Ghost Writer
by Christian Barragan
I knew the writer was desperate when he managed to trace my supposedly anonymous pieces. In fact, he placed more effort into tracing my stories than into writing his own. Call me Chris, he said. He knew he desperately needed assistance to complete his next project.
Chris introduced himself online and we began meeting at his remarkably unkempt apartment. He could have contacted someone familiar with his work, but he didn’t. Not much work to be familiar with, anyway. He told me this was his first time hiring a ghost, but I found that hard to believe. I told him I had worked with several others before, which may have been a lie. He didn’t ask further.
Chris wanted to know the results of my work. Critical responses. The resulting fame of writers I helped. Whether anyone ever discovered my involvement. I assured him he would find no one more secretive than myself. Still, it was a lot of fuss over a meager short story.
Chris envisioned a very specific type of story. Something that people would remember him for. Something grounded in the maelstrom of reality to reflect his apparent misery.
His vision struck a particular chord with me, and I wanted nothing more than to see it happen. It also has to sound like me, he said. So, I poured over his existing material, his outlines, his few existing publications, anything I could find.
He quickly started sharing personal details about himself as part of his plan. At his request, I looked into his background, scouring his life for inspiration.
The more I investigated, the more my sympathetic view of him inflated. Chris's works were undeniably boring, and it became clear that he would never make it as a writer or a person. Everyone in his life had long since abandoned him, leaving no potential enemies to prompt a compelling story. No one left to check on him. His depression left him inept and immobile, as what remained of his static figure deteriorated. Despite his initial lack of involvement in the project, Chris aged years in a matter of days. The life drained out of his eyes in a dying progression difficult to witness. He had nothing left to leave his supposed audience.
I told him I knew exactly how to make a memorable story without him ever having to worry about the critical response.
As the days passed, Chris stunted my progress with the insistence of his criteria. He became more impatient. He knew he needed to start submitting something to feel alive again and pushed me to finish before he no longer cared.
One day, he didn’t.
You be the judge then, he said. This was the day before I finished the short story.
That morning, Chris was found dead in his apartment. Despite the disfigured mess resulting from the brutal attack, his assailant hadn’t left a single trace. No sign of entry or exit, or involvement otherwise. But he couldn’t have asked for a different ending. Chris wasn’t suited to write his story.
I was.
Chris introduced himself online and we began meeting at his remarkably unkempt apartment. He could have contacted someone familiar with his work, but he didn’t. Not much work to be familiar with, anyway. He told me this was his first time hiring a ghost, but I found that hard to believe. I told him I had worked with several others before, which may have been a lie. He didn’t ask further.
Chris wanted to know the results of my work. Critical responses. The resulting fame of writers I helped. Whether anyone ever discovered my involvement. I assured him he would find no one more secretive than myself. Still, it was a lot of fuss over a meager short story.
Chris envisioned a very specific type of story. Something that people would remember him for. Something grounded in the maelstrom of reality to reflect his apparent misery.
His vision struck a particular chord with me, and I wanted nothing more than to see it happen. It also has to sound like me, he said. So, I poured over his existing material, his outlines, his few existing publications, anything I could find.
He quickly started sharing personal details about himself as part of his plan. At his request, I looked into his background, scouring his life for inspiration.
The more I investigated, the more my sympathetic view of him inflated. Chris's works were undeniably boring, and it became clear that he would never make it as a writer or a person. Everyone in his life had long since abandoned him, leaving no potential enemies to prompt a compelling story. No one left to check on him. His depression left him inept and immobile, as what remained of his static figure deteriorated. Despite his initial lack of involvement in the project, Chris aged years in a matter of days. The life drained out of his eyes in a dying progression difficult to witness. He had nothing left to leave his supposed audience.
I told him I knew exactly how to make a memorable story without him ever having to worry about the critical response.
As the days passed, Chris stunted my progress with the insistence of his criteria. He became more impatient. He knew he needed to start submitting something to feel alive again and pushed me to finish before he no longer cared.
One day, he didn’t.
You be the judge then, he said. This was the day before I finished the short story.
That morning, Chris was found dead in his apartment. Despite the disfigured mess resulting from the brutal attack, his assailant hadn’t left a single trace. No sign of entry or exit, or involvement otherwise. But he couldn’t have asked for a different ending. Chris wasn’t suited to write his story.
I was.
Christian Barragan is a graduate from California State University Northridge. Raised in Riverside, CA, he aims to become a novelist or literary editor. He's previously read submissions for Open Ceilings Magazine and the Northridge Review. His work has appeared in Pif Magazine, Moria Magazine, and Coffin Bell Magazine, among others.