Submission - Ghostwriter - C. A. Winter

Ghostwriter

By C. A. Winter

Somewhere deep in Southern Illinois. 

His cell service dropped about fifteen minutes ago and the radio shifted from country to jumbled instruments to a collection of frequency bursts. He made a turn down a winding dirt road and was nearing a spiked rock formation that he’d been warned of. 

You’ll see two granite spears. Count three driveways past those on the right, then take the next available left.

Someone at a gas station half an hour back was kind enough to sketch the rocks on a wrinkled heat-sensitive receipt. The word ‘ondom’ had a black line in front of it where one of the rocks peaked. 

Radio off now, he rolled his window down an inch to let his sitting air breathe in the pines. Cool October flooded the cab as he veered between washboard and mud ruts. Gin and juniper, or Christmas. Too early for Christmas, he thought. He dug through his centre console for a cigarette and lit it with a long barbecue lighter. Some nameless through-town’s gas station was out of cigarette lighters, and he felt matches were too much hassle while driving. The clicker was easier than a child-proof lighter, but more awkward. He held the orange stick like a gun and sucked until tobacco smoke burned the back of his throat. 

Past a second dirt turn off, he slowed down to keep an eye for his turn off on the left. A dusty green sign with shotgun spray near the bottom read “Pineridge-16-Gas-Motel-Food”

“Motel” screamed at him in the sun. If the house got too weird, there was a place he could stay just fifteen minutes up the road. It probably wouldn’t be any less creepy than the house, but a backup plan is something to take comfort in. Even if it’s about as comfortable as an air mattress at a friend’s house. 

Squinting through a shadowy bush by the road, he made out the underbelly of a trail headed to the forest. The third turnoff, he presumed. He kept his attention to the left side of the highway and pushed the sun guard down to block the big orange ball in his vision. Ducking to see the road, he kept a slow pace around corners and watched with wide eyes for a turn off. He dipped into a rut and swerved to recalibrate. His stack of papers and laptop slid from the seat to the crevice between the chair and the door. He cursed. Leaning, he fingered the manuscript and computer back onto the seat but lost control of the car once more. Front right wheel dipping into the grassy ditch, he smashed his brakes and crunched to a wobbling stop. His computer slid out of immediate sight between the front and rear of the car. The papers separated into a sideways mess between the door jamb. Next time he was in town, he'd be sure to buy staples.

If Pineridge even has staples for sale.

He unbuckled and hopped out into the chilled sun to stretch his legs. Thirty yards up the road was his turn off. A blue yard sign stuck at an obtuse angle read 2241. Miranda made sure he wrote it down before he hung up on her this afternoon. She wanted to see how he was doing on his trip and figure approximately what time he’d arrive. He wasn’t sure then why she’d called so early, but as he tried to text her to let her know he was arriving, it was apparent. Message failure. 

He hobbled into tall grass and let down his fly, getting one last nature’s calling out of the way before the big meeting. He hated having to ask to use someone’s restroom the moment he walked in the door. His piss smacked against something tinny in the grass. He peered over and pushed damp ferns out of the way. A crushed beer can.

Zipped up, he opened the passenger side of his car up to reorganize his papers and laptop. Some of the pages were crinkled, one is torn in the middle from the force of his laptop coming down on it. His laptop still turned on, and he was thankful to see his ugly generic screensaver just as bright and green as ever. 

Gravel road transitioned to smooth black pavement as he made the turnoff onto lot 2241. Trees were closer together here than along the road, like they were planted to keep the house hidden. He didn’t realize how much noise the road was making on his thinned tires until he got onto the asphalt. Then it was smooth and quiet, and the only sounds were birds and wind. An elaborate patina gate creaked open as he approached. Above, a white security camera oscillated from west to east, then back again. Someone’s watching. Miranda, he hoped.

His chest tightened as he weaved down the black road towards the house. A sense of nervousness with a garnish of excitement gripped his mind. The closer to the house he was, the more his forehead began to sweat. At a second gate now, he pushed on the brakes and put his hands over the vents to dry off. Another patina gate, only this one taller and thicker. The real house gate. Beyond was the mansion, inside was Leonard and Miranda. One of which might not even know they’re expecting visitors.

A telecom pole chirped like a bird and flashed a little red light atop black paint. He didn’t notice the first chirp. Instead, he ducked further into his seat with fingers in cool wind. Through the pines he could make out the silhouette of the house but not the details. Splashes of white paint bolted through the trees. Stucco, perhaps. Certainly not regular siding. 

A second chirp pierced his attention, so he cranked his window down. 

“Hello?” He spoke to the thin grate microphone. 

A voice crackled through before he could say more. “Hello. I assume you’re the writer?”

“I am. Is this Leonard?”

“No. This is his doctor. Miranda says to pull into the open garage port and meet her around back.”

“Alright.” 

The gate lurched open and he idled up the last stretch of the hill towards the house. Around the bend, he pushed the brakes to take in the view. The Paulson Mansion, as Forbes magazine aptly named it, has three stories, a pool, a greenhouse attached to the southern wing, a basement with a bar and a stage for private parties, an elaborate roundabout with a praying angel fountain carved by an Italian designer, and thirty-seven acres of groves to boot. They hired a classically trained German architect to create their fairytale, with high-vaulted ceilings, dark wood beams, white stucco sides, and a fireplace fit for royalty. It was rumoured that they bid on a large section of a sequoia tree stump to be brought in for their rear patio, but nobody has seen it since the rumour began. 

The crying angel stared down at him and his dusty red Toyota Camry as he pulled into the garage. Adjacent to his parking space, a Lamborghini in the same tint of red outshined his vehicle. Two cherries, one costing a hundred times the cost of his. 

He brushed himself off and checked his teeth in the sun mirror before stepping out onto the garage floor. Even the concrete looked expensive. It shimmered like the stars under cold LEDs.

He snapped his fingers to check the acoustics. The room was soundproofed. If he listened harder, he was sure he might hear his racing heart. Standing between the two cars, he remembered Miranda would be waiting for him. He tucked his laptop and papers under his arm and didn’t waste any time. 

Patio stairs creaked underneath his steps. An odd thing for a house of this stature to be in slight disrepair. Then again, he figured, upkeep would be strenuous with an injured husband, given the sheer size of the house.

At the top of the patio steps, he smelled a thick smoky aroma wafting along the trees. Not quite a cigarette, but not a fire either. Something stickier, more alluring.

In college, he had been part of a group of hippies that had a moral compass who changed their north pole with the wind. Yesterday’s cause is the next day’s laugh. Most of them didn’t take the fight for the greater good with much levity. Instead, they filled their heads with drugs and wine most evenings, and during classes some days. On a blustering December day after exams, one of the regular activists brought a leather pouch and a long slim silver pipe. As the night fell, he packed it full of a mahogany resin and lit the underside of the metal pipe, passing it around one by one. When it came time for him to have his share, he was overcome with the same smell coming from deeper into the property. Unmistakable, and unthinkable for people like this.

“Hello darling,” Miranda appeared atop a second flight of stairs. Her silhouette was thin and unwavering. In her hands were a matchbox and a small smoking device. She held them out by her side as to show him she had nothing to hide. “Don’t mind us, please come round and let’s have a chat. I take it you had no trouble getting in?”

He stood below the steps with his hand up to his eyes. His nose still wetted at the smell. “Not too much, no. Though I wish I’d known there was no service out this way.”

“I must’ve forgotten to mention it.” She shook her head. Her head eclipsed the sun, giving her a halo that sat crooked. “There’s a landline here if you need one, and we do have wi-fi in the house for you.”

“That’ll be fine.”

“Well come on up then. I’m sure you’ve heard all about our patio.”

He dragged the rubber part of his shoe between two floorboards and glanced at wiry outdoor furniture that garnished the deck he stood on. “This isn’t the patio?”

“That is a patio, not the patio.” She smirked. He knew what was coming, but his coyness slipped past her. To her, him not knowing about their quirks made his presence more appealing.

He skipped up the stairs to meet her. On the top step he was just a few inches taller than her. She wore black heels that added to her height only slightly. Her eyes met his nose at level, and she pulled him in for a greeting hug, planting a kiss on both of his now rosy cheeks. The box of matches in her hand rattled behind his back like a maraca. 

She held his wide shoulders a tad too long for his comfort, and his eyes darted around the deck. Below his feet was thousands of years of history, slabbed and stained. Deep auburn and chocolate rings enclosed inwards, bringing with the formation of their furniture. The rumours were true. He eyed the rings to the centre of the slab, only to find it tarnished by a thin tacky table that anyone’s uncle might have. Minus an umbrella. 

“Welcome, welcome, welcome.” She sung. “We were just out for a little fresh air.”

“I’m sure it’s not, but is that opium?” He pointed to her pipe.

“Good eye- good nose. It is- would you like some?” 

The thought of smoking opium at Leonard Paulson’s house made him proud, but he put the idea out of his head for the time. “Not right now, thank you.”

“How’d you know it was opium?” Miranda pried, putting the paraphernalia on the iced glass table near the center of the ring. Her waist was thin, cinching her bust and hips like a bow. It was hard for him not to stare with her back towards him. 

“College.” He followed, “I smoked it once in college. If I remember correctly, I passed out and was in a dreamy state for a while.”

“Dreamy. That’s the word for it. Was that with Darby Healey?” She turned; black hair bounced on her shoulders like black springs. 

That name hadn’t been on his mind in a while, and hearing it made him have to take a step back. It was like being punched in the face. “No, it wasn’t with Darby.” He exhaled, “Do you know him?”

“You didn’t figure this out on the way here?”

“Figure what out?”

“Have you spoken to him?”

“Not in years- probably since maybe around the crash.” He wracked his mind for an exact date but came up short. “Two-thousand eight, maybe.”

She put her fingertips on the cool glass beside her, then swiped along to check for dust. “Oh. Well. That’s displeasing. He spoke highly of you.”

“Really?”

“Should he not have?” She held her fingers to the light. Grey smudged the tips of her index and middle.

“No- well, yes-“

“I’m teasing. I’m sure you’re just as good as he says you were.”

“I hope so.”

“I checked you out, regardless of what Darby said. Your writing’s just like Leonard’s. Just a bit less wordy is all. That can be adjusted, right?” She wiped her hand on her dress, leaving an ashy stain on black velvet. 

“I can try my best. Is he here? You said you were out for fresh air.”

“Just me. He’s inside, I hope.” Her cadence stood flat against the cool air. ‘Have you picked a name?”

“Pardon?”

“Your name. Obviously, we won’t be using his- nor yours.”

“Oh, right.” He hadn’t thought about a pen name once in the two weeks after he was given the task of inventing one. The name Jake rattled around in his mind during that phone call because it was close to his real name but far enough that nobody would suspect it. Now as he thought of one, the name Jake sounded too generic. Every fake guy is named Jake. Pressure to improvise was making his palms sweat. In in a burst of unwillingness to disappoint the wife of Leonard Paulson, he blurted “Chuck Pines.”

She screwed up her face and shook her head. “That sounds like a cartoon beaver. What about something tougher.”

He blushed and wiped his hands slow on his jeans. Something tougher than spiky trees? It was good, but she’s right. It does sound like a funny animal name. Tougher. Tough as nails, he thought over and over. The name Chuck still wanted to be heard, so he kept it. What’s tougher than nails? “How about Chuck Hammer?” 

“That’s not bad. That’s tough.” She mulled. Then with a mocking man voice, “Written by Chuck Hammer.” Then she flinched and stiffened in her dress. “That’s fine. Let’s go see Len. Then I’ll give you a proper tour. Have you eaten?”

“No, ma’am, I have not.”

“I’m only two years your senior, Chuck.” She stopped by the door. “You call me Miranda, not ma’am.”

+

Chuck looked up and over Miranda’s shoulder as they crossed through a large sliding glass door. It had a sensor like a supermarket, and it sucked them in with force. Behind, the sun was setting through the trees, casting low orange beams through the living room and bouncing on a large television above their fireplace. Their silhouettes blurred on the black plastic screen. 

He smelled something stewing, something with anise and celery. Down the hall, he heard someone puttering around in a cabinet. Likely Leonard, he thought. He tried to catch the edge of his shadow through the corridor, but Miranda interrupted his looking. 

“Well,” she turned and sighed, “Welcome here. There’s a soup on in the kitchen, and we baked bread this morning for the occasion. Are you a fan of sourdough?”

He nodded, levitating his view to the ceiling, where a large chandelier hung from a thick wooden rafter. She followed his gaze. 

“It’s gorgeous, isn’t it? It’s from the Titanic.” 

“How do you mean?”

“I mean that chandelier is from the Titanic.”

“Do you know James Cameron or something?” He joked. She didn’t understand.

“It’s a dupe. We had it made.” She frowned and he laughed. She shook her head and slanted a smile. “Let’s continue.” 

He followed her through the living room over a thick red shag carpet and masonry steps around the fireplace, up a large brown flight of stairs towards the second floor. A pool table stood at the center of the common room, racked and ready. He noted blue streaks that tarnished the green. Someone must have tossed a chalk cube across the board like dice. Miranda did a spin around the room, showing off their collection of antique furniture and a dubious painting of a wolf. “Wait until you see it in the dark.” She caressed the rococo frame with her index finger, gazing at the beast. She left an identical streak of dust on her dress just above the first.

They toured the second story in silence. Her chattiness died down after his remark about James Cameron. She pointed and beckoned, not giving time between rooms for him to grasp the size and density of their interior design. Her movements were sharp and sporadic, jolting her arm out to point at an inexplicable lounge chair or an unremarkable sculpture of a bird. Her sudden change in demeanor and the hastiness of the tour gave him the sense that he’d made her upset with his comment, but he wasn’t sure why. Women have a tendency to confuse him. 

A thud from below caught her attention as she strode towards an upstairs hallway. She paused and turned to Chuck, who hadn’t heard the bump. He was walking full tilt while eyeing a painting of an old man when Miranda turned. Then they collided and he toppled her like a bowling pin. She flew down to the hardwood but he caught himself on a windowsill and apologized loudly over the sound of her nails scrambling between floorboards.

“God you’re heavy.” She laughed, not taking his extended hand for support. “Did you hear that downstairs?”

He kept his arm out as a courtesy but she scraped up the wall and brushed herself off without his insisted assistance. “All I heard was you falling.”

“You didn’t hear that crash from the kitchen?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Odd. It was quite loud.” She looked at the wooden floor as if she had X-Ray vision. Then she snapped her head up at him. “What did I tell you about ma’am?”

“Sorry. And sorry again for knocking you over. I wasn’t looking when you stopped.”

“It’s alright, just a bump. Shall we continue?”

He nodded and followed behind her a few steps further back to account for any more sudden stops. They passed through another hallway with walls that Miranda referred to as monasterial. She was talking now about their home, bringing Chuck up to speed before casting her opinions to him. From time to time, she turned her head to explain a piece. “This one’s an abstract of a bird.” She insisted. To him it looked like a bee, with a stinger on the bottom and rings on its torso. He dared not offend her again by speaking his mind. Though even in her slowed speech she seemed taken aback by the words she breathed at him. Her eyes were heavy, and perhaps she had forgotten what statue she was pointing at. “An upside-down bird,” she pointed to its rear and nodded. 

Her pupils were the size of a pen tip and her hands moved like moon tide. The opium was at its full effect.

They tranced around the second floor for some time. Miranda seemed to forget which rooms they’d been in already. She took him to the children’s room twice and explained why the ceilings were higher above the beds; they’re better for big dreams. She wafted them down the monastery hallway another time, and back to the pool hall twice more. The pool hall was excusable as all rooms and walkways lead in one way or another to the room, but the lounge office had been explained to him each time they passed. The names of the men painted on the walls were now friends of his. Gerald Ford, J.D. Salinger, and Fyodor Dostoyevsky all painted with their eyes fixed on a velvet button chair in center of the room. Her repetition was that of a ghost fated to haunt an area for an eternity. Her pale complexion and dark features made his thought more likely. 

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