Diary of a Dead Man (Re-Write) 5

5. The Working Stiff

“So you didn’t get your fair shake at life, that’s no reason to go around moping about it. Throw yourself into your work, do something with what you’ve got.”

“Look, I don’t exactly think now is the best time to be discussing this. Can you hit the alarm?” Megan bashed the bedside table and the clock alarm began to sound. The room was dimly lit, giving it an eerie vibe. Dim lighting was always an advantage for the dead, it would cast shadows that they could take credit for. Crossing over into the physical plane was not an easy feat, and even then could only be sustained briefly. For that reason hauntings usually occurred at night and in places not often serviced by competent electricians.

In the corner of the room was the writer. He was a short man, hunched over the desk scribbling furiously on a yellow legal pad lit only by the desk lamp. The rest of the room was shrouded in darkness. When the alarm went off he barely paid it any head and continued to jot down whatever seemed so important to him. “Typical. Supernatural events going on right behind him and he’s so absorbed in his work that he can’t even take a moment to notice.”

Brian picked up a book from one of the decorative shelves adorning the room and tossed it at the bedside. The mirror next to it would have made a fine demonstration of force, but too much damage would have meant the room shutting down for maintenance. Fewer rooms meant fewer patrons, which in turn meant less potential for haunting. Brian would always make a mess, but never so much as to overly inconvenience the hotel staff. After all, it was his business as much as it was theirs.

The writer turned briefly at the noise from the book, revealing an ugly, but recognizable face in the shadowy light. “Holy shit! I know him,” exclaimed Brian. The mundane world of his daily work had quickly become one of the most exciting moments of his life, and afterlife for that matter. He felt as though blood pumped through his veins, even though there was nothing but ethereal dust holding him together.

“What? Is he your old boss or something?” Brian let his jaw hang open, shocked by Megan’s lack of knowledge.

“No, that’s J.P. Morowitz.”

“Who?”

“The famous author? Seventeen Seconds to Midnight?”

“Never head of it.”

“Did you even read?” The lack of literary depth in the spirit form that was Megan appalled Brian in a most visceral sense. He felt as though he was going to be sick, even though once again it would have been wholly impossible.

“Dickens, Vonnegut, Voltaire; yes I read, but nothing by this man. Now get off your pedestal, stop being star struck and let’s get back to business.” Brian had stopped paying attention and was already walking over to the table, curious as to what the great writer was working on. “Damnit Brian. You know what happens if we’re late right? Is this really worth it?”

Brian continued to ignore her, reading over the man’s hunched shoulder. “This isn’t a new novel.” An air of melancholy overtook Brian’s usually sarcastic presence. “It’s a suicide note.” His heart sunk. People had told him that good artists were always tortured in some way, but he had never really believed it. The mediocrity that had been his life had fueled hundreds of unread books, and he hadn’t thought even once about taking his own life. In a way it explained why none of them had ever been read.

“Look on the bright side, maybe you’ll get to meet your hero after all.” Megan displayed a grin that was far too jovial for the situation.

“This isn’t funny.”

“Sorry.” She rolled her eyes a full three-hundred-and-sixty degrees (another perk of the undead). “When did you become so sensitive?”

Brian brushed off her rebuke. It was a moment of realization for him, and he was desperate to hold on to it. “I don’t get it. He’s at the top of his career, he’s never written a bad book, and he has a loving family waiting for him at home. He’s going to throw all that away in a dingy hotel room?”

“Sounds like the perfect addition to our staff.” Megan continued to mock his concern. Brian threw books as hard as he could, tipping over furniture, and breaking whatever he could get his hands on. Moving objects wasn’t easy, but he was in a rage. He couldn’t comprehend the fundamental selfishness that his childhood hero was displaying. The man had everything that Brian had ever wanted in life, and was prepared to throw it all away.

The poltergeist was one of the most magnificent that the hotel had ever seen. If there had been a dead musician on staff, there was no doubt that he would have written symphonies in its honor. Books floated in perfect, unnerving unison, the alarm clocks all went off at once, and the lights even flickered in time with the ghostly wails of the workers on the floor above. It was straight out of a Hitchcock movie, and at the end of it the result was the same.

“Well if he wasn’t going to kill himself, he sure is now.” Megan had seen Brian fly off the handle before, and didn’t want to waste the effort to try and calm him.

“Oh God no,” said Brian, his voice dropping to a whisper. J.P. stood on a chair that had been hastily stood upright in the calamity, and fastened a leather belt to the sturdy-looking ceiling fan at the center of the room. He wore a look of grim determination. “Stop,” yelled Brian, transcending briefly into physical form. The sight must have been truly terrifying, as shock was enough to startle J.P. and send him tumbling off of his chair. There was a sharp snap, and Brian watched as the author whom he had admired all throughout life died.