The lawyer’s office smelled of dandruff and old paper. An embarrassed silence pervaded the room, as the solicitor concluded his reading of Grandma Sophie’s last will and testament. The hollow ticking from the mantle clock seemed to grow louder, like the menacing footfalls of a persistent stalker. I was Grandma Sophie’s last living relative, but she bequeathed her entire estate to William Kent, her doting butler. She left me with nothing but an antique Remington typewriter, not even an electric model; just an old sentimental piece of junk that I could barely lift off the desk and an envelope addressed to me marked “Privileged & Confidential”.
William should have been pleased, but he remained stoic in his rumpled sweater vest and bow tie. The rumours of an affair must have been true after all. I had assumed Grandma Sophie’s sudden popularity as a fiction writer was the thing that had consumed her final days. During her last years, she had become a lonesome recluse, barricaded behind the walls of her beloved Middleton Manor, meeting only with journalists to grant the rare interview. Her literary achievement was something about which I scarcely dared to dream.
Staggering in high heels amidst a cloud of confusion, I lugged my inheritance down the hallway, past a memorial wall of oil paintings that depicted the founding partners of the firm, and headed toward the exit. It was only when I reached the elevator banks and realized William had followed me that my suspicions were aroused.
“Miss Collingwood,” he said, and then for the first time in all the years that he had barred my entrance to the Manor, addressed me by my given name. “Claire, I wish to offer my deepest condolences on the loss of your grandmother.”
I gave him a polite nod, but inside I was reeling. I wanted to respect my grandmother’s wishes, but the taste of bile was rising from the empty pit left in my stomach. Grandma Sophie had raised me and I couldn’t fathom why she would cut me out of her Will. Had she never really loved me? The pain in my heart was a hole that couldn’t be filled.
“May I assist you with your load, Claire?” William asked in his quiet, imposing manner. He ran his fingers over slick black hair, too dark for his sagging complexion.
“I’m fine, thank you,” I lied. I could feel my knuckles turn white beneath the handle of the typewriter case. “I’ll manage.”
“It would be no bother miss,” he said. “In fact, if you prefer, I’d be happy to purchase the item for say $10,000. Take it off your hands for good.” He pressed his bulbous lips together in the form of a dubious grin.
There was no question I could use the money, but the thought of William taking the single possession my grandmother had left me was more than I could bear. The elevator arrived. I stepped in and turned to face the man who had swindled me out of my inheritance. “That would not be appropriate,” I said and punched the closed door button repeatedly.
“I’ll be in touch, in case you change your mind,” he blurted as the doors slid closed in his colorless face.
By the time I reached the ground floor, my ire had risen to such a degree that I swung the typewriter along beside me as I marched the eight city blocks to my house, finally heaving the case onto my writing table. Flopping down on the chair beside, I felt something sharp poking out of my jacket pocket. I had forgotten about the confidential letter from my grandmother and now the corner of the envelope was jabbing into my side.
The envelope lacked the personal touch of previous correspondence I had received from Grandma Sophie. There was no elegant scrawl of ink on the front in her fine handwriting or stickers of cozy cottages and brown bunnies, but rather a stark, business style, typewritten block. I tore open the envelope and unfolded the enclosed sheet of paper.
“Dearest Claire,” it read. “If you are reading this letter, it means that I have departed this world for the next. I pray that this deed I do next will not relegate my soul down to purgatory for long.”
“What does that mean?” I wondered aloud. As far as I knew, my grandmother had been a non-assuming, kindhearted being who rarely left her home, much less committed acts that brought on the fear of hellfire. I kept on reading.
“My man William managed to acquire the Remington for me years ago. For this service, I allowed him to stay in my home, to the exclusion of all guests and visitors, even you my dearest Claire, and indulged myself no pleasant diversions or forms of outside entertainment. The price is terrible but well worth the cost. There is nothing I wouldn’t do for William, nothing I wouldn’t give. I am certain he will contact you soon and that you will fall in love with him, just as I have… ”
The letter fell out of my hands and into my lap. This was a miracle. Running my palm over the worn leather of the typewriter case, I realized that I had written proof of my grandmother’s incompetence at the time of the drawing of her Will. William had broken his fiduciary duty to protect and care for Grandma Sophie, and instead had duped her into leaving him all of her money.The day had grown long and the light in the room began to fade. I opened the case to view the obsession of my grandmother’s dementia. The Remington looked like any other manual typewriter, with letters stamped on each round key, spindly typebars, like metal finger bones, resting alongside the oily carriage, and the words “Remington Rand” embossed in gold along the top. The wide typewriter ribbon appeared used and dry and a sheet of blank bond paper waited in the roller.
Seeing nothing remarkable about the machine, I walked over to the floor lamp and switched on the light and that’s when I first heard the sound that would both enthrall and vex the balance of my days. It was the slow tap of the typebars pounding against the solid carriage of the Remington. At least, that’s what I thought I heard. It was probably just my imagination after an emotionally exhausting day. Shaking my head, I laughed to myself. Manual typewriters don’t type on their own. I was as delusional as poor Grandma Sophie.
I returned to the writing table but there, to my horror, faintly visible in the corner shadows, two chilling words stood out against the stark bond paper. “He’s here.”
It wasn’t possible. Those words must have been there when I opened the case and yet deep down I knew the page had been blank. Dread seeped in around me like a spill of slow ink but there was no one I could call for help. Who would believe that I had inherited a typewriter possessed by the spirit of a dead writer? I was utterly alone in my empty house.
From the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of something moving outside my front window. My hands flew to my heart, which beat like a fist against my ribs. A ghostly face materialized just above the windowsill. It was William Kent standing in the flowerbed, staring at me through the windowpane. He tapped at the glass. “Miss Collingwood, may I come in? I’d like to continue our conversation from this afternoon.”
Some commanding power in his heavily lidded eyes forced me to hold his gaze. A strong desire to open the door came over me, but I fought back the feeling.
“It’s not a good time, Mr. Kent,” I said breathlessly. “Please go away.” He did not move from the window. “I’m very busy,” I said, trying to appear self-assured. “My favourite television show is about to come on.” What an inane excuse and of course, William paid no heed.
His lithe voice penetrated the room and entered my mind, his lips never moving. “Let me in Claire. We have a lot to discuss and we must get started. Without me, The Remington is a worthless piece of metal, an ancient artifact fit for the junk pile. I am the liaison. If its name is Inspiration, mine is Aspiration and you are our captive. Use the Remington, Claire. Try it out. You’ll never want to stop writing. You won’t be able to stop.”
It was as though I had fallen into a trance, under the grip of an hypnotic spell that held me transfixed in place. There was nothing I could do. I don’t recall letting William into my house that night, but I must have done. He came up from behind me and massaged my shoulders. Running his fleshy hands down the length of my arms, he forced my fingers onto the typewriter keyboard.
The room melted away into a warm English garden. Pale rays of early morning sun filtered through the outstretched branches of a silent copse, where nodding bluebells grew wild in the glade. A tranquil breeze, fresh with the blooms of sweet magnolia trees, dispelled my cares into the wind. An old, cobblestone pathway led me toward a patio table where an elegant, grey haired lady sat beneath the shade of a wooden trellis laden with wreaths of wisteria vines.
She motioned for me to join her at her table and gave me a china cup filled with steaming tea. Red-breasted robins talked to the morning as they hopped along the even lawn. An engaging smile came over the old woman’s face. She leaned in close to me and began to whisper a story in my ear.
Beneath my fingertips, the keys of the Remington began to move. “The lawyer’s office smelled of dandruff and old paper…”
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