What's haunting Edgar?

CW: Supernatural violence

In his stories, ghosts were forever interacting with the living. But no matter how hard he tried, Edgar couldn't pick up the typewriter and bludgeon the hack to death with it.

How this fool had come to own Edgar's most prized possession was a question for lawyers, historians and those people who live on the fringes of the internet.

"Good evening, fellow travellers." Kevin addressed the laptop screen as if he had taken centre stage at the local music hall. He wore a bright red monogrammed smoking jacket and a floral white shirt.

Usually, when Edgar passed through a flame it would twist as if acted upon by a slight breeze. When he waved his hand across the nearest candelabrum, the LEDs didn't even flicker.

"It is with a heavy heart that I must let you all know I have once again failed to complete any meaningful work." Kevin showed a hardback book to the camera.

Rolling his eyes, Edgar felt the frustration in his stomach. The book was an old Bible, held so the audience couldn't see the words written on the page. He had hoped people would be better at spotting charlatans and snake-oil salesmen by now, but Kevin McHugh's fans proved spiritualists would have thrived online.

"I had hoped that purchasing Edgar Waysmith's typewriter would allow his spirit to imbue my work with the smallest fraction of his magic."

Something snapped inside Edgar. His body felt as if it was made of static electricity and anger. A bust of Lovecraft on a nearby shelf trembled. The more he focused upon it, the further it moved. He could feel the charge in his body already dissipating, his anger replaced by curiosity.

Edgar forced the remaining energy out of his body and the bust flew across the room, striking Kevin on the back of the head. The man responded as if he had been stung by an insect instead of hit by a piece of stone. It was only when the chat room exploded with shock and awe that Kevin glanced down and discovered the bust at his feet.

He turned it over in his hand as if never having seen it before. Edgar was certain he hadn't read any of Lovecraft's work.

"I...I..." Kevin had been caught off guard, and his carefully scripted facade fell just for a second. Edgar smiled at the balding oaf.

"Edgar, I understand. Literally striking me with an edifice of our genre, forcing me to confront my literary shortcomings. I knew you would step in and guide me back on the correct path." If the ghost had still had a heart, it would have stopped beating.

Grinning like a fool, Kevin continued, "Now that inspiration has literally struck, I feel I must cut tonight's message short. I hear the muses calling me to my typewriter. Good evening, my friends."

Ending the stream and closing the laptop, Kevin stood up and pulled his costume off. He discarded it on the couch at the far side of the room. Now wearing only boxer shorts and a food-stained football top, he returned the bust to the shelf and set about making himself a bowl of cereal.

Edgar had interacted with the living world, but how? If it was only anger, then five minutes in Kevin's company would generate enough power for him to lift the entire building and throw it clean across the country.

If this was a story, he wouldn't be burdened by science or facts. It only needed to sound plausible. He wondered if something similar was possible here. Could Edgar convince himself that he was pushing the keys on the typewriter so thoroughly that it produced a reaction in the physical world?

Five minutes of staring at the 'F' key had produced nothing more than a mild headache.

Edgar suddenly missed being able to sit down. It seemed like the appropriate course of action in that moment. Instead he had to watch Kevin finish his cereal, dump the bowl in the sink and belch.

"Ah, Mr. Waysmith, it's time for you to fire my imagination." Kevin flipped open a hardback copy of 'The Complete Edgar Waysmith'. The inside had been hollowed out and packed with cannabis, papers and a lighter.

Edgar growled and the door to the room exploded open. He gazed down at his fingers, half expecting to see sparks or some sign he had caused the disturbance.

Kevin, unlit rollup hanging from his mouth, reluctantly crossed the room to inspect the damage. He swore under his breath, brushing the flaking plaster to the floor where the handle had impacted the wall. He finally pushed the door shut and lit the joint.

"Right, well I have promised my fans a new story, so we better see what we can come up with." Kevin slumped down onto the couch with his laptop. Edgar followed, glad his lungs were beyond the reach of the fragrant cloud that filled the room.

Kevin threw vague ideas at an AI bot and discarded the results just as quickly.

From the fleeting glances Edgar caught, he could tell the results were nothing but drivel. How had his noble profession been reduced to this?

"Dear God, man, are you so devoid of work ethic and talent that you would allow your own name to be associated with this garbage! Parading around your home dressed like a madam all the while pretending that you have the slightest inclination of what it takes to be a true artist! It's laughable. You are nothing more than a deplorable stain on the underside of humanity."

Turning around, Edgar discovered the room was empty. The remnants of Kevin's joint had been discarded into a half-empty cup and the door was once again open. But of the man there was no sign.

Edgar looked at the laptop screen but found only a half-written prompt. As far as he could see nothing had changed apart from the sheet of paper in his typewriter. Before it had been blank but now it had Edgar's rant typed upon it.

He imagined the machine springing to life, spewing his savage critique at Kevin. Edgar wondered if it was the ghost or the truth that had caused the man to flee into the night. Not that it mattered much. Dusting his hands theatrically, he congratulated himself on a job well done.

Edgar then realised something far more important.

"The sky was the colour of a bruise..." He dictated and listened with satisfaction as the heavy metal keys rose and fell at his command. Edgar's joy lasted until the sheet of paper fell from the roller.

His frustration eventually toppled the heavy shelves on the far side of the room. An avalanche of Gothic tatt and unread books flooded across the floor. The force even carried the coffee table a few inches closer to the wall. A plastic skull rolled around in ever-decreasing circles before finally settling below the window.

Edgar stood in the middle of the mess and took some small comfort in the absence of the agoraphobic charlatan. The gentleman in him wanted to tidy up. The idea of existing in such a midden made him feel uneasy.

Trying to will the shelving unit back into position, Edgar's concentration was interrupted by Kevin's visage suddenly appearing on the laptop. His face was lit from below by the screen. His eyes were glazed over and, to Edgar at least, he looked delirious.

"Good evening, I interrupt your regularly scheduled programming to bring you this update." Kevin mugged for the camera.

"Earlier this evening the barrier between realms was shifted and the Elder Gods afforded me a glimpse at the world beyond. It was an experience so profound and transformative that I was driven from my home. I dare not say where I am broadcasting from, but I have not been left empty-handed. I have here the promised new story. One that was gifted to me by Edgar Waysmith himself. I call it 'Edgar's Typewriter'."

"Please do not judge it too harshly, as it's only a first draft and some things may have been lost in the translation between the living and the dead."

If Edgar still had a stomach, it would have sunk at that moment. As it was he could feel the heart he didn't have breaking.

Kevin began, "In his stories, ghosts were forever interacting with the living. But no matter how hard he tried, Edgar couldn't pick up the typewriter and bludgeon the hack to death with it..."

The broadcast ended when the laptop exploded. Edgar smiled as the couch caught fire. He watched the flames dance until the smoke turned thick and black. After a while an Arctic chill settled upon the room and extinguished the blaze. For the first time since arriving, Edgar felt at peace with his anger.

Edgar patiently awaited Kevin's return. The man was going to become a writer or die trying.