The Typewriter

I had just finished reading a book about a mystery-solving girl with a typewriter. It was quite an exciting book. Murders, a burglar, a ghost, and plenty of suspense danced across its pages. I loved the book, and I told my mother that I simply HAD to have a typewriter of my own.

We went all over town in search of one. There were almost none to be found. All of them were either too big, too small, or not for sale.

Finally my mother told me, “Rae, I don’t think there’s anything here. We better get home. Okay? I’m sorry.” I sighed.

Next day, while my mother was cleaning out the attic, I heard a triumphant yell. Running upstairs, I found my mother holding a typewriter.

“I forgot we had this!” she said. “It was my uncle’s.” I fingered the smooth keys. “Uncle Joe always said there was something strange about it. He said things became real.” She rolled her eyes. “Whatever, take it.”

I took it and happily began to writer. My story was filled with ghosts, monsters, zombies, and crime. I couldn’t wait until everybody read it!

That night, when I went to bed, I suddenly heard feet outside on the sidewalk. It was late. Why would anybody be out? It was a man, sagging underneath sadness, muttering words I couldn’t hear. Wait. This was exactly the way I had described my main character, Charles. Then my mind fluttered back to the conversation with my mother. He said things became real. I began to feel very creepy.

Next night, I felt a cold chill suddenly and woke up. A small girl wearing roller skates stood at my bed. Katie Bloom, the ghost in the story. I screamed, and she disappeared. I knew now that Joe was right. I climbed out of bed and destroyed the story.

No more scary stories, I thought. I wrote a story about a pink unicorn. There. I would never be haunted again. But I was still haunted by the unicorn.