Ghostwriter
Dove finally found the address. She was obsessed with this genius writer. Kathereftis (Kathy) was a visionary. Her essays were reflective. Yet none of her friends had ever heard of her work.
In her recent book club meeting, Dove critiqued Kathy’s essays — Passage, Curiosity, Ellipsis. Kathy’s essays were cryptic and beguiling.
Nobody had heard about the writer but everybody was enthralled by her ideas. They seemed genuine yet so utopian — a perfect blend of science & fiction that made for delicious literature.
Dove discovered her in a flea market book sale and had been hooked since. She bought Kathereftis’ books online on her website. They would always arrive in brown parcels with her address scrawled in a feminine cursive hand in black ink.
There was no contact section on the website or her books. No social media pages. No interviews of the author. No other online record.
Dove thought Kathereftis was an independent writer or group that printed the books on demand. Whatever/whoever it was, she had to meet Kathy.
She wanted to be Kathy.
Dove was presently reading Reason. It didn’t have an ending. But scrawled on the last page, in the same ink and hand was:
27 Barrington Lane.
…
Dove pulled up outside a rustic 3-storey Georgian building. It looked welcoming but an air of mystery hung around it.
“This is exactly how I imagined it.” — Dove thought to herself excitedly.
She walked up the stairs and rung the bell. She found the door open.
Dove entered.
…
There was nothing in the house. No lighting, no stairs, no rooms.
A single open window poured light onto the writing desk — the only thing in the abyss of black. Its only accompaniments were the wooden chair and a mirror on the wall it was pushed up against.
Dove felt alarmed but she couldn’t leave without looking at the desk. There was a pot of black ink and a used quill.
Reason lay open on the table.
Dove looked in the mirror.
…
Dove found herself writing pages after pages. It was titled Reason. Aptly named because she was losing it.
It felt like she had been writing for a hundred years.
Dove looked at the pile of bound papers beside her. One was marked Curiosity.
She was so exhausted, she couldn’t write anymore. She picked up the quill and scrawled:
27 Barrington Lane.
The feminine cursive in black ink.
