The Haunted Typewriter

by Gabriela Pabon, age 11
The Haunted Typewriter Gabriela Pabon is a dorky, aspiring young writer who lives in Silver Spring, Maryland. She has two poems published through the American Library of Poetry. When she is not being really, really, really obsessed with books and writing lesbian fan fiction, she is hanging out with friends or listening to Hayley Kiyoko and other artists.

“Darkness seemed to fill every nook and cranny of the dusty attic as I climbed the rickety stairs, feeling my heart beat like a caged bird’s wings. Dust and memories swirled through the air as I neared a jet-black typewriter quietly click clacking my demise.”

Darkness seemed to fill every nook and cranny of the dusty attic as I climbed the rickety stairs, feeling my heart beat like a caged bird’s wings. Dust and memories swirled through the air as I neared a jet-black typewriter quietly click clacking my demise. My life was about to change forever. Tentatively, I reached my hand out to steady the mysterious being and felt a jolt of power surge through my body. This was it. My one chance at eternal glory. With more power than imaginable, I could change the world and at last achieve my vengeance.

Smiling coldly, I pushed a tendril of dark hair behind my ear and pulled my black hood up again, obscuring my vision slightly. Gently, I lifted the writhing creature into my hands, caressing its polished surfaces, and placed the powerful instrument of torture in my arms, murmuring soothingly. With a surge of anticipation, I slowly began to type. When looking down at a writing tool, most didn’t see unimaginable power stirring in their soul. Those people weren’t me. With words as my knives, I could litter the earth with corpses. With paragraphs, I could watch my enemies burn in the passion of my undying hatred. Already I could feel the ancient power awakening and beckoning me to write.

Grinning eerily, I wrote my first message.

“Hello,” I typed slowly.

Stifling the urge to giggle girlishly, I watched as the cruel messages and violent death scenes began to vanish and be replaced with one message. “Who are you?”

I snorted bitterly. No one, no one in years had dared talk to me in any way less than reverent. This writing utensil was beyond brave. Still laughing bitterly, I began to type my next message. “Your new master,” I responded.

The typewriter began its next words, lurching slightly in my hands. “Prove yourself.”

I laughed even harder and began to type my dreams of vengeance. Gasping in horror, I watched as, with every word I typed, blood began to pour out of my body, staining the attic floor. “What are you doing?” I typed furiously, trying not to wince as more cuts appeared across my hands and chest.

If an inanimate object could smile, I swear that was what it did. I stared down at it and felt my face flush with rage at its lack of a message. Cursing under my breath, I continued typing and tried not to whimper as more wounds appeared across my body, this time in more uncomfortable places. Gasping for air and cringing, I watched as blood trickled out of my wounds and turned my fingers crimson. At last, my vows of vengeance faded from the typewriter to unveil one simple message. “Good, I think you and I are going to get along very… nicely.” With a scream, I watched as my body dissolved into the one thing that had broken and haunted me forever: words.

 

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