Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-36012429-20180808063549

Hello! My name is SpiritVoices, and though I've been on the wiki for about a month now as a narrator (my channel is here, for those interested: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCi_0J4Zm1qwiYVSGRsA0_Bg), this is the first piece of my own that I'm posting here. I'm a "little" intimidated because of the talent I've been reading on my channel these past few weeks, but, hey, I'll give it a shot. :)

In any case, I wrote this for a writing camp about a year ago. That said, it was *not* meant to be a Creepypasta, so please leave any honest feedback you'd like so I can fix it!

Thanks in advance!

-- Spirit



Price

The typewriter clicked.

It did so much of the time, even when there was no one there to use it; and while this usually wasn’t the case, there were times that the old machine would sit abandoned on the antique wooden desk, or the granite kitchen countertop, or the plush couch cushions with the buzz of the TV droning in the background. It didn’t often need to click on its own, because despite how old the typewriter was, it was well-cared for and prized. But although those times were few and far between, that afternoon happened to be one of those times. That afternoon a soft, silver light poured in from the full moon, engulfing the small condo and the vast forest surrounding it in an ethereal haze. That afternoon a normally peaceful and beautiful scene was made sinister and foreboding by the wickedness within its walls. It turned out that that afternoon was a time for many things. Because, chillingly, that afternoon, the owner of the typewriter with the phantom clicking was preparing to extinguish a phantom of his own.

Graham Campbell hadn’t always believed in the paranormal. In fact, he had made a conscious effort when settling down to write his novel to avoid those topics altogether. His writing style was romantic, tame, and free-flowing – not at all like the horror his time spent in his new home had turned out to be.

Because a month and a half spent living there had convinced him that there was something more going on. During the late hours of the night that he would stay awake clicking away on his typewriter, the peace would be suddenly pierced by a sound no settling home or animal could possibly make. Among them were low moans, creaking footsteps, and ominous murmurs that protruded from the basement and made Graham’s hair stand on end. The first time he had heard it, he’d tried to go down to investigate with a frying pan raised bravely above his head only to find absolutely nothing. Granted, he’d been too afraid to advance past the last stair step, but from what he could tell, it was all normal. There was no trace of another human being, animal or even monster in sight. He hadn’t been able to sleep for hours after that, staring blankly and on edge at the whisper thin cracks in the floorboards beneath his bed.

No, it was safe to say that he hadn’t always believed in the paranormal. But as time had gone on and the noises became more frequent, Graham had been unable to think of another plausible explanation for his circumstances. He had gone down to stand at the bottom of the stairs multiple times and had even sent one of his friends down there to look around completely, but all efforts came up empty-handed and the friend was creeped out and just told him he was crazy. But occasionally the source of these noises began to become tangible when some of his things began to go missing, only to either end up on the basement floor, or around the condo in odd places. Hauntingly, the items that loved to disappear the most often were food and knives from his kitchen, and he thought that he’d discovered why when he did a few Google searches on the house to see who the hell could possibly be haunting him here.

When he was done, he could finally put a name and face to the voice.

Carver Price.

Articles detailed a 22-year-old man with shaggy black hair, an overgrown beard, piercing green eyes, and sunken features. He seemed to have had no wife or kids, and while Graham couldn't find much else on his family, he did know that he was thought to be quite sick and twisted in the later years of his life. Speculation and rumors surged throughout the small town they lived in, and the harsher ones eventually proved to be true when Carver finally snapped. On November 14th, 1993, Carver Price murdered a young family of four on the very house that had stood here before Graham’s condo had been built. David Page, Angela Page, and their children, Michael and Michelle, all had their throats cut.

Their deaths were considered an immediate tragedy throughout the town, and Carver had been the prime suspect from the very beginning. In fact, they soon had irrefutable evidence to prove that he was the killer—including eye-witnesses placing him at the house, a disturbing criminal record, and a suspicious lack of alibi. But despite the overwhelming evidence, he never had the chance to go to court, or even to jail. Less than two weeks later, firemen responded to a house call from Carver Price. By the time they got to the small house across town, the entire building was up in smoke and human bones and ashes were later found inside among the rubble. It was declared to be a self-set arson, which immediately caused a stir; but he was officially pronounced dead, so the town breathed an uneasy sigh of relief and soon chose to forget about the whole incident. One less thing to worry about, after all.

But now, only 15 years later, the worry had resurfaced. Because Graham knew that he had the evil spirit of a murderer in his own home – or, more specifically, in the basement that the condo complex had decided to simply build over. After all, it was up to code enough for tenants to use it as extra storage space.

Great.

It wasn't like Graham knew what to do about evil spirits. Sure, in his lifetime he had seen some television shows, but Hollywood twisted things so much he didn't think those were very accurate. What other options did that leave him, though?

Maybe that was how he had gotten here. His red hair was ruffled with worry and anyone who looked at him could see the bags under his brown eyes, and how his bottom lip was swollen and raw. But the strangest part about this scene wasn’t Graham’s appearance, or how he was standing in the middle of his living room wearing a bathrobe in place of a ceremonial one. The strangest part wasn’t that all the furniture had been moved to the walls to make room for the circle of sea salt and the three white candles, positioned in a triangle around it. The strangest part wasn’t the fact that it was a full moon, or that there were a few black rocks from a nearby vase in Graham’s pocket for safe-keeping, or that the entire condo smelled of sage from the incense lit near his clicking typewriter. No.

The strangest part about this scene was that Graham’s identical twin brother was here.

“You know,” Eric Campbell pouted, having slumped back against the couch as he watched, “most brothers greet their family with a hug, a ‘how’ve you been?’ and a fun night out. Not…” he gestured vaguely. “… this.”

“It needs to be done,” Graham said gravely, checking for any holes in the circle he’d created. “And this is what the Internet said to do to banish Carver.”

“The Internet. Very reliable,” Eric snickered, kicking his feet up onto the coffee table. “Did the Internet tell you to wear that?”

Graham sighed, casting his gaze down to his bathrobe. “They said to wear ceremonial robes, but I don’t have those.”

“What, does everyone not own ceremonial robes? Get with the times, brother.”

Graham scowled slightly. “Eric. Please.”

“What? C’mon, I’m just having fun,” Eric chuckled. “And speaking of, I still can’t believe his name was ''Carver. ''It’s kind of a self-fulfilling prophecy, don’t you think?”

“Just get down here and help me,” Graham scolded him, “and stop being insensitive. I know you’re a skeptic, but I need your help with this. Don’t make me regret inviting you.”

“Great. And what is ‘this’, exactly?” Eric asked, raising an eyebrow at him. “You look ridiculous, and so does your new condo. Are you really telling me that you’re giving everything up because of a few noises?”

“Look, this is just the first thing I’m trying,” Graham huffed, glaring up at him from his place on the floor, where he was lighting each of the candles as directed. “If it doesn’t work, I’ll try something else. I’m not moving out unless I have to, but… Eric, if you heard what I hear every night, you’d be doing this, too.”

Eric just stared at him for a moment before rolling his eyes. “Ungrateful, I tell ya. Try living in a shitty apartment, you’d hear plenty of scary noises then.”

“Eric!”

Eric sighed loudly, but he eventually complied and got to his feet. “Fine, fine! Je-''sus. ''You’ve already got me all the way here, can’t you just be satisfied with that?”

Despite all of Eric’s grousing, the brothers finished their preparations rather quickly. The sage was lit, the crucifixes were hung, and the Bibles were opened. All precautions had been taken to ensure that this ritual was as successful as possible—after all, as Graham later said: “We can’t take any chances.”

Once the stage had been set, Graham brushed the salt off of himself and stood up, earnestly setting his typewriter onto the desk where it would be safe. Then he picked up his phone to access the website he’d been looking at.

Eric stood too and peered over his shoulder, confused. “What are you doing?”

“I’ve got to read this. It’s a chant made to send him away.”

“… What, you think you’ll read this Carver guy a bedtime story and he’ll just say, ‘oh shit, I’m intruding, time to turn over a new leaf’ and poof out of here? If he was a suicidal mass murderer in life, I sincerely doubt he’d be too reasonable now.”

“You’re so crass,” Graham scowled. “Come on, can’t you just let me do this?”

“Yeah, yeah, just get on with it, stupid,” Eric snorted softly, ruffling his hair.

Graham ignored him after that, turning to the top point of the white candle triangle, which faced his staircase and basement door. Admittedly, he’d been too afraid to actually do this in the basement itself, since he had no idea what this ghost would do to him once it knew he was trying to make it leave. All he could do now was cross his fingers and hope that this would work, casting Carver Price away from him and back to Hell, where he belonged.

“Oh, spirit, that which resides here. With this circle of salt, sage, and rock of onyx, I am protected from your wrath. I speak to you now with respect and dignity, and I hope you will give me the same,” Graham started, and then paused. Silence.

“Hey, Ghostbuster. Nothing’s happening,” Eric whispered tauntingly, smirking when Graham glared at him fiercely. “Maybe read from the Good Book or something.”

Graham just ignored him, and continued on.

“I understand that this house meant something to you in life, but it’s where mine stands now. It would mean a lot to me if you were to lea—” suddenly, Graham was cut off by a loud bang just beneath them, making he and Eric both jump in surprise and look at each other.

“… Holy shit,” Eric mumbled under his breath, his smug expression having completely dropped off his face. Graham turned to shakily continue as the typewriter kept on clicking in the background, but just a little faster than before.

“I-... I know you’re trapped here, but it’s time for you to move on. You’ve been intruding on my life, and now that of my brother’s, and I only ask that—” Another bang sounded from directly under their feet, and Eric’s eyes widened when they heard a low moan coming from the basement, as if there was someone in pain. This time, though, he dared not interrupt Graham’s machinations. In fact, he silently urged him to continue.

“… I… I only ask that you respect our wishes and see that there is a light for you,” Graham pleaded weakly, but he flinched when the moans turned into yells, and the banging became more violent. Lights began to flicker quickly on and off, and Graham realized with a sickening dread that the fuse box was down there.

“Graham-…” Eric started, looking truly afraid now. “This-… What the fuck is this?!”

“It’s him,” Graham said quietly, and then, stronger, “Carver Price, you need to go home!”

And then the banging stopped. Both boys were almost as startled by this as they had been when it started, and they gave each other a wary glance before either of them dared to speak.

“Do you-… Do you think it’s ove—” Eric began, before suddenly the basement door began to slam back against the lock, straining the hinges with the force of it. He yelped and ran over to hold it closed as the yells morphed into pained and angry howls, and Graham looked on in horror as his brother all but forced the door to stay shut.

Eric yelled over the noise, his back pressed hard against the door. His entire body jolted forward and he was nearly thrown off the door entirely when a full weight was slammed into it, but he barely managed to stay put. “Graham, do something!”

Graham could only open and close his mouth, useless and in shock for a few seconds before he stammered, “I-… C- Carver, you need to get out! You need to move on!”

But this wasn’t enough. The door kept slamming, and it was clear that Eric was losing his hold. Sheer panic was written across his face, and Graham could tell that the same expression was mirrored on his own. He strained against the door, knuckles white and sweat beading on his forehead as he yelped in pain. “Graham!”

“Carver Price, leave this place at once!” Graham shouted, cowering in the salt circle like he was drowning and it was his only lifeline. The typewriter was racing as the banging continued, louder and louder and louder, and Carver was still howling, Eric was screaming—or maybe it was he himself that was screaming, he couldn’t tell—as the house seemed to crash around them, the lights flickered before shutting down completely, all faster and louder and more intense until…

… everything stopped.

The house was silent.

And Graham Campbell dropped to his knees, knowing that the ghost was finally gone.

***

The weeks following that incident were blissfully uneventful. While Graham used to be unable to get a few nights’ sleep in a row without something from the basement disturbing him, he was able to sleep unperturbed for the next week. Finally, he felt well-rested—and that alone would have been more than enough to focus on the novel he had been trying to write, if it were not for Eric’s constant presence.

That being said, his brother didn’t visit often, so Graham was relatively happy to have him stay for a few days, despite how crazy of a personality he had. The fact was that he wasn’t used to someone so wild and unpredictable; but even still, he was stunned to find that—a week and a half later—Eric had left without saying anything. Graham wouldn’t have even known this if he hadn’t seen that his car was no longer in the driveway, with all his things cleared out.

While this was rather odd, Eric could’ve easily gotten a call from work or from his girlfriend. Still, after a few attempts to contact him with no response, Graham made a mental note to call him again in a few days, just to make sure he was Ok.

He also made a mental note to call an electrician. Ever since Carver had been banished all his lights had stopped working, and the Internet had cut out as well. He assumed that Carver had messed with the fuse box or router somehow—which he was sure was possible for ghosts, though he didn’t have the Internet to look it up—and all he had to do was get someone in to fix it at some point. His home phone still worked, though, and he still had leftover candles from the ritual, so both were put to good use during the inconvenience. Not for the first time, Graham found himself thanking anyone who could hear him that he had his trusty typewriter with him, as it had gone back to normal and still worked just fine. With it, he found he could deal with just about everything going on around him. All he had to do was sit somewhere comfortable and immerse himself in his writing, comforted by the clicking his fingers made on the keys when they moved, as well as the clicking that went on when they didn’t. It was steady and reliable; a sound he had attuned his ear to, and a sound that he always managed to get used to and love. After all, just it being there meant he still had something stable to depend on.

And a few days after his brother left, this was where Graham was: sitting at his old wooden desk in front of the windows overlooking the forest, the moon shining brightly overhead. Everything was peaceful now, and it felt like it all had gone back to normal as he consumed himself in his writing, oblivious in the face of his paranormal victory.

In short: everything was perfect until it wasn’t.

Everything was perfect until a loud bang startled Graham from his writing, making him sit up straight in his chair.

No.

No.

That couldn’t have been what he thought it was…

… but then, there it was again: a loud crash, coming right from the basement door.

Graham started out of his seat, panic rising in his chest as he backed up against the bed. The basement door was right near the front entrance, and the back door was on the other side of the condo. There was no way he could get there in time from his bedroom; but he was being silly, of course. There was no way that a ghost could really hurt him. It was just a spirit, just some stupid old spirit that would scare him and then fade away; just some stupid old spirit that couldn’t really touch him; just some stupid old spirit that was now standing in his doorway. And of course, of course Carver Price had actually looked like that, of course he had had silver hair and wrinkles before. Because spirits couldn’t age. Right?

Graham collapsed against the bedpost, staring wide-eyed at the man in front of him. He was thin and sunken, just like in the pictures, but there was something unmistakably older about him now. And there was certainly something more intimidating about one of Graham’s previously missing kitchen knives glistening between his fingertips, dripping in blood that wasn’t his own and wearing clothes that looked suspiciously like the ones his twin brother had worn the day he had arrived. This was no spirit – it couldn’t have been. He hardly even registered the small cry of anguish and fear that bubbled up from deep inside him, escaping through his lips in an unspoken plea for mercy.

Nor did he register the fact that the closer Carver got, the faster the typewriter steadily clicked.

As he pressed himself back against the wall like he hoped to disappear right through it, Graham couldn’t help but think that if he’d gone just a bit further into the basement rather than lingering near the stairs each time, this could have been prevented. As he begged one last desperate time for Carver to spare him from this horrible fate, Graham knew that if he had called the police rather than his brother, maybe they wouldn’t be in this mess. If he’d gone out on the isolated forest roads to see his brother’s car crashed and hidden, flipped over in a ditch, if he’d called the electrician in sooner for them to tell him that all the power lines to his condo had been completely severed, if he’d not assumed the culprit was a spirit, if he had done this, if he had done that, if he had just not been so stupid.

But he had been.

Now he would pay the price.

Because as humans can be, sometimes, Graham had been rather stupid. In fact, not only can humans be stupid as well as genius, but humans can be primal as well as civilized. When looking to survive in a hard, unforgiving place, the simplest of people can become creatures of pure, animalistic instinct. And as a madman slunk out of hiding and the moon disappeared behind a cloud, Graham had had no way of knowing that he himself would be victim to the opposite of what he expected. Not someone who had died, but someone with a damaged mind who had fought tooth and nail to survive. A man, not a spirit, who had killed and hidden himself away in an old, foul basement just to keep what he had. A man who then killed just for fun, and taught himself to take pleasure out of it. A man who was good at surviving. And Graham thought then that if only he had been a little more keen on surviving himself, perhaps he would’ve. Perhaps he would’ve been Ok.

But instead, he screamed.

The killer retreated.

The typewriter stopped clicking. 