I was in search of a house. It had to be secluded and hidden. I am a famous writer, after all. I needed privacy and all that offered me. Money was no object, but privacy was priceless. I searched and searched. Then, one day, my realtor called me. “I have it!” she said. I was doubtful, but hopeful. “Oh, you do?” I asked. “Yes!” She gave me the address. I met her there.
It was out of a novel unwritten. I have to admit. A cozy wood cabin. Two small bedrooms, one bath and an attic loft. The dining and kitchen area were adequate, but small. I did not care. I was not planning on entertaining or holding a dinner party. I only wanted to write. This did seem to be the logical place. Deep in rural south Georgia, surrounded by tall pine trees, this place had excellent potential. Wild turkeys ran through the yard and deer grazed in the yard on dewy warm mornings, this place seemed enchanted. Large fields bordered the grounds. I asked about that and was assured that I would be undisturbed. Lovely. This was me. I ignored an inner voice that begged me to check out the surrounding properties. I had been searching for six months. I needed to write and this was the place. I rented. I smiled. I moved in.
I had gotten situated and just begun to tap on my old typewriter, when I heard a curious noise. Click, snap, click. Like that. It repeated itself over and over. The sound sounded quite familiar. Where had I heard that noise before? The sound seemed a bit far away, like beyond the house. I tried to keep on typing. But the noise got the best of my curiosity. I had all windows open, enjoying the warm fragrant country night time air. It was around eleven at night. What in the devil was that sound and where in the blazes was it coming from? I wondered. Click, snap, click. It was driving me mad.
I walked out of the cabin and into a nearby field. The maddening sound seemed to grow louder. Click, snap, click. I walked to the edge of a field and entered some woods. I had thought to bring my flashlight along with me. Good thing. I shined it about and the beam rested on a white blob. Large. White and almost glowing. I blinked and walked closer. The white glowing blob turned out to be a huge gravestone. I was in a graveyard. I shivered a bit. I shined the beam onto the gravestone. The words Thomas Elder Barfield met my eyes. His grave. The epitaph read “He lived to write and wrote what he lived.” I swallowed hard. The click, snap, click noise erupted again. I almost screamed, but somehow held it in. Suddenly, there the man stood, himself. He was standing on his own grave, pen in hand. Click, snap, click. I stared. He indeed had a pen in his right hand. Thomas spoke to me. He said “Do you have a pen?” I gulped. Actually, I did. In my jacket pocket. I withdrew it and handed it to him. He took it and rewarded me with a sweet angelic smile. “Thanks, man.” He promptly disappeared.
I ran, a dead run, one of no knowing, back to my cabin. I woke up the next morning, in a bed and I tried to tell myself that all of this never happened. My pen, always kept in my jacket pocket was gone. I shivered. I was still determined to put all of this creepiness out of my mind. I was here to write and write, I would. Thomas’s story erupted out of my fingers and onto the page. I stared. I ate and continued writing. It was about eleven at night when I heard a rusting of pages. I tried to ignore it, but it got louder. Rustle, shuffle, rustle. Shifting pages. A sound very familiar to a writer. Yes, it was coming from outside and the wind brought the sound in, through the open windows, to my sensitive ears. Someone needed something. My instinct told me this, but my fear tried to ignore the disturbing noise. I could not. I stepped out onto the small porch of my cabin and I heard rusting and shuffling of papers. The sound seemed almost desperate. I was soon off again. I walked towards the woods, not quite knowing why. I had a flashlight and I shined it around. The beam caught a ghostly image of a top hat. I was thinking to myself that I have not seen one of those in quite a while. If ever, in real life. A hand waved at me. It held pages of paper. “Do you have some paper?” the voice asked me. Actually, I did. I had a notebook in my jacket pocket. I gave it to the tall white figure in a top hat and coat with tails. I felt like I was in a fairy tale and it was very dark, to say the least. The man raised his top hat and disappeared. I ran back towards the cabin. I woke up minus a notebook and felt really strange.
I stumbled to my typewriter and found this story typed here. I do not remember typing much of it, if any. A knock came on my door. The door flung open and about ten white ghostly figures have shuffled in. They have surrounded me. An old book is one of the ghost’s hands. He hands it to me. I take it. The dead still have a lot left to say, the title of this book. “Me, first!” one ghost screams. The others push and jostle for a position before me. “You were sent to speak for us.” one ghost says. I scream really loudly now. Thomas tells me softly “You wanted privacy. Now, you will write for me.” I am typing silently. The ghosts are smiling. At me. I write. You read.