FWOOOOOM!” I yelped, trying to muffle out the real word I wanted to say. My foot was in screaming pain and I checked to see if it was a pile of spaghetti on the floor. Nope, it’s fine. That didn’t take away the fact that the typewriter rained on it and left me begging for mercy. Before that excruciating moment, I always wanted a typewriter of my own. When I was younger, I used to daydream about me wielding a typewriter under my arm, prepared to write some fancy letter or type up the greatest novel ever written. But now, I don’t want to think about, smell, or hear about another typewriter tonight. Mom called out to me from the other side of the world. “Ashton, did you find my manuscript box yet? It’s getting late.”

“Coming.” I picked up the typewriter walked out with both the items in my hands. “Thank goodness,” she said. “I thought you were really dead in there.” She retrieved the box, then looked down at the device that ironed my foot. “Oh, I see you’ve found my typewriter. I was about to go get it myself. Thank you again, sweetie.” “Yeah. It almost took the life out of my foot when it fell. Wait, you needed both?” “Of course.” “Why didn’t you tell me to get it for you before?” “Because I know how much you’ve been struggling to get my draft. How else will I be able to type up my novels?” “I don’t know. Maybe the computer?” “Oh, you’re so millennial. I stopped saving stuff on the computer years ago. They lose information and if somebody is using my computer while I’m doing something else, they could find out about my books and they might try to copyright it themselves.” “Mom, we are the only ones who use your computer.” “That’s true. But then there’s your snoopy aunt that always lurking around every chance she gets.” “Aunt Jessie? The aunt you invited that time for Thanksgiving dinner and you caught her stealing one of your panties?” Aunt Jessie was very jealous of my mother, but she sure did spoil us all good. “Yes, that aunt,” Mom responded. “And don’t speak her name in this house.” “But you know, Mom. There’s a lot of ways you can save a work. You can save it to the cloud, the junk drive...” “Ashton, Ashton, Ashton,” she interrupted. “When it comes to operating a

Smith-Corona, you can’t go wrong. This is fine machinery and it can replace any new-fangled technology you see at Best Buy.” “Wait a minute. You said Smith-Corona?”

The Typing Sounds

S mith-Corona, Smith-Corona. That name sounds so familiar for some reason. I hearing that name somewhere a while back, but at the same time it’s a fever dream for me. I think it was in another podcast I listened to. This lady living in the segregation age was an American poet residing right in Rich Oak Road. She too had this typewriter that was “Smith-Corona” (almost sounding like the beer Corona). She had had a long and stressful period promoting her book out in the streets when people weren’t interested in her work of poetry. (She focused mainly on the gloomy side of her past.) But then one day she came across this publishing press that accepted any and every type of literature. So, she paid them a measly $25 and her books were on the market. The most consulted-about part of her life was when she murdered 5 of her foes (one still missing), killing off one by one on each day that had ed. She was about to be arrested but she ended her life short by killing herself with the Smith-Corona. It’s almost like she wanted to be with the typewriter for eternity. Even though there were splashes of blood from the impact of her head, it was completely clean when they put it out for an antique sale. And the weirdest part is that the people who picked it up didn’t clean it or spot anything on it during the investigation. Talk about that Paranormal Activity. “Yes. Smith-Corona’s the name,” Mom said. “Really popular back in the day.” “Where did you buy it,” I interrogated Mom. “Oh, it was years ago when they still had that sales store on the corner of Narrow Street called Barney’s Goods. It was on sale for a refurbished price of $33.” “So, you mean that it was used?” “Yeah.”

“By who?” “They didn’t give me any details on who the previous owner was. They probably won’t even tell a private investigator who it was unless the place was abandoned, or if it was in the middle of a crime scene investigation. I mean, you should’ve seen how peculiar the clerk was acting.” “Was it a—” “1975 Smith-Corona Electra? Of course, it was!” She looked at the clock and she said, “Oh, I forgot to get you something to eat. Let me fix you up something really quick.” She went into the kitchen and fixed me some peanut-butter sandwiches. I studied the typewriter on every corner. Smith-Corona Electra. This must’ve been one of those typewriters people used when they were a receptionist or making telegrams in an office. The keys looked finely polished and there wasn’t any smudge on it perceiving that anyone had used it before. When I first knocked on the device ever so slightly, I noticed that it wasn’t metallic at all; it was just cold and heavy. The plastic finish made it look vintage enough. However, I still hated it for crashing on my foot. When I was walking away from it and going into the kitchen with Mom, I could’ve sworn that I heard a key click by itself. So, I looked at it and I observed that one of the keys descended into the board as if it has been pressed down and a second later, it released. My hairs raised a little and my heart got a ticket onto the Mega Drop. Thoughts kept swirling my head and I kept thinking if this was the exact same typewriter I heard about years ago with the poet and her body being placed in the typewriter. I know I listen to too many podcasts about chilling stories and whatnot, but I know I saw that key click and retract. Or maybe it’s my distorted thoughts from searching in the room for so long. But who knows? Something’s smelling fishy. “Here’s your sandwich, Ash,” Mom said to me, setting the plate on the table. She also put a drink on the coaster and proceeded to use the typewriter, reeling it over to where she was sitting with her outline. “You know, this typewriter has a blissful typing sound as you whisk away

tapping keys on barren slices of wood. I mean, if you just tap it once—” “Honestly, that typewriter almost amputated my foot in the room, so I’m not very fond of it at the moment,” I said. “Amputated your foot? What do you mean?” “I stubbed my toe on one of your file cabinets, which I tried avoiding every time I stepped in and out of the room. My bad luck got the best of me and I stubbed my toe. All of a sudden, this ‘anvil’ came down on my foot.” “Oh, I’m sorry about that, honey. You know, maybe I should clean that room about one weekend.” There’s the 5th time she said that excuse. I wanted to tell her that, but there was no point unless I see some proof in the berries. I suddenly asked her, “Are you sure you don’t know anybody who has used this machine before you? It can’t be a newly, antiquated device.” “Hey, the person didn’t list it, so I’m not worried. Why don’t you just relax and eat your sandwich? It’s nicely crafted, just the way you desire it.” Minding her nonchalant matters about the typewriters, I just proceeded with eating my sandwich. Still warm and waiting to be stuffed down my throat. I took a bite and bit my tongue, another bad luck charm.

ALMOST 10:00 AND THAT was my curfew to go to bed while Mom was pounding her writer’s block. She typed away with no worries for tomorrow and all that conquered kept my lids wide open. I couldn’t go to sleep with all that clanging happening in the living room. I even closed the door on her and it was still heard through the thin layers of the wall. My headphones were my only hope, but the sound was still faintly heard. 30 minutes later, it was all over, and my mom snuck into my room to kiss me good night. How could she be all sweet while she just made the biggest ruckus in the neighborhood? I’m surprised Rosie and Rebecca dozed all through the noise? 37 minutes later, I had thought it was all over. Ugh, those damn typing sounds!

The Letter M

I thought Mom was done with The Runes for tonight. If she’s on the typewriter then I’ll have to tell her to postpone until after I leave home, because I can’t take those constant clickety-clackety keys. Especially not on a school night. I got out of my comfort zone and exited the room. The typing stopped instantly once I shut my room door. So did my headache as that clacking knocked against my skull. Whew! I thought to myself. I headed towards the den area where she was at work and saw the typewriter all alone. Wait a minute. Whenever Mom’s about to go to bed, she always gives me a good night peck. The clacking started a bit afterwards, though. I went upstairs and straight to her bedroom and peeked in for a minute. She was already in bed fast asleep. Something wasn’t adding up. I rushed back to the typewriter and checked her progress. She had her other draft pages stacked face-down beside the machine and a new sheet of paper held in the sheet holder. It was a little poem, but at first glance it doesn’t look like any of the writing I was used to. It read:

Suzie Broadley was sitting in the dim, When she got hit by a large tree limb; Died with a concussion, scorned by him, Just know when you see the letter M. ~ Gertrude D. Macabellow

The name so familiar roaming around in my mind. And now I realized that Gertrude Macabellow was the poet who committed suicide by her own SmithCorona. Why is Mom writing about her though? She could’ve chose someone less creepy like Edgar Allan Poe, but she chose a real murderer? I checked my phone. It was 11:07. I doubt that my friends are asleep currently. Brandy might be, claiming that she must get her “beauty sleep” and all. James had a football game tonight and Timmy was...I don’t know what he does around this time. I do know Dareeka stays up late every night. She was the first person I called too.

Dareeka - Hello?

Me - Hey, Dareeka. You have a minute?

Dareeka – Welp, that depends on how many licks does it take to get to center of a Tootsie Pop.

Me – We’ll find that out someday. I meant to ask you if you knew the poet Gertrude D. Macabellow?

Dareeka - Honestly, I don’t know any type of poets, except for the poets that I had to read for Miss Schwarbenheimer’s prune ass. You have a literature project to work on or something?

Me - No. I was just wondering if you knew her.

Dareeka - Oh, okay. Is she one of those old-timey poets we have to read in literature for college? Sounds like it.

Me – Not that I know of. All I know is I’ve seen her in the town’s newspaper a few years back when they were investigating her case of gruesome murders. She had committed suicide with her typewriter and they had put it up on the shelf to resell to the public as a vintage and refurbished device.

Dareeka – Sick.

Me – Sick as in “Dude, that’s rad” sick, or sick as in “Dude, that’s unpleasant” sick?

Dareeka – Would both count?

Me – You’re something else, Dareeka. Anyways, my mom got hold of it for her writing business back in the 20th century and now that I’ve found it, it’s been typing by itself and then it typed a poem I don’t understand.

Dareeka – Are you high right now? Caffeine or shrooms?

Me – Dareeka, I’m completely serious about this thing.

Dareeka – Alright. Why don’t you bring the poem to school tomorrow? James is a literary scholar, so he’ll figure it out.

Me – I don’t know. Mom is very nitpicky about her possessions. And plus, what would James be able to do to solve this case?

Dareeka - Positive. Mrs. Lily’s class? She ed him with a straight 100. And I only got an 88.

Me - That was probably because you were too busy focusing on that mixtape you were putting out. How many hours did you put in at the studio again?

Dareeka – Oh, man. You don’t know how long I’ve been working on that mixtape. I wanted to create a new sound for myself and I just couldn’t wait to release it.

Me - Yeah. I when we were younger, and you used to release crazy mixtapes with remixed hymns from your hymnals. Your voice used to crack on those higher notes and I used to head to the deathbed laughing on the floor.

Dareeka - See, I was going to let you have it for free, but since you’re hounding on my voice problems, I’ll just let you buy your own copy. How does that sound?

Me - You’re the star. Why don’t you go ahead and sing “Almost Persuaded” right in the phone?

Dareeka - (playing angry) Good night, Ashton.

Me - Night!

Dareeka – Oh, and about the poem, are you able to make a copy of it before school?

Me – Yeah. I think the printer still works.

Dareeka – Good! Problem solved. See you in the morning.

Me – See ya!

I hung up. I almost forgot about what I was going to do tomorrow, being in a good mood and all with Dareeka. I just hope I can sleep tonight without any more notes or clicking.

At school... Richardson High School was a different world for me. In this world, you would see another type of Eastside High. A school full of fights, thugs, and incoherent teaching. The only good thing that came out of it was meeting the four best people you’d ever come across. Dareeka is the most down-to-earth being you would ever come across. She’s more than just a regular girl you meet between classes, because she deals snacks. Whenever we go to first period, she’s always ready to sell a bag of hot chips for a buck. Also, her singing has gotten better over time. James is one of the most intellectual athletes in the zone. He’s always there to

decipher something for the group and in the best-case scenarios, he gives away answers to us without having to bow down for it. That kinda makes me feel like I’m using him for smarts, but I suck at Math. Brandy can come across as devious, fast, and chatty sometimes. Okay, most of the times. However, as time grew, she became the perfect asset to the group as she gave us the best advice on how to navigate around teacher tactics. I still that time she planned our break from detention after that food fight. Timmy is the funny one out of the group. Always cracking jokes even some are cornier than soap operas on daytime television, but the best part about them is that he can crack the heck out of things. Phones, school codes, and apps. He should be institutionalized for all of his hacks. We were all in Miss Hallzheimer’s classroom and as usual, I pulled up a desk to talk to Dareeka, Brandy, Timmy, and James. With the sheet of paper, I pulled it out and placed it on the desk. “So, did Dareeka tell you about this weird thing that happened last night to me?” “What is it,” Brandy asked, unintentionally not knowing. “Is it another case of a mysterious person crossing your patio?” “Brandy, we had solved that case last week,” James told her. “It was that 9th grade socially-awkward student named Lenny Montello. ?” “Oh, that guy. He is so awkward. I had to ask him something on my Gym block about when we go to lunch—you know, that testing schedule we must go by because of those 10th graders testing—and here he goes saying something weird like ‘When the wind strikes at noon’ and something like that. IT’S SO WEIRD!” “Quiet, Demi,” Miss Hallzheimer shouts to Timmy, even though he never yells in her class. “And the hag speaks,” he muttered. “I’ve talked to that guy before,” James said. “He’s actually not as weird as you think. He talks like that because he’s studying in Old English Lit.” “Well, he should know that I’m new age, will forever be new age, and won’t

change from being new age,” Brandy replied. “What do you think he said means,” I asked James. “’When the wind strikes at noon?’ Oh, that just means lunchtime.” “See, that makes more sense,” Brandy said. “All I need is one word for better understanding.” “Why? You need seven words just to figure out what’s left from right.” The whole group laughed except for Brandy. She scowled at him and said, “One more crack, small fry, and you’ll be gone with the wind.” I almost forgot about my story, laughing so hard. “But for real guys, I have a story to discuss. When I was trying to find one of my mom’s drafts for her next novel, I stumbled over a file cabinet, dropping her old typewriter and hurting my foot. “I brought the typewriter out of the storage room to see if I can work it, but here goes Mom wanting to use it for her novel. She told me details about it and she said that it was a 1975 Smith-Corona Electra, the exact same one a poet named Gertrude D. Macabellow used for her works, of course, before she committed suicide with it.” “Wait, what,” Timmy exclaimed. “Who exactly is that Macabellow lady,” Brandy asked. “Well, she’s a 20th century infamous poet known modernly for her gruesome murders and her suicide. She didn’t have a lot of people to her and her poetry books and she was so furious of the ladies who bullied her. So, she killed them off one by one. Only one survived; the good one.” “So, if this is one of her works, how did it get into your household?” “The most paranormal thing happened. The typewriter typed it up by itself while I was asleep (or at least trying to sleep) and I thought that it was my mom again. Happened at 11:07 p.m.”

“No way,” Timmy exclaimed again. “This can’t be true,” James exclaimed. “I’m dying,” Brandy exclaimed, dramatically. “Are you sure a rat didn’t hop on the keyboard and start crawling on keys,” Timmy asked. Such an odd question. “Of course not. We do not have a house infested with rats under every floorboard. I first saw it instantly when Mom was fixing me a sandwich. One of the keys pressed and then released as if someone was typing on it. It’s weird and quite frankly, I felt a little freaked out.” “Dareeka, why aren’t you freaking out about this madness?” “Why would I freak out,” she asked. “This type of stuff is why I’m down for horror.” “So today, I brought a copy of the poem to see if anybody could try to figure it out. You know, someone with some good intellect.” “Oh, that’ll be a piece of cake,” James assured, and I handed him the poem just as planned. It took him a full 30 seconds before he said, “This poem is about Gertrude murdering some enemy under the tree with a large limb after she was crying or moping about her boyfriend or spouse doing felonious actions.” “It was a scandal or something,” Brandy interrogated. “Not exactly a scandal, but more like a crime.” “But what about the letter M in the last line?” After I asked that, I heard a slight cracking sound outside, coming from one of the trees nearest to our window. One of the limbs — the big limb — looked weaker and it probably looked like it was going to later collapse. Crack! It started to descend slowly falling towards the classroom. And then went faster and faster and faster and faster. I was just paralyzed now and before I could stop

being immobile... CRASH! The windows were busted out and everybody went tumbling down or ducking their skulls. As I got up, collapsing from the glass flying our direction, I saw two classmates — Daniel Bradley and Shirley Matinee — injured from the impact of the tree from the eastern side of the classroom. I was scared, confused, and embarrassed. I saw a postcard taped onto the front of the limb. The only thing that was on the note was the letter M.

The Letter U

I explained the whole school incident to Mom. No detail was left out in the rant. “...and the limb flew right into the classroom, leaving everything after a horrible mess,” “Are you hurt,” she asked me. She checked my forehead for cuts and lesions. I felt no pain, even if the glass shattered in my direction. “I’m fine, but it feels like I’m being followed by a ghost.” “What are you talking about Ashton? What does a ghost have to do with today’s incident?” “It all started last night while you were in the bed. I was still hearing typing sounds from your typewriter and I was thinking that it was you still working on The Runes. But I went down to the den area to see if you were there and you weren’t. And then, I saw this poem stuck in the sheet holder and it had Gertrude’s signature at the bottom. I have the poem right here.” I pulled out the poem from my backpack and showed it to her. She read a little bit of it and sighed. “I’m not a skeptic or anything, but if you were sleepwalking and dreaming about some poet who wrote poems then this might’ve popped up,” she replied. Or maybe a rat crawled on the keyboard overnight and typed...” “First of all, I’ve never sleep-walked in my life; second of all, our house isn’t infested with rodents; and second-and-a-half of all, a mouse would’ve never typed up a whole poem. Why aren’t you taking this situation seriously?” She soon said in a rage, “Do not show me any of this ever again, Ashton. Do you hear me?”

“Mom...” “Do you hear me?” I sighed. “Yes, ma’am.” “Good. Now go to your room and do some homework, or if you don’t have any go clean your room up,” she demanded as she pointed at my room. I went up there angry and confused at the same time. She blames me for what I didn’t do. I didn’t touch her haunted typewriter, and my wish is to never have found it in the first place. I’ll just forget that that happened and do something occupying.

4 HOURS ED. HAD some bland dinner (it was good, but it just lacked taste due to how I was feeling now) and watched Under the Dome until I found something else to do. I was going to research more on Gertrude Macabellow and send the information to my friends at school. Bing was my hero at the time so I searched for her name. Her biography came up on the front page at the source of Wikipedia. It said: Gertrude Duluth Macabellow (born 1949-1976) is an American poet known for her gloomy collections of poetry referring to her harsh childhood. Known for her low budget works such as Plowing Down the Hag and Whips Are the Seed, Lashes Are the Plants, and Flesh Is the Soil, she remained independent and socially active all her life, promoting her books to the public in 1975. In 1976, she murdered five women in Richardson, Texas, and later took her own life. The weapon she used wasn’t found at the site, but she last used her typewriter at the time of her death. My sister Rebecca came into my room looking worried and she said, “I heard about what happened today in Mrs. Hallzheimer’s classroom. It’s all over Twitter and on WBNC. You know they put everything on there.” “Something’s weird happening. It’s like they’re trying to give me a sign that this dead poet is near. Harassing me. Trying to tell me something.” “Dead poet? What’s that about?” “I tried telling Mom this, but I feel that I’m being haunted by this poet that killed some people.” “Okay, am I hearing this clearly? Are you talking about an actual ghost in the house?” “Don’t act like you’re not used to seeing these things. that time at the house across the street from Aunt Cassie’s when you saw that ghost of a white guy?” “Hey, we don’t speak of that no more.” “And that statue you thought moved at the high school you were at?”

“Okay, okay. I get it. Sheesh.” My sister was a bit of a kook too when it came to ghosts and stuff. That’s why she avoids almost horror movie on movie night. No more Annabelle lingering in her dreams. “So, do you believe me?” “Whatever, Ash. It’s a good thing you’re alright, though. How come I haven’t seen this ghost? It’s usually haunting me.” “Honestly, it’s really weird. I believe it’s been targeting me ever since I pulled out Mom’s typewriter from the storage room.” “If I were you, I’d put that typewriter back in the grave of its owner. I do not play with other peoples’ ghosts. By the way, did Mom cook anything yet?” “Oh, yeah. Mom cooked up some Brussel sprouts, chicken fried rice, and some barbecue chicken.” “Not chicken again.” “Better believe it.” Rebecca walked gloomily to the kitchen while I proceeded with my research upon Gertrude. I looked up her bibliography and more encounters with the people she loathed. All her friends’ names weren’t listed, but they did include that one of them were off-scot free of her murders. It would’ve been six, but since the individual has been so generous to Gertrude (despite hanging around the most devious clique) that she’d let her go. I had another idea before I logged off. I decided to look up information about the Smith-Corona. I saw various variants of the Electra. One with a beige finish. One with an exclusive golden finish. Then there was hers. I was about to click the link... My computer froze. Not now. It hasn’t even been a year and this computer’s already freezing on me. I tried pressing the Windows key, but no luck. I had no choice but to do the old trick: forcing shutdown and restarting.

All of a sudden, this loud buzzing sound emitted from the speaker and almost popped my eardrums. I tried shutting the lid down. No help. Gosh, why is my bad luck always settling in at the worst moments. “What’s that noise, Ashton,” Rebecca asked. “It’s this dumb computer. It’s malfunctioning on me and I’m not sure why.” “Want me to get the hammer?” “No, Rebecca! Are you crazy?!” Then everything ceased. I looked at the computer and opened the lid back up. The screen was unfrozen as I moved the trackpad around, but there was a faint, faint, faint film on the screensaver. It took the shape of a face in my eyes, but I doubt anybody else would see it. “Welp, problem solved,” Rebecca responded. I shook my head at her and closed the lid down again. That was enough internet for my head today. It was 11:07, the exact same time I woke up last night. Well, I wasn’t asleep, and the typewriter was preventing me from doing so. I walked out of my room and headed towards the typewriter yet again for another night and saw (of course) another typed-up piece of paper which turned out to be a poem. By the one and only, Gertrude D. Macabellow.

Shirley Truce was one day footloose, Led to an attic and slipped under a noose; Died like a hangman, with blood on one shoe, Oh, please, dear; you must know the letter U. ~ Gertrude D. Macabellow

Thud! The thud could be heard all the way from upstairs where me, Mom, and the sisters had slept. I walked up there, and it was a door leading to an attic. We’ve never had an attic. The house wasn’t built with an attic. Letting my curiosity get a hold of me, I went up there intrepidly and fearful at the same time. I don’t even know where the light switch is. There are possibly no windows and I might make a mistake and stub my [injured foot] on the construction. It was pitch black and my phone was in my room, so I couldn’t use it right now. I used my hands as a guide and I found a dangling light switch. I pulled it and I could see everything that was left up here. Furniture covered in plastic wrap and toys sealed in a box. Everything was old-fashioned with cobweb and daddy longlegs in every corner. But I’m still wondering how this attic appeared, where the letter U is, and why is this feeling like a trance. I browsed a bit before I saw the letter U lying on the cold, wooden floor written on a sticky note. But where was the example of her murder? I didn’t understand quite yet. I saw something drip on the paper. Blood. And it was coming from above. I looked up at the ceiling and a lady’s corpse was hanging right before my head. Her head lame to the side and the noose making that stretching rope sound. Forgetting the paper and the note, I tried running back out of the attic. IT WAS LOCKED! Someone or something must’ve locked me in while I was searching around because I sure didn’t hear the door slam. I tried prying it open, but it didn’t open at all. “Help, somebody help,” I shouted as I was banging on the door. “Help!” I looked back at it to see if it was still there. It was, in plain point-of-vision. I really thought I was dreaming at this point, and I wish I were. I could feel the splinters in my hand forming from the wood. Guess the builders didn’t really do too much work in the attic, but why worry about that now. It finally let down and I ran straight to Mom’s room like a little child. “Mom, please wake up! There’s this lady trying to get me! I can’t take it anymore!”

The Letter R

T he irritation in Mom’s saggy eyes was enough to throw the whole story in a trash bag, but this needed to be told. It feels like my life is hanging on a thread. What is this story that you’re trying to tell me, Ashton? This better have worth losing sleep over. I really need some shut-eye and you’re interrupting my schedule.” “Mom, there is something in the attic! You got to see it!” “What? We have no attic. Are you overreacting because you’re tired?” “No, this stuff is real. All this stuff is true stuff. There was this attic door on the ceiling and I went up there to find a dead person hanging on a noose. Her name was Shirley Truce.” “Look, whatever you are explaining better be legit, okay?” I lead her to the hallway and I looked up. The whole attic was there with the string attached and all. “Well, what do you know? We do have an attic.” “Wasn’t the landlord supposed to tell you all of that when we first moved in?” “For some reason, he never mentioned it. I don’t know why.” Now I was feeling skeptical about the landlord. He seems nice with that whimsical smile, but there are a lot of heathens in the business. I wouldn’t put it past me. “Just open it and see for yourself.” “Ashton, I can’t even reach the string. How did you even get up there.” “It was already open when I went up there. Hang on.” I searched in the kitchen to find an object similar to one of those staffs you use to pull attics down. All I could think of was taping a wire hanger around a broom and using the hook to pull it down.

Going back to the attic door, I said, “Okay, I have a plan.” “Not tonight, Ashton. I have work in the morning.” “Mom, please for this one night. There is something weird and creepy going on and I believe it’s because of that typewriter of yours. I can’t sleep another night with it typing up these poems.” “What do you suggest I do about it, Ashton. I haven’t heard or seen any ‘phenomena’ that you’ve been experiencing. I’m starting to believe that this is all in your head, to compensate for the loss of your grandmother.” Oh, man. She had to go there. I wasn’t even paying attention to Grandma’s death after all this chaos and she had to bring up the hardest time for me to move on from. I stayed strong and told her, “Mom, this has nothing to do with Grandma. This has to do with that crazy typewriter of yours. I need you to get rid of it.” “No,” she replied assertively. “I am not returning anything for your happiness. That typewriter means everything to me and I was the only one who loved it like a...look, Ashton. One day I’ll tell you the real reason why it means so much to me. But for now, get some rest.” “I can’t stay here with that thing.” That was all I said before I moved on to my room and gathered my things. My phone, my charger, my notepad and a few pens, and my buggy computer. I wasn’t going to endure another night with that contraption. Not here, not there, not...I’m not in the mood for rhyming. Mom came up behind me and asked, “Where are you gonna go, Ashton? At this time of night?” “I’m going to see a friend or something. If we can’t come to an agreement, there will be less of me around the house.” “Are you hearing yourself right now, Ashton? You’re blowing this whole thing out of proportion!” “It’s being blown out of proportion because you won’t believe me!”

Rebecca and Rosie came out of their rooms and asked. Rosie asked, “Mom, what’s going on with Ashton?" “He’s packing up his things because he believes my typewriter is cursed.” “A typewriter,” Rosie said in disbelief. “See, it’s too complicated to believe,” I replied. “That’s why it’s best to leave the situation before it gets worse.” BANG! Rebecca and Rosie shrieked a little when we all heard the deafening noise and I noticed that the street lights were out. I had a little tinnitus in my ears afterwards, but it quickly went away after a while. “What the hell was that,” Rebecca asked. “Rebecca,” Mom called to Rebecca. She hates when we use any type of language in the house. I refrained for a reason. “Do any of you have your phone flash?” “I do,” I said. I reached into my pocket and turned on the flash, illuminating the room a little bit. One I moved it a little, I saw a silhouette of an old lady flash near my window. “Whoa,” I yelled at the sight. “Ashton, what’s wrong with you,” Rosie asked. “Uh, I think my eyes are playing tricks on me tonight,” I lied. “The crash sounded like it came from outside this window,” Mom said, pointing to my window. She approached it and looked outside. “Oh, I see what it is.” “What hit the pole,” I asked her. “You know those buses with those big, chrome R’s on the grilles? That’s what hit the pole.”

The Letter D

M orning crept up on me earlier. I should’ve expected that given that we all stayed up late to investigate the outage. I ended up staying home, moping through the whole night. Good thing I didn’t hear any typing that night. However, I did wake up to see that the typewriter had yet another poem to showcase. I oughta tear it up to smithereens and throw a match on that thing, but I need it to solve the case of WHY TORTURE ASHTON PATCH? I took it out the sheet holder and read:

Lana Delmar was looking cruelly afar, When she was hit by a baby-blue car; Dead and cold, she was paved over with tar, I’m telling you; you’re going to have to know the letter R. ~ Gertrude D. Macabellow

I just figured out that this ties in with last night’s incident with the bus. There was the letter R in both and with these three poems combined form the letters MU-R. It doesn’t have to be completed, though. Maybe if I stop solving the mysteries, the typing will cease for good. Right. Wrong. I’m in the library right now searching for the case. This is during my lunch period, so I’m able to buy some time to get some research done. My favorite librarian doesn’t mind.

Using Bing as my advisor, I checked the background on my house to find out more on the information on the attic. It’s been bugging me that that lady would be murdered up there and still hanging. Darn, I knew I should’ve made that wire hanger-broomstick contraption. The search results pulled up my house, but no reports on Gertrude. Next step was to search for Gertrude and then my house. I pressed Enter and some related results pulled straight up. Bingo. I knew that I wasn’t hallucinating to Mom. I hit the Print button and that article came rolling out fresh from the printer. I put it in my backpack and headed to the lunch table, where I met my favorite group. “Hey, Ashton,” Timmy greeted. “Where were you this afternoon?” “It’s none of your business, Timmy,” Brandy snapped. “It’s fine, Brandy,” I accepted. “I had to pull up some more info about Gertrude to prove my Mom that I’m not crazy.” Everybody laughed. “What’s so funny?” “Why in the world would she think that you’re a wacko,” Dareeka asked. “Because she’s insane. I couldn’t believe that she thought that I was going crazy just because I was hearing voices in my head. Lord knows that I’m not crazy.” “Well, the way that you put it, it does sound a bit loony.” I ended up telling them the story of what happened last week. What happened to the computer with that loud, buzzing noise. What happened in the attic when I saw that hanging lady. What happened to the power after a mysterious bus ran into an electric tower. Then, I told them about the two poems and the gathered research behind it. “Really, Ashton,” Brandy said. “You know how those horror movies go. Who goes up an attic, knowing that there might be something that you don’t want to find out?”

“The curiosity got the best of me, alright? I still hate that Mom didn’t believe me afterwards. It was disappointing.” “Ashton, you gotta know how moms are sometimes. They’re just plain wrong all the way.” “Yeah, but my mom...she’s just so naïve. She barely even knows that there’s a ghost in our house targeting me and telling me what she’s done. I don’t want to know what she’s done.” “What was the research about anyway,” James asked. “Oh, yeah. Basically, I researched my house and all the events that happened inside in relation to Gertrude. I wanted to get it so that I could fit some puzzle pieces together.” “Like with all the poems?” “Exactly. So far, the clues with poem have the letter M, U, and R. It might spell MURDER, but it also could be something else.” “Didn’t you say that your mother wrote mystery books,” Dareeka asked. “Yeah. Why?” “Would it be possible that she’s planning some of this out as one of those—what do you call it—murder mystery dinner theatre?” “Well, it could be, but it doesn’t explain some of the visions and incidents I’ve been having. the tree yesterday, the body, and the bus?” However, that did get me thinking. I wonder if this is a ploy made by Mom to test out her scare tactics. She used to do this a lot when I was younger, but it wasn’t as scary as this incident. I finished up the last of my tater tots and drank my chocolate milk. Soon, it was time to move on to the next class period. I moved through the condensed crowd (claustrophobically speaking), pushing past every obese and sweaty individual as I usually did when going to 3rd block.

The 3rd block was usually the biggest block that I had for A-Day. The teacher was Mr. Cliff, a Chemistry teacher with a twin brother who works as a principal downtown. He was quite odd at times, but he was cool and he is one of very few teachers who try to help you your subject. “I have an announcement,” he proclaimed as students came in and got out their books. “You won’t be needing your Chemistry books today because we’re going to discuss something intriguing. We will be discussing the subject of ghosts.” He wrote the word on the chalkboard in all capitals. I was almost surprised that he talked about something that is already inhabiting our household. That usually happens just in television shows and movies when you’re having one of those problem solvers d on the protagonist’s television. “What about ghosts,” a girl named Ashley Timrock asked. “I mean, are we basing it off superstition or something? It can’t be anything dealing with chemistry, right?” “Actually, it can deal with chemistry. Sometimes, ghosts can turn into particles, into the matter of existence. Ghosts or apparitions can take many shapes and can confuse the human mind and sometimes make them go insane. They are sometimes described as ‘floating orbs of light’, like the 1980s movie Poltergeist.” “Wait, I thought we were talking about ghosts, not whatever word you just said,” Brandy told him. “Brandy, poltergeists are ghosts. And it’s sounded out as ‘poltergeist’.” “Anyways, we’ve already established the matter part of the subject, but let’s look further into the force. Ghosts and poltergeists are alike in many, both being deceased lifeforms that could inhabit any and every place they desired (or that they died in). But a difference between both is that ghost you can only sense and poltergeists, well, they make themselves known. “Poltergeists use force with anything. They can overturn tables, throw merchandise, and even make stuffed animals rotate. Now they aren’t referred to as demons since they can’t possess the human body. They can only torture the residents until they’re ready to leave by force.”

“Wait for a second, Mr. Cliff,” I interrupted. “Are you an expert on this stuff?” “Well, I’m pretty savvy at it but I wouldn’t say I have a degree in the supernatural category.” He chuckled a bit. “The reason why I’m asking is that...” “Ashton has a ghost in his house and he’s trying to figure out why!” Brandy blurted out. Why would she do something so...Brandy-like? I don’t want the whole world knowing that I’m dealing with ghosts. She would do that, though. “Brandy!” “What? I’m not going to keep anything a secret. I mean, now everybody knows that you have a ‘ghost writer’ living inside your home. Get it, I said ghost writer.” Now everybody started murmuring. Everybody! And Brandy just had to brag and tell everyone my business. Sometimes, I do question why we’ve made her a part of the group. “Brandy, sit down and stop telling everybody my business!” “I can’t help it. I told you before that I have a bragging disorder.” “Just...stop, okay? You’re really ruining everything for our relationship of being friends. And plus, that’s not a real disorder.” “Uh huh! Look it up if you don’t believe me.” “I’m not wasting my time for that.” “Well, I’m just gonna keep bragging.” “Could I see you for a minute, Mr. Patch?” Oh, I hope I’m not in trouble because of Brandy’s usual shenanigans. I can’t stand when she acts out in Chemistry class. She’s the loudest one in here! Mr. Cliff followed me into the hallway and he closed the door slightly.

“Now what is this ghost activity Brandy speaks of?” I sighed. “I guess it started out with my mom’s typewriter. I found it in the storage room and every night at 11:07 it seems to type up a random poem by this deceased poet Gertrude D. Macabellow.” “Your mother owns a 1975 Smith-Corona Electra?” “Yeah. It was refurbished back then, and she purchased it for $33 at a small bargain store.” “Does your mom know about these events?” “I tried to explain it to her, but she keeps throwing it aside like it barely even matters. The first time I told her about it, she told me not to talk about it ever and go to my room for punishment.” “So, what you’re trying to say is that she’s trying to conceal the fact that she knows what happened to the typewriter and who had it last?” “Yeah, basically.” “Well, since I’ll be working here late at night, I would like to see if your mom could see me in my room and bring the typewriter with her as well. Events like this need to be paid attention to seriously.” “She probably wouldn’t mind.” I hope she doesn’t mind. Mr. Cliff is right. This needs to be paid attention to. Imagine, a ghost inhabiting our home, using an antique typewriter as some type of marionette or something that can access to communicate with the outside world. All the morbidity in those poems Gertrude type. Mom better come up here quick.

From home to school... “I’m truly elated that you’ve come to my classroom, Mrs. Patch,” Mr. Cliff said as we entered the classroom with the typewriter in Mom’s clutch. Mom was acting as if she didn’t know why we had to bring her beloved typewriter here at Richardson High School. It seemed so ironic to her and the one question she asked first was, “How did you know I had a Smith-Corona?”

“Oh, your brilliant son informed me about it. Well, actually it started when I was teaching the class about poltergeists using force and then suddenly he interrogated me about it and his friend, oh his friend, blurted out saying that there is a ghost in your home...” “It was Brandy, wasn’t it?” “Affirmative, so I asked to see him outside of the classroom and he told me everything that has been happening inside your household since the day that you found that typewriter.” “Look, I didn’t mean to worry you about what’s happening at home. We’ve got it under control now.” “What? Mom, every night at 11:07 I hear typing sounds and then that thing always ends up with a paper typed up by Gertrude Macabellow. I mean, what typewriter does that on a regular basis?” “I’m sorry, Mr. Cliff. He has been acting ‘schizo’ lately. We probably need another checkup.” “Mrs. Patch, I don’t believe he’s schizophrenic. Lots of people dealing with ghost phenomena don’t necessarily have to be schizophrenic. What did the doctor say when he went?” “He said he was fine.” “See, it’s not schizophrenia. Your son is dealing with something spiritual in his life, and it needs proper actualization.” Mom was starting to get teed off a bit. She picked up her typewriter and told him, “Thank you for your time. We really should get going. I have a casserole to make for some guests tonight and they need to be at home by 4:45.” “But we need to find out what is wrong with this typewriter and why it is targeting me.” “We need to go home...NOW!” She snatched my arm along with the typewriter and she threw me in the enger seat. (Not literally but feels like it.) I was so furious at her, mostly because she wouldn’t seek help at the only local source we

had. I hope Mr. Cliff forgives me when I come back to my classroom. When I went home, I slammed the car door, barged into the house and slammed the door in my room and locked it on top of that. Why won’t Mom trust me, I thought. She knocked on my door and demanded me to come out. I said, “Go away, Mom. You always have to ruin everything for me.” “Now Ashton, we both know that is not the truth. After all I’ve done for you, you start to say that? I would say that you have a lot to understand about life. Now open this door instantly.” I sighed heavily and unlocked the door. “I’m really disappointed in you telling Mr. Cliff our business. Whatever happens at home stays at home, and I don’t want it to leave this house unless I tell him myself. Is that good?” “No, that’s not good! Somebody needs to know about Gertrude, besides me...and possibly you. Do you want this activity to continue happening?” “Ashton, how am I supposed to know what you’re talking about? I’ve never experienced what you’ve been experiencing for the past nights. So, what do you expect me to do? Wait with you all night until another poem pops up in the Smith-Corona?” I hesitated a bit, thinking about what she had said, and I replied, “Yes, that’s it! I want you to stay up with me, so you can see what I’ve been going through every night.” “How about I stay in bed while you watch the typewriter until something pops up?” “I guess that will work. But get a nap in first before you lay down.” I did as she said, and I dozed off to sleep. While I was napping, a dream popped up in my head, and it was grim. I’ve been having these weird dreams on and off this week. What’s going on with this brain? Anyways, I dreamt about the typewriter. I was in a black, bottomless void, levitating in the air with my nightwear on. The typewriter was about a meter away and then it started to come closer to me. It got bigger and bigger and

bigger...and then it halted. It started to tip over towards me and two grotesque, shriveled, pale hands burst through the keyboard and stretched out in front of me. As it was advancing to strangle me, I woke up. It had gotten close to midnight and it was already 11:07 at night. No typing sounds occurred as usual and I know Mom was sitting in the living room with the typewriter. I got out of bed and checked on her. “How’s the typewriter doing?” “Nothing. It didn’t even budge. I hope you’re not lying to me.” “Does it look like I’m lying? I’ve been going on and on about this for the past few days, ever since I found this hunk of junk in the storage room.” “Watch your language, Ashton. This typewriter isn’t just a hunk of junk; it’s a work of masterpiece. Having this typewriter expanded my writing abilities vastly. You just don’t understand because you’re not planning on being a writer. Since it’s not doing anything at the time, I’m going to go hit the sack.” “But Mom...” “I’m tired, Ash. Running all day tending to y’all is exhausting. Good night.” She went to her bedroom and closed the door. Great, just perfect. Now I’m all alone with the typewriter again. Hopefully, this is the last night that I will be hearing this constant clicking. I hurried into the bedroom and the typing started up again. A few minutes later, it stopped. I went back into the living room and there was the new poem. Fresh from the typewriter. It said:

Darlene Fritz was sipping on her tea, Wishing to the world that her beauty would give it glee; Choking on rhinestones, the complexion shattered she, My dear love, I suppose it’s letter D.

~ Gertrude D. Macabellow

I was sick of this. I wanted to go ahead and throw the whole typewriter away or just put it out of its misery with a sledgehammer like Rebecca said, but I thought about Mom and her glorious days with the typewriter. After all, she did get a lot of books on the New York Times bestseller list. I sighed and just went on to bed. I didn't feel like finding any notes tonight.

In the morning... Hearing that Mom had to work early today, Rebecca drove along with Rosie in her Fiat to the mall to shop (as usual) and I was forced to ride the bus, even though Rebecca offered to take me to school. I wasn’t really in the mood to mingle with them today. I was at the bus stop, waiting for the butter-colored cheese to come rolling down the street. It soon turned its corner with the sun being reflected from the tinted windows. One thing I noticed differently about it...it was going fast. I mean, beyond the speed limit of our street. Rushing towards me, I started running back home. It was following me there. I ran to the next street. It still followed me. Finally, I was in a dead end, nowhere to go unless I hid in the woods. Not gonna happen. I covered my head and then someone pushed me to the other side. The bus crashed into the dense woods and everybody from the neighborhood came outside to see the horrible accident. “Are you okay, Ashton,” a voice asked. My eyes dilated to see a brown face. Of course, it was Dareeka. “Yeah. That bus driver was crazy! I’ve never seen her be this hostile.” “You mean, Mrs. Cattleback. She’s in the hospital, sick and immobile.” “WHAT?! Then who was driving?” Dareeka shrugged her shoulders. I investigated the sky and paper came raining down in sheets. I picked one of them up and a big D was on the front. I picked up another paper and there was a

D on that page. All the papers listed D, which I surmised that Gertrude was behind all this. These letters at the end. What do they mean? First, there was M, then there was U, along came R, and now there’d D. This could mean murder, but I’m still not sure yet. I just hope this doesn’t affect the rest of the family.

The Last Letter

I hurried back inside to retrieve the typewriter that was still sitting alone in the living room on the table and I hastily put it in the big garbage bin outside. Dareeka came in behind me and asked, “What’s going on, Ashton?” “This has got to stop, seriously got to stop! That typewriter has been giving me Satan’s gate for a week now and I’m sick of it. I threw it away for it to stop terrorizing me. The typing sounds, the poems, the notes, the symbolism. It all has to end today.” “Yeah, but how do you know that it won’t come back out of the bin to haunt you again. It’s like Christine fixing herself all over again.” Dareeka had a point, though. There was always something that goes wrong when you disrespect the spirits lingering in things. And then I was thinking about Mom and how disappointed she’ll be when I threw out her favorite possession. But I’m so confused about this situation. I don’t know who Gertrude is and still why she chose me to converse with. But now...I need to see how Mom makes with Gertrude. “Mom’s diary!” “You think there’s something in there about this old lady?” “It has to be. She should know about the situation by now.” We ran up the stairs to Mom’s room and searched for her diary. I looked under the pillow and it was lying there perfectly safe and secure. Not for long, though. “I found the latest entry,” I said. “What does it say?”

It said: Dear Diary, It’s official. Ashton knows what’s going on with Gertrude, the only person I looked up to for literature. I know that she’s mad about the typewriter deal, so she's targeting my son to make me express my guilt for taking her typewriter. I never really meant to buy it for a bargain; I just wanted to make it a slight memory of how she loved to type on. She didn’t even like it when the investigators took it, so they could resell it to that old store on the corner. $33. What was I thinking? I guess I got so attached to it that I couldn’t resist having it out of my possession. So, I need to ask again: why is Gertrude trying to make herself known today when I had the typewriter for almost 15 years? I knew it all along. And I have the exact evidence to prove it. Mom’s knows Gertrude. But the entry still bothers me somehow. Was she the sixth girl in the clique? The good one? Dareeka asked me, “So does she know about her?” “Yep, and she was acting very suspicious the last few days when I told her about the things that related to Gertrude in some way. The notes, the poems, everything added up to what relationship she had with her. I just still don’t get why Gertrude is after me, and Mom is the one that’s been causing all of this chaos.” “We have to ask her about the diary entry. She should know by now that it’s time to tell her own son what’s going on.” “That’s a good...” I was hearing the front doorknob moving, twisting and turning like somebody was trying to come inside. It could be Mom. But I can’t let her know that we skipped school. (And plus, we didn’t have time to hide. She opened the door so swiftly.) She closed it back and looked at us standing awkwardly in the living and exclaimed, “WHAT ARE YOU GUYS DOING HERE!?” “We came here so we can talk to you about this typewriter situation,” I told her. “First of all, why have you ditched riding the school bus?” “I don’t know, Mom. Maybe it was because the bus was chasing me, and nobody was on there driving or riding to school. It chased me down Chipotle Road and I

came here so I could throw away your crazy typewriter.” “YOU DID WHAT?! You are so grounded, mister.” “You don’t understand. That typewriter gave me a hectic time while I was here. Sure, I was a bit curious when I was listening to the typing sounds and finding poems, but there’s something wrong here and I need you to tell me your relationship with Gertrude.” “I don’t have a relationship with Gertrude.” “I read your diary entry.” “Why? Diaries are for personal stuff to jot down and now you want to unleash it in your mind?” “Tell me how you know Gertrude.” She hesitated for a minute and said, “Alright, I’ll tell you. It was once in 1975, a year before she died. Gertrude was a novice in writing at the time. One day, we saw her promoting books in the street and my friend Shirley Truce was talking about how dull and boring her books were. She threw one of them to the ground and started stomping her heels on it. It was tragic to me, so I offered to buy one of her books, even though the girls despised what I did. “The first poetic stanzas got me hooked on reading more of her works. I was so intrigued at the time that she became my #1 inspiration for writing. Sure, I didn’t write the same genre of what she wrote about—namely speaking about her autobiographical literature—but I did feel as if we were related in writing. I stopped hanging with the girls so much to catch up on writing. But the thing I wasn’t aware of was when they were constantly bullying her, critiquing her writing skills. She wasn’t perfect, so why couldn’t they accept that? “Then I heard about the murders, and then the suicide back in 1976. I was devastated to have my only idol dead and a serial killer. That’s why I have her typewriter in memory.” “That’s a very touching story,” Dareeka complimented. “I wish I could’ve met her.”

“Thank you,” Mom commented. “But that still doesn’t solve why it’s after me.” I glanced at a piece of paper sliding through the doorway. I looked closely to see what it was. And guess what, it was another poem by none other than Gertrude D. Macabellow.

Reba Marsh was the maddest seed, A stature so petite but filled with greed. While I was rather weak, at night I plead That I would not see my rose go red. Planets aligned as I made my final plea. It’s a good thing you didn’t know the letter E. ~ Gertrude D. Macabellow

I looked outside to check on the typewriter (because I know I put it in the trash bin) and it wasn’t in sight. But when I looked to my left, I saw it neatly placed on the table. My heart was beating rapidly, and I felt as if I was just going to out. I said, quivering, “I know I put it in the trash bin. I just know it.” “What happened,” Dareeka said, and she checked outside to see what I was pointing at. She didn’t see anything, but the stove did ignite into big flames. We all screamed and ran to get the nearest fire extinguisher. I grabbed it and started spraying the stove, but the flames grew higher for some reason. “What’s wrong with this thing,” I screeched. “Everybody run outside,” my mom told us while she brought the typewriter outside. We did as she said. Looking back at the house, we started to get so terrified that we didn’t know what to do.

“What are you doing with the typewriter,” I asked as loud as I could. “I’m going to take it to The Cemetery of Despereaux. It’s where Gertrude’s corpse resides. Here, grab a shovel, each of you.” Dareeka and I both grabbed two shovels off the house and put them in the trunk of my mom’s Honda. We sped on to the cemetery site while the ground was starting to develop large potholes that were difficult to dodge. When we arrived at the graveyard, we got out, got the shovels out, and started to search for Gertrude’s tombstone. There were so many tombstones here, some similar and some bigger than the others and some even able to be stepped over. I finally saw her grave and pointed to it. She had a bigger tombstone out of all that we saw. Probably because of what she did and what she was ed for. Dareeka and I started digging our rumps off and as soon as we got to the casket, I yelled to Mom, “I found the casket!” “Great. Now come out of the hole. I want to give her this typewriter myself.” As we crawled out of the hole, she got into the hole, opened the casket, and put the typewriter in Gertrude’s fragile arms. Soon after she got out of the hole, the ground shook — toppling us over — and a spectral figure rose from the casket. It had curly hair, a pure white face, and a delicate smile. Since it came from Gertrude's grave, I’m assuming that it was Gertrude’s appearance. A second later, she ascended into the sky while fading away in the process. Gone completely, Mom ran towards us and hugged us tightly, saying, “I’m so sorry, Ashton. I promise that I’ll never put you in this situation again.” I wouldn’t think she’ll keep her promise in keep her promise in this “type” of situation (get it?) but I’ll accept the apology for now. We soon left the graveyard site, leaving the hole where it was and called the fire department for our house. “So, did you see Gertrude, Mom,” I asked her. “What do you mean, Ashton,” she wondered. “The apparition that went up into the sky? Didn’t you see it?” “I didn’t see anything. Do you need to go to the doctor again?” I was about to

get upset with her, but it’s been such a long day that I didn’t feel like commenting on her suggestion. Then I asked, “Mom, do you think Gertrude spared you of that last letter because of you being her friend?” “That’s a theory,” she replied. “After all, there were six of us. The first five were some evil friends. Maybe they deserved it.” “Wait. You’re agreeing that they deserved to die.” “They had it coming. Don’t mess with others, or else you’ll be biting the dust early.” I guess I solved majority of the case then, yet it didn’t matter to me as much anymore. All I thought about was laying down on the plush Serta in my room. Hopefully, it’s not burned to smithereens right about now.

The next day at school... “Have a great day, students,” Mr. Cliff said as the bell rang. Everybody got out of their seats and exited the classroom. I was last going out. “Um, could I see you for a minute, Mr. Patch,” Mr. Cliff asked. “Sure, Mr. Cliff?” I went over to his desk. “So, how did things go yesterday?” “Things were kind of crazy with Gertrude and all, but we solved it by returning her typewriter back to her grave. Everything is finally back to normal.” “I’m glad that things are better for you. You made a 100 on your test.” “I did? Thanks, Mr. Cliff!” I made an excellent score on the test that we did on Spectral Matter. Probably because I just encountered a ghost writer. Oh wait, I got that from Brandy. I met back up with Dareeka and she asked me, “So how was your night?” “Blissful,” I replied. “Finally slept like a baby.”

“Wow. That’s been a while.” “Yeah. Hey, since you helped me, do you think I should return the favor?” “Okay. What do you have?” “This.” I reached in my book bag to give Dareeka a gift and it was her favorite: a brown bear holding a crimson heart with the words “Love is beary nice” across it, along with a blue dress that looked like a nightgown, but I guess it was supposed to be just a dress. Dareeka had an amazed look on her face and she immediately hugged me tightly. She said, “I love it, love it, love it! Thanks, Ash!” Without hesitation, she kissed me on the cheek, making me blush on the inside and outside. “It was really nothing, but I just wanted to give you something.” “I’ll put it on my shelf with my Annabelle doll.” “WHAT?!” “Just kidding. Never in my life would I get that thing. Oh, I meant to ask you. What do you think will happen next? About Gertrude and her typewriter?” “Who knows? I’m not trying to figure out.” “Me neither.”

BACK AT THE GRAVEYARD site, the groundskeeper was checking on tombstones in the afternoon. He came across Gertrude’s tombstone and noticed that a hole was dug up exposing the casket. He sighed and said, “Some people.” As he was about to bury the casket again with dirt, he suddenly had this curious feeling of what was inside. He went into the hole, opened the casket, and it was the corpse of Gertrude with her arms still around the typewriter. He was thinking, Huh. Why would a perfectly clean typewriter go to waste in a dusty, old casket like this? As a curious man would do, he scooped up the typewriter from the casket and took it out the hole. But in an instant...

Epilogue

B urt Moses here with the breaking news. A death has occurred at the Cemetery of Despereaux early this afternoon with the victim identified as Berry Bingo, a 56year-old groundskeeper who has been fatally injured with a blunt object assumed to be a shovel. This is one of the more bizarre killings happening in Richardson, Texas, with the others involving a person who killed 6 drug dealers and... “Are you seeing this, Mom,” I asked as I gazed closely into the television. She came into the living room and saw what was on the news. All she could say was, “Oh my gosh.” ...here’s Kandi Fanner live at the crime scene. Thank you, Burt. I’m standing here at the Cemetery of Despereaux where you can see large amounts of crime scene investigators gathering around the scene. The location where you can find the body is near the gravesite of an infamous poet named Gertrude D. Macabellow. The body allegedly appeared to have symbols covering his body, depicting that there must’ve been an occult nearby using the body for some type of craft. “Well, there’s a logical explanation to that,” I said. “It couldn’t have been Gertrude. I mean, that Gertrude is basically gone.” “And we’re all glad, aren’t we?” “You know it.” “Well, back to normal is all that we need in this family. I might consider moving again after this year. You know, to get away from these rowdy neighbors.” “But what about our neighbor across the street? She’ll surely miss us.”

“You’re so right. I’ll have to notify her when we travel to our new place. Maybe we can convince her to move as well.” “We can try.” “Yeah. Hopefully it’ll succeed.” We both laughed and went back to our activities. Mom went back to making breakfast and I turned to something good on tv. Like some cartoons or something to get my mind off Gertrude for a change.

End.

About the Author

KHALIL TAJEE WOODS (born on 1999 in Atlanta, Georgia) is an American author and blogger. Woods moved to Jackson, Mississippi when he was less than 1 year old. At 5 years old, he started getting fascinated with reading and writing books while also following the footsteps of his father/author George Woods, Jr. He also partakes in singing, photography, videography, producing music, and directing videos.