The Haunted Typewriter

Darkness seemed to fill every nook and cranny of the dusty attic as I climbed the rickety stairs, feeling my heart beat like a caged bird’s wings. Dust and memories swirled through the air as I neared a jet-black typewriter quietly click clacking my demise. My life was about to change forever. Tentatively, I reached my hand out to steady the mysterious being and felt a jolt of power surge through my body. This was it. My one chance at eternal glory. With more power than imaginable, I could change the world and at last achieve my vengeance.

Smiling coldly, I pushed a tendril of dark hair behind my ear and pulled my black hood up again, obscuring my vision slightly. Gently, I lifted the writhing creature into my hands, caressing its polished surfaces, and placed the powerful instrument of torture in my arms, murmuring soothingly. With a surge of anticipation, I slowly began to type. When looking down at a writing tool, most didn’t see unimaginable power stirring in their soul. Those people weren’t me. With words as my knives, I could litter the earth with corpses. With paragraphs, I could watch my enemies burn in the passion of my undying hatred. Already I could feel the ancient power awakening and beckoning me to write.

Grinning eerily, I wrote my first message.

“Hello,” I typed slowly.

Stifling the urge to giggle girlishly, I watched as the cruel messages and violent death scenes began to vanish and be replaced with one message. “Who are you?”

I snorted bitterly. No one, no one in years had dared talk to me in any way less than reverent. This writing utensil was beyond brave. Still laughing bitterly, I began to type my next message. “Your new master,” I responded.

The typewriter began its next words, lurching slightly in my hands. “Prove yourself.”

I laughed even harder and began to type my dreams of vengeance. Gasping in horror, I watched as, with every word I typed, blood began to pour out of my body, staining the attic floor. “What are you doing?” I typed furiously, trying not to wince as more cuts appeared across my hands and chest.

If an inanimate object could smile, I swear that was what it did. I stared down at it and felt my face flush with rage at its lack of a message. Cursing under my breath, I continued typing and tried not to whimper as more wounds appeared across my body, this time in more uncomfortable places. Gasping for air and cringing, I watched as blood trickled out of my wounds and turned my fingers crimson. At last, my vows of vengeance faded from the typewriter to unveil one simple message. “Good, I think you and I are going to get along very… nicely.” With a scream, I watched as my body dissolved into the one thing that had broken and haunted me forever: words.


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