The Typewriter

The doorbell rang.

‘DING’

Martin, half asleep and with one eye still closed, made his way down the never-ending staircase to the door below.

‘DING’

He frowned. The constant ringing of the doorbell became distant, yet continued. It was as if it wasn’t coming from the door at all. He reached his hand to turn the doorknob.

‘DING’

His eyes snapped open. He was in his study, hunched over his typewriter.

The typewriter had pages of words that he didn’t remember writing. He focused on the last line.

"Martin, half asleep and with one eye still closed, made his way down the never-ending staircase to the door below."

A sudden headache pounded through his head. How long had he been writing? He barely remembered sitting down. The typewriter, an old, weighty thing, had been delivered to his apartment a week ago. No note and no sender. It just had his name on the box.

At first, he thought nothing of it. He opened it and typed some random sentences – just small, ordinary things.

‘A cup of coffee spills’

Within seconds, his cup of coffee spilt all over his desk.

‘A sudden gust of wind knocks over the lamp’

Just as quickly, a gust of wind came through the open window and knocked over the lamp. Surely, just a coincidence, he thought.

Then intrigued, he thought why not try something bigger.

‘A publisher will call with an offer’

An hour later, his phone rang. Then he realised the power this typewriter had.

Overwhelmed with greed, he wrote success into his reality. Whatever he wrote came into being. Fortune, admiration, book deals after book deals. He became famous and wealthy beyond imagination.

Yet, lurking beneath the keys of the typewriter hid something he wasn’t aware of. Behind each sentence of success typed onto that paper – a darkness was delivering its own version of reality.

His friend had a serious car crash. His publisher became ill. His childhood bookstore burnt down in a blazing fire.

With each sentence, the typewriter grew stronger.

Then he realised. He was now trapped.

The doorbell rang again.

‘DING’

He turned his head slowly.

The door to his study was open, yet he was certain he had locked it.

He felt uneasy, just as he saw a shadow move across the doorway.

He turned to the typewriter. It was typing on its own…

"He turned his head slowly. The door to his study was open."

No, no!

His breath shifted as his heartbeat became lodged in his throat. He lifted his fingers onto the keys. He had to write something. But what?

He felt the room fill with a strong wind, coming in through the open doorway.

The typewriter still typing without him touching it.

"Within the doorway stood a tall, dark figure…"

He read the sentence.

He lifted his fingers again, pressing heavily on the keys with all his strength.

His greed turned to fear. He typed quickly, heart racing.

"I never found this typewriter."