This blasted cough won't leave me be! I close my eyes, crack my neck and cough again. After an eight-hour flight and three hours of sleep, I'm dead tired but the basement of the Haelock estate calls to me.
None of my family members ever visit our estate. About four past generations of my family lived here but after my great-grandfather passed away, grandpa moved his family out and locked down the place. No one was allowed here but have you met me? I can be very persuasive and so I got the permission and keys to see the place.
I love old, ruined houses and the stories that surround them. I thought the stories would be enough for me but I hungered more—more for the reality and places where such stories were born. That's the reason I studied journalism and it's been an adventurous journey since.
It's been a busy year for me. Once I returned from the war-torn Middle East region, my office gave me a month's leave. My restless brain and body drove me to explore my heritage—the old estate. What a way to spend my vacation!
Grandpa said the death of my great-grandfather brought so much gloom upon the estate that they had to move out. My great-grandfather loved to write fascinating stories for other people and those books became bestsellers. I struggled with that knowledge when I was a wide-eyed child who loved to read stories. I wanted to see my great-grandfather's name on a book, not someone else's.
I spent the better part of yesterday cleaning out my grandpa's room upstairs for my stay. Then the basement was next. I rummage through and find an old weathered diary among some very old things that should belong in a museum.
Immediately I grab the diary, the room's temperature rapidly drops and within seconds, my teeth start chattering. I open the first page and see that the content is written in a traditional copperplate calligraphy font.
I hurry up the stairs. As I stretch my hands to grab the doorknob, the door slams shut in my face. The old, dim bulb flicks and suddenly, everywhere goes dark.
Oooookay!
I reach out in the dark and touch the knob. I try to twist but it's hard like stone. I give up and turn on the flashlight on my phone. Visible vapour streams out of my nose as I breathe out. I turn and slowly make my way down.
There is a tiny window high up on the wall. I pull two old chairs together, climb on them and reach the window. I push with my frozen fingers but it doesn't bulge. Instead, the chairs give way and I fall to the ground, my buttocks smarting. Ouch.
I glance at the old diary beside me. The first page eerily opens up, the rustling sound echoing in the quiet, dark basement. I scurry away from the book in shock. Is our family estate haunted? Could this eerie experience be what drove my grandpa out?
I'm thinking of how to get out of the freezing basement when the diary appears beside me again. I rub my eyes, open them and the old book is still there, the first page opened. Since I'm not getting out anytime soon, I turn to the next page and start reading my great-grandfather's thoughts.
The words of a dead ghostwriter.
His words are lucid and smooth. I devour the diary halfway in an hour and don't notice that the temperature is easing up. I'm not cold anymore but my heart is freezing in shock.
My great-grandfather didn't commit suicide as my family thought. The diary states the name of his killer—a credited author—and the circumstances! If only my grandpa had shown some interest in his father's work, he might have uncovered the mysterious death.
I'll use my position as a journalist and the power of the media to expose this bestselling author who killed my great-grandfather and continues to profit from his work. It's time for the world to know my great-grandfather's story!
Wish me luck.
I hope you enjoyed reading this short story. It's inspired by the Freewrite daily.prompt dead ghostwriter. I sketched out the story in five minutes and spent thirty minutes fleshing and editing it.
Thank you for visiting my blog.