Page 6 of The Writer

“Well, I’ll leave you to it,” she says, walking into the bedroom. “I know you creative types get your best work done at night.”

The door shuts behind her, and I’m left alone. I stare at my laptop, waiting for the screen to load, trying to ignore the twisting feeling in my stomach. The phraseDone is better than perfectscrolling through my mind like a news banner. Too depressed to face the blinking cursor again, I check my email.

Another literary agent has messaged me.

Another form letter rejection.

Unable to shake off the humiliating feeling of failure, I lower my head into my hands. It’s not just the rejection. It’s my inability to come up with a new idea, too. It’s being faced with the obvious talents of my peers at Mystery Maidens. It’s witnessing Crystal’s utter depression at having a life so like mine. These endless disappointments jangle inside my head until it’s painful.

I wonder how many sentences ofNight Beatthis particular literary agent read before considering it an epic waste of time. Did she give it a chance at all?

After everything I’ve done, do I even deserve one?

FOUR

The alleyways are dark save for the lampposts overhead. The yellow light streaming down catches tree branches, casting claw-like shadows on the sidewalk.

The unmistakable sound of footsteps makes my heart leap into my throat. I turn around. Nothing but shadows and fallen leaves rolling against the pavement.

I walk faster, suddenly aware of the potential danger in the darkness.

Footsteps again. This time, more rapid. Someone is trying to match my pace.

Again, I turn around, but no one is there.

Still, something remains. A feeling, an aura, an entity.

I’m running now, my own footsteps pounding. The scenery changes, concrete swapped for wet soil, a carved-out gully in the ground beside where I stand.

Fingers clutch the back of my neck. I spin, wanting to face whoever is threatening me.

Still, no one. No face. No hands.

But I can still feel the fingers squeezing. The air leaves my lungs, the world around me turning slower, hazier…

When I open my eyes, my bed sheets are damp with sweat. My hair sticks to my neck. I’ve not had a dream so frightening, so vivid, in years. Around the time I dropped out of college, they were common, but that seems an entire lifetime ago.

I sit up straighter, putting a palm against my chest. My heart is racing. I reach for the glass of water beside my bed, but it’s empty.

The living room is dark. In the kitchen, an overhead light illuminates the stove, casting shadows that remind me of the claw-like phantoms in my dream. I raise a hand to my neck, imagine I can still feel the unforgiving fingers around it.

My nerves are so rattled the sound of water hissing against the sink makes me jump. I fill a glass and begin chugging. Bad dreams are always unsettling, but there was something different about this one. A night terror, somehow bridging the gap between reality and the imagined. I’d hoped I’d never experience another one again.

I gulp the last of my drink and stare across the room. I’m safe here, far removed from my nightmares and my past, from the ominous black hearts that exist outside these walls. Nothing bad could ever happen here, in this drab apartment with the second-hand furniture and thick layers of dust settled into the corners. My life is boring, just as I always wanted.

In the dark, the blinking light of my computer charger captures my attention. I stare at the laptop, trying to conjure up the emotions I felt only moments ago. The adrenaline. The terror.

I sit, unfolding the laptop before me.

My heart still racing, I begin to type:

The Mistakeby Becca Walsh

She thought she was special.

She wasn’t, not even worthy of a name.

He leaned against the paneled walls in the downstairs living room, watching each new arrival. Some faces he knew; others were strangers, invited to the party by the friend of a friend of a friend. Anonymity was a must with a hobby like his. If someone could pick out his face or his name, his plan would go to shit, so he was a fly on the wall, watching as the room around him buzzed, buzzed, buzzed.

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