A Bump in the Manuscript

As they say, a mother’s work is never done.

Especially for a single mom with a teenage daughter and a six-year-old son.

Ellen couldn’t help but sigh as she finally sat at her computer, ready to pick up where she’d left off in the novel she’d started writing after finding her late mother’s diary in the back of her closet.

She had to do this. Her dear mother, Tasha, had been gone for six months now, and she had to piece the memories together before they were gone forever, though only bits and pieces, since this was fiction. Her diary entries had screamed that they’d make an interesting novel, a tribute to her late parents.

But it was tough: selling groceries all day, coming home, making dinner for Tabatha and Jimmy, nagging the girl to do her homework while she helped the boy bathe, then going back to cleaning the kitchen, wiping away whatever caught her eye before she could be creative.

Ellen shook her head to clear her mind, then read over what she had written.

Her family had perished in an air raid, and the only way that young Tasha could keep going was to move away from her familiar surroundings and start anew. She sailed across the ocean on a month-long voyage, seasick most of the time, and could barely believe she’d made it alive. Frederick, the young man she’d met aboard, had cared for her, and as they supported each other in the new land, they grew deeply attached and became inseparable.

She’d found an entry that mentioned her mom vomiting on Frederick on the deck and vaguely recalled hearing about it a long time ago. Good old dad to the rescue. Her dad had been the best, God rest his soul.

Tasha couldn’t bear to say goodbye. She realized then that she had never wanted a man this badly—she began to type, then heard a faint creak.

“Tabatha? Are you still up?” she called out, but there was no answer.

(Well, it’s an old apartment building. Anyway.)

Frederick pulled off his jacket and draped it around her, whispering—

Creak.

There it goes again.

It sounded like it came from the bathroom. Sighing, Ellen got up to go and take a look.

A moment later, she was back at her computer.

She gasped when she looked at her manuscript again.

“What the—?”

Frederick couldn’t bear to say goodbye.

He’d fallen for her. Hard.

“That is not what I wrote. Tabatha!” she called out, seething. “Tabatha, answer me! I know you’re snooping around.”

Silence.

It was the second time this had happened. If it was supposed to be a prank, it wasn’t funny. She pulled her chair back, scraping it against the wooden floor, stood up again, and headed for her children’s bedroom.

“I have to teach her not to fool around with my files.”

Ellen eased open the door a few steps down the hall—the merits of a small apartment. It was dark, except for the elephant night light in a corner socket.

She walked around the bed and checked her daughter’s breathing. Her acting skills seemed to have improved; she looked like she was sleeping like a baby. Ellen straightened up to check the upper bunk and saw Jimmy smiling in his sleep.

“You can’t fool me, girl,” Ellen said under her breath. “But I’ll play along. I know you can hear me, so listen carefully. I’m warning you—don’t you ever touch anything I’m working on. Just try it again, and I’m suspending next month’s allowance.”

Still no answer. Oh, well. Having had her say, Ellen walked out of the room.

A few moments after the door closed, Jimmy began wiggling in his bed.

“Tabby—”

“Shh! Not yet. She might come back.”

They lay there in silence for what felt like centuries, until Tabatha finally told her brother it was okay to breathe again.

“Did you touch something Mom was working on?”

“Maybe. So what if I did?”

Ellen had guessed correctly that the kids had been sneaking around in the living room.

“Did you write what I told you Grandma said?”

“Yeah.”

As if Grandma could tell you anything now, Tabatha thought. Their grandmother died and went to heaven in early spring. She had found it curious that her brother had looked at the Word file on the screen he couldn’t even read yet, then told her it was wrong. He’d been strangely insistent, so she’d humored him and typed what he told her before their mom returned from the bathroom.

Her brother was weird at times. Heck, she wouldn’t be surprised if he’d actually been communicating with their dead grandmother. Or maybe he really was a gifted six-year-old who could read and understand everything a mature adult had written.

“Grandpa’s the one who fell in love with her. Not the other way around,” he had said with the conviction of a reporter who’d witnessed the scene first-hand.

Tabatha didn’t think it mattered who fell for whom first, but went ahead and changed one sentence in the draft. Of course, her mom would notice, and of course she’d blame her. But it was only one sentence. What harm could that do?

“Grandma wanted it right.”

“She told you that, huh? Like when? Before she died?”

“No! She was right there. Don’t you remember? I told you we’re not alone.”

“Kiddo, we were as alone as you can get. Must I remind you that we were both thirsty and went to the kitchen for a glass of milk when you noticed the PC light was on?” And she’d been curious as to what their mom was writing.

“I know that.”

“You went over and hit a key, and the screen came to life.”

“And I clicked on one of those icon things.”

“The one that happened to be called Novel draft. Why’d you have to do that? You couldn’t even read the file name.”

“I don’t know. My fingers just moved.”

Tabatha snorted.

“Grandma moved them, right?”

“How should I know? It isn’t like she told me she was going to—”

“Hush. Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

Creak.

“Quick, get under the covers! Mom’s coming back!”

“That’s not Mom.”

Jimmy sounded eerily confident, but Tabatha ordered him to shut up and do as she said.

Bump.

What was that?

Ellen stopped typing and looked around.

As if I’d find something lurking in a corner.

She shook her head.

Maybe the people upstairs are rearranging their furniture in the middle of the night.

Why not? It’s quiet, the day is done, and maybe they find it more productive working at this hour. It was better than having a burglar around, anyway.

She refused to consider the alternative.

She had always had a wild imagination while growing up. She covered her eyes when she entered an unlit room with a large mirror, expecting to see something she didn’t want to see—like a vampire. Or a ghost.

Well, she was an adult now, and knew things like that didn’t happen in real life.

Or did they?

She rubbed her eyes and said out loud, “I’m just tired,” and shut down her computer.

***

The next evening, they were having an early dinner of beef stew and salad when Ellen asked Jimmy if he was sure the sheet she’d given him was all he needed as his Halloween ghost costume for trick-or-treating.

“Yeah, I’m sure. Ghosts aren’t really flashy like those costumes you see at stores.”

“As if you’ve ever seen one,” Tabatha muttered.

“What about you, Tabatha?” Ellen asked, coating her sourdough bread with butter.

“Mom. I’m fourteen. I’m not dressing up in a costume and going trick-or-treating with this pipsqueak.”

“Party pooper.”

Tabatha swept her hair back, eyeing him like a mature adult might, as if children were a nuisance.

“Trick-or-treating is for kids, Jimmy.”

“You’re just lazy, and you’re going to stop me from having fun.”

“Hold it, guys,” Ellen cut in. “Jimmy, I think it’s wonderful that you’re going for simplicity. Tabatha, you’re his chaperone. A mature adult wouldn’t complain about seeing to her younger sibling’s safety, would she?”

“But Mom...I have stuff to do.”

“You can do your stuff after touring the neighborhood with your brother. Discussion closed. Hey, it’s a beautiful night with a full moon out. It’ll be good for you.”

***

As the clock struck seven, Jimmy’s kindergarten friends Chris and Melanie, each accompanied by a parent, rang the doorbell, and the ghost, the pirate, and the princess were off.

Ellen washed the dishes, made coffee, and sat down at her computer, delighted she could start writing so early tonight.

“Now, where did I leave off— Oh, yeah, the last line was the one Tabatha changed.”

She fixed it to what she’d written before.

Frederick pulled off his jacket and draped it around her, whispering—

“Whispering...whispering what? Hmm. Okay, I’ll keep it simple.”

—you’ll catch a cold.

Tasha blushed, looked up at him, and felt herself slowly melting.

“Come now, let’s go inside,” he said, gently nudging her into the small apartment they’d rented and pushing their bags aside so they could sit on the couch.

“It isn’t much, but this is our starting point. We were lucky to find a place that came furnished.”

“It’s fine. I’ll start dinner,” Tasha said, and proceeded to the kitchen.

Creak.

Creak.

“Not again,” Ellen muttered. Then the lights went out.

Her eyes adjusted in a second, and she saw that the monitor screen was still on, its pale blue glow slicing through the sudden dark and casting her shadow on the wall behind her.

Ellen felt the temperature plunge in the frozen silence, raising goosebumps along her arms.

Then came the soft, rhythmic click-clack of the keys.

Click-clack, click-clack, click-click-clack—

A chill ran down her spine. This was not her daughter.

Paralyzed with terror, she stared dumbly at the keyboard. The keys kept depressing rapidly, as if invisible fingers were having a field day striking away at the plastic tabs.

“Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God...”

Then, she felt a presence behind her.

Cold breath, smelling faintly of—was it lavender? brushed the nape of her neck. She wanted to turn around, but the thought of what she might see terrified her. She didn’t want to find out that the empty room wasn’t empty.

It was like the mirrors she’d avoided as a child, thinking that if she dared look, she’d see Count Dracula baring his fangs at her. But she’d known then that she was imagining it. This was different. She wasn’t imagining any of this. She was completely sober. She hadn’t had a single drop of wine at dinner.

Slowly, she turned her eyes straight ahead, back at the computer screen—and gasped.

The text was being overwritten.

Frederick pulled off his jacket and draped it around her, whispering, “You’ll catch a cold,” and she saw him blush.

“Let’s go inside, shall we?” he said, gently nudging her into the small apartment they’d rented and pushing their bags aside so they could sit on the couch.

“It isn’t much, but this is our starting point. We were lucky to find a place that came furnished.”

“It’s a bit drafty, but it’ll be fine.”

“I’ll start dinner,” Frederick said, and proceeded to the kitchen.

“Wha-... wha-...”

Ellen screamed.

Tabatha hadn’t been the one changing her story.

It was this...whatever it was.

It couldn’t be AI. She hadn’t opened any AI assistance programs on her computer because she’d wanted to focus on writing her story.

The letters erased themselves, backspacing and overwriting before her eyes.

She threw her hands up and covered her mouth, shoving her chair back violently as the wheels screeched against the floorboards. She had to get out of here.

But the cursor didn’t stop moving.

“Holy mother of Christ...”

Watch your language.

Huh? Was this... thing... communicating with her?

Ellen wanted to run, but she couldn’t. Not that she knew if she was curious as hell or because her knees had turned to jelly.

Don’t be afraid. I didn’t mean to scare you.

It was communicating with her.

Ellen.

It knew her name!

Take a deep breath. Let it out very slowly.

She did as the text said.

It’s me. Your mom.

Ellen’s mouth hung open.

“M-Mom...?”

Hi, sweetie. I’m glad to see that you and the kids are well.

“Y-yeah, we’re well. Yeah. Absolutely.”

Ellen then pivoted on the spot. No Mom, no ghost.

“I... I don’t see you. Where are you? Which way should I look?”

It doesn’t matter, dear, and you can’t see me. This is about all I can manage. It’s nice to see you writing this... story, but you’ve gotten a few things wrong, and you need to correct them.

“Oh. But... Mom, this is fiction. It’s based on you and Dad, but it’s a story I’m making up.”

That’s fine, but if you’re mentioning us, it has to be accurate. He’s the one who fell head over heels in love with me, not the other way around.

Ellen could hardly believe it. Her mother was in heaven, but she was still as vain as ever.

“Um... I need a drink.”

Help yourself, Ellen, but don’t drink too much.

“Right.”

“A strong one, I think,” she said, getting up weakly and teetering toward the kitchen.

She’d mourned her, regretted not saying everything she’d wanted to say, not telling her she loved her, and somehow kept going. But Tasha’s sudden appearance left her too stunned to think straight.

Meanwhile, the monitor's glow flickered—once, twice, then again, brighter this time.

This time, Tasha—or rather, her spirit—was the one who was stunned.

Tasha watched the words on the screen disappear, letter by letter. Backspaces devoured her words, leaving only the revised passage about Frederick draping his jacket over her.

Every word she had just typed to communicate to her daughter was gone.

Oh, my God, what is this—a ghost? She wondered as the typing resumed.

You shouldn’t be doing this.

It took her less than a fraction of a second to survey her surroundings, to find nothing out of the ordinary.

Let her write what she wants. It isn’t your place to interfere.

Was it...Frederick?

None other, dear. I’ve come for you.

What took you so long? she thought. She’d been dead for six months.

It’s a void we must all go through. Your time has come, and I can finally take you to that wonderful place above. You’ve seen that Ellen and the children are thriving. Let our daughter tell our story her own way.

Tasha hesitated, glancing toward the kitchen. She heard a glass clink, ice cubes rattling inside, and Ellen pouring herself a drink. There was so much she hadn’t had a chance to say to her daughter—advice she hadn’t given, apologies she hadn’t made.

She knows all that. Every sentence she writes is full of love. Now, let’s leave them to go on with their lives.

All right, she thought, as a warm, familiar weight settled over Tasha’s spectral shoulders, slowly dispelling the chill in the room.

Lead the way, boss, she thought, and a few more words appeared on the screen: You’re the boss, darling. As always. Then they disappeared.

With a soft flicker, the screen turned blank, and the lights went back on as the floorboards creaked beneath Ellen’s returning footsteps.

Won’t she be shocked to realize that I’m gone? Tasha asked as they moved on.

No worries, dear. The scotch she poured herself—and was already drinking—would make it all fuzzy.

Tasha decided not to ask Frederick if he’d helped create that fuzziness.

She only wished she’d had a few more moments with her before leaving. It was so sudden.

Farewells are always sudden, dear, but we’ll all be together again someday.  

***

Out on the street, Jimmy stopped in his tracks.

“What’s the matter, Jimmy? Tired? You want to go home now?” his sister asked.

“Shh.”

He looked up at the full moon and smiled. 

“Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

“Oh, never mind,” he said, exasperated like a grown-up, then glanced back up at the moon.

“Come back and visit again whenever you want, Nana. You, too, Grandpa,” he whispered.

###