A Ghost In The Attic

Chapter 6: Ghost Writer

The glow of my computer screen cast an eerie light across the room as I stared at the blinking cursor, the words of my story refusing to form. Frustration and exhaustion weighed heavily on me, the weight of the past and the stories I sought to uncover feeling nearly insurmountable.

With a heavy sigh, I leaned back in my chair, rubbing my tired eyes. The room seemed to close in around me, a sense of hopelessness settling over everything. As I closed my eyes, I let myself surrender to the exhaustion, my mind slipping into the realm of dreams.

In the hazy space between wakefulness and slumber, a soft voice whispered in my ear. "Don't give up, Victor."

Startled, I opened my eyes, expecting to find myself alone. But there, standing before me, was a ghostly figure—a woman with an air of quiet determination. Her eyes held a spark of familiarity, as if I had known her before.

"Who are you?" I managed to stammer, my heart racing.

The woman smiled gently, her presence both calming and otherworldly. "My name is Sarah," she said, her voice carrying a warmth that seemed to reach into the depths of my soul.

"What do you want?" I asked, my curiosity mingling with a hint of fear.

Sarah approached my desk, her ghostly form seemingly unaffected by the physical barriers of the world. She glanced at the screen, her eyes filled with a mixture of understanding and sympathy. "You've been struggling with your story, haven't you?"

I nodded, my guard slowly lowering in the face of her calm presence. "It's like I've hit a wall. The words won't come."

She reached out a hand, her fingers barely grazing the keyboard. "May I?"

I hesitated, uncertainty gnawing at me. But something in her gaze, something in the way she carried herself, convinced me to let go. With a nod, I stepped back, allowing her access to the computer.

As her fingers danced across the keys, the words flowed effortlessly from her touch. It was as if she was breathing life into my story, capturing the essence of the characters and the emotions that had eluded me for so long. I watched in awe as the cursor raced across the screen, a tale unfolding before my eyes.

Hours seemed to pass in the blink of an eye, and when Sarah finally stopped typing, a sense of wonder filled the room. She turned to me, her eyes softening with a mixture of pride and satisfaction. "There. It's finished."

I looked at the screen, the story laid out in front of me, words that felt foreign and yet achingly familiar. "How... how did you do that?"

Sarah's smile held a hint of melancholy. "In life, I was a best-selling writer. The stories flowed from me like water from a spring. Even now, in death, the gift remains."

My heart swelled with gratitude as I realized the significance of her actions. "Thank you, Sarah. I can't believe you did this."

She nodded, her presence fading slightly. "You have a gift, Victor. Don't let it go to waste."

When I woke up, the memory of the encounter was both vivid and dreamlike, the lines between reality and the supernatural blurring in my mind. I rubbed my eyes and glanced at the computer screen, half-expecting to see the words I had struggled to write. But there, staring back at me, was a fully completed story, one that I knew I could never have written on my own.

With a mixture of awe and trepidation, I sent the sample of the finished book to my editor, my heart pounding with a sense of both accomplishment and uncertainty.

Days later, as I paced the floor, anxiety gnawing at me, a package arrived at my doorstep. Trembling, I opened it to find a physical copy of the book—a beautifully bound volume with my name on the cover. I flipped through the pages, the words familiar and foreign all at once.

And then, a bookmark slipped from between the pages, a single name printed on it: Sarah.

As I held the bookmark in my hand, I realized that the spirit of the woman who had helped me finish the story was now a part of the book itself, a silent presence guiding me from beyond. With tears in my eyes and a sense of gratitude in my heart, I knew that my journey—both as a writer and as someone uncovering the history of the house—was far from over.