THE GHOSTWRITER

by Dan Wheeldon

! My name is David Price, successful author and screen writer

in the field of dark fantasy and macabre fiction, and I am a

fraud.

! I dare say I should elaborate on that sweeping and somewhat

blunt statement I have laid out before you. For I am not a

plagiariser, nor have I cajoled unwilling parties into giving up

their literary gems for my own means. The stories for which I am

known, and have made a comfortable living from, have been readily

supplied to me by an enthusiastic, if publicity shy, third party.

As I elucidate further it will become obvious why this donator of

tales should wish to remain in the shadows, but I feel it has

reached a juncture where matters have taken a nefarious and

menacing turn. If I continue in this unholy partnership the

situation, I fear, will lead to a conclusion of apocalyptic

magnitude. You may believe I am being somewhat over-dramatic in

my statement. But, if anything, I am playing down the menace I

have unwittingly inflicted on the world.

! In explaining what I mean, I must take you back 10 years, to

a time where espionage thrillers were my chosen poison. Rugged

spies, double crossing femme fatales, briefcases full of the

nation’s secrets, shootouts in crowded plazas, all the customary

pawns at my disposal. Plot lines wove and interwove, friends were

 Wheeldon / THE GHOSTWRITER / 2
now enemies and enemies now friends. A trail of dead bodies and

unanswered puzzles lay behind super spy Darren Sprague. His

adventures into the dark areas of international espionage had

garnered me 2 reasonably successful novels, and a popular

following from the public, if not the critics.

! My life was comfortable. I was able to buy a large detached

house in the suburbs of a Surrey town, to share with my

girlfriend, Molly, and our labrador, Charlie. We had a sizeable

garden at the back of the property, with a small vegetable patch

and rickety shed. The property had four bedrooms, one of which I

converted into a writing room. This was to be my haven, a world

dedicated to stories. I placed the old, oak desk, which I had

purchased at a local furniture fare, under the large Georgian

window. It was solid and imposing, with a column of drawers either

side of the leg-well. But the oak lent it a softer, more homely

feel, the sort that calls out to you, to run your hands over its

curvaceous moulding and inset panels. Upon it sat my vintage

Remington Rand typewriter and a neat stack of pristine A4,

lustrous white, paper, the kind you almost loathe to type on.

Running the length of the side walls were matching oak bookcases,

part of a set with the desk. They were soon filled with the bound

pages of type, conjured from the ether by my peers and luminaries,

set alphabetically by author of course. It had the appearance of

an authentic work environment of an authentic writer.

 Wheeldon / THE GHOSTWRITER / 3
! The Monday was to be my first work day in my new residence.

No one was to disturb me for the eight hours that I planned to

lock myself away for. I sat at my new desk, on my cushioned swivel

chair, my note pad resting part on my lap and part on the edge of

the desk. Darren Sprague was ready to leave retirement and re-

enter the dangerous world he couldn’t keep away from. Or maybe

other heroes or heroines were itching to come forth. Why not shake

things up and write a farce, or possibly a tale from beyond the

stars. The pages of my note pad yearned to be caressed by by pen,

craving the chaos of form the ink brought to its rigid lines and

structure.

! Then nothing. Not the exquisite nothing you achieve through

transcendental meditation, but the barren desert of the mind that

prevents any creative juices flowing through it. The only thing

entering this wasteland was the cold winds of anxiety, which now

whirled like a tornado behind my eyes. The sudden feeling of panic

was overwhelming. The only thoughts that would conjure themselves

were ones questioning my ability to ever write again. What if the

ideas never returned? I sat for what seemed like an eternity,

almost willing the words to burn themselves onto the page. I tried

to start the pen moving across the page, in the vain hope that the

words might start to flow. After a few minutes the only shapes

that adorned my note pad were several random abstract shapes, a

few bug-looking creatures, an alien space craft and six stick men
 Wheeldon / THE GHOSTWRITER / 4
in a gun fight. Nothing that could be remotely described as the

next pot boiler.

! After reaching the conclusion that I was in an infinite loop

of tail chasing, I tossed my pad and pen onto the desk, as if it

was somehow their fault that I was getting nowhere, and retreated

downstairs to the kitchen. I felt relieved Molly had taken Charlie

out. The last thing I wanted was Molly asking how things were

going, and feeling the need to lie to her. I sauntered aimlessly

around the kitchen, pouring myself a glass of water and generally

pottering like someone waiting for their taxi to arrive. I spotted

a part empty bottle of Pinot Grigio on the counter-top, next to

the fridge-freezer, and a thought occurred to me that maybe a

small glass may help loosen whatever blockage was causing my

current predicament.

! With glass and bottle in-hand I returned to my study and

drifted back and forth along my bookcases, fingertips running

along the spines of my books, hoping one would call out to me,

that it might offer the kick-start my mind desperately called out

for. I placed the bottle on my desk and poured myself a glass of

the wine and supped as I circled the room like a ravenous shark.

The wine took the edge off my frustration and I soon emptied the

bottle. It was becoming all too obvious, even through an alcohol

haze, that I would be better off surrendering to my new malaise

and returning the following morning for a fresh stab at my new

 Wheeldon / THE GHOSTWRITER / 5
tale of adventure. Television and a fresh bottle of wine would be

my friends for the afternoon.

! It feels as if I am skirting over the events following that

dispiriting day, that led up to my pivotal meeting with the reason

why this confession must be made. I am only doing so, as much of

what happened to me in the ensuing months remains that of

supposition, since insomnia and alcohol soon drove my carcass more

than my conscious mind. I am aware that at some point Molly took

Charlie and moved in with her parents. I am also aware that I, not

so much decided to grow a beard, as much as I decided to give up

shaving. Through incessant calls from my agent my land-line

telephone became buried in the vegetable patch, no doubt now home

to a charming family of carrots, and my mobile phone became a

rather interesting water-feature at the bottom of the toilet pan.

My complexion took on the sheen of a teenager, and my mouth became

host to many mouth ulcers. Needless to say I was open to, and in

much need of, help. However, I wasn’t and couldn’t have expected

it form the source that came forward to confront me one morning.

! Other than the subsequent events that were about to unfold on

that portentous morning, that would cast its dark shadow over me

till this day, everything seemed normal. That is normal for me. My

head screamed out as if a banshee had set up residence in there.

My mouth was dry and my teeth had a rough feeling as if they had

been replaced by barnacle clad rocks. As my eyes slowly began to

focus through the morning blear, I spied what at first appeared to

 Wheeldon / THE GHOSTWRITER / 6
be the neighbour’s cat, perched on top of my duvet, just to the

left of my feet. It had often ventured into my house through an

open door or window, but had never before ventured into my

bedroom. It soon became clear that this creature at the end of my

bed was no cat. Even through unfocused eyes and the silhouette

effect caused by the dark room and light from the window behind

it, I could make out a rather perplexing shape. About the size of

a large cat, but with the head and body proportions of a young

toddler. It sat facing away from me, staring out of the window at

a small bird on the window sill, which seemed to be pecking at the

loose paint on the frame. I could make out an olive green tinge to

its skin and what seemed to be some kind of tail, swaying slowly

side to side. My heart started racing, making my head pound even

harder, as if my brain had decided that this was all too much and

wanted to beat its way out of my head. I couldn’t conceive of what

this diabolical thing could be. Was someone playing a trick on me,

dressing a young toddler up in some kind of Halloween costume?

Possible but for what end? Or perhaps my fragile mental state had

finally shattered and sent me spiralling into the realms of

madness. Before I had chance to fully compute all scenarios, the

creature turned to me and spoke in rasped tones.

! “Ah finally. I thought I’d be waiting here all day.” It said

matter-of-factly, as if we had some kind of meeting arranged. I

backed up sharply against the bed-head, trying to put what little

space was available between us. It gazed at me with with its

 Wheeldon / THE GHOSTWRITER / 7
bulbous, putrid yellow, eyes. Its batrachian mouth gaped open for

a few seconds, breathing heavily, until it spoke to me again.

! “Do not fret. I am not here to harm you. I’m here to make you

a proposal that could be mutually beneficial.”

! I sat, prostrate with fear, only able to force a few words

out through my stricken larynx. I asked this foul creature what it

was and what it wanted from me.

! “I am but an Imp, a lowly creature of the parallel realms.

Where I am from we don’t put much stock in the literary arts. But

I have so many stories eating me up from inside, craving to be let

loose. But I need a channel in this realm, someone who can

facilitate what needs to be said.”

! I could only stammer through the terror that gripped my

being. I asked it why it had chosen me and why it thought I could

aid it.

! “It has come to my attention that you are afflicted with what

your people term writer’s block are you not?”

! I nodded in agreement and it continued.

! “I do not have the ability to type or write myself.

! ” It held up its small, childlike hands; its fingers tipped

with large, piercing, talons.

! “So I am looking for a human with an affinity for words. One

whom I can collaborate with. One who can translate my tales for a

large audience and can facilitate its release into the market. I

would of course receive no credit and knowledge of my contribution

 Wheeldon / THE GHOSTWRITER / 8
would remain only between us. You would garner all of the praise

and rewards that may come from these humble tales.”

! My demeanour began to thaw as the appealing nature of the

offer began to compete with my abject horror at the creature

sitting before me. If all was to be believed then how could I

lose? I would be able to put out books with only the effort of

typing this creature’s stories. Yes, I would feel cheap putting my

name to someone else’s creativity, but maybe it could work until

such time as my own ideas flowed freely again. I asked the

creature why I should trust it. How could I believe it, when the

Imps of lore are creatures of mischief and mayhem.

! “Your kind has a long history of equating beauty with

goodness and ugliness with evil. Why should it be that just

because you find me unappealing to the eye that I should be some

kind of treacherous fiend? If I were a creature of heavenly

splendour would you be more receptive to my proposition?”

! I could not argue with its position. My prejudices had

clouded my view of the creature. I was still in a moral quandary

over whether it was right for me to put my name to someone else’s

work, even if it was the only way for said person to have their

work read. The creature informed me that it would return the next

morning for a decision and then bade me fair-well. Within a blink

it was gone, no doubt vanished back to whatever parallel realm it

spoke of.
 Wheeldon / THE GHOSTWRITER / 9
! I sat with the stillness of a man who’s whole understanding

of reality had come into question. Had I really just been

confronted by an Imp? If it were true, then what else of the

childhood beliefs I had spent my adult years deprogramming myself

from, were indeed real? Were fairies populating the bottom of my

garden? Was the Easter bunny readying his basket of chocolate

eggs? Was the Tooth Fairy currently swimming laps in a pool of

children's teeth? The alternative was that I had descended into

some kind of psychosis. That the months of abuse I had inflicted

upon myself had now returned as a schism in my psyche.

! In the subsequent twenty four hours I was unsure of what I

was more concerned about; that I had just seen a mythological

creature or that I had created the illusion of one in my damaged

ego. My mind was a swirling vortex of contradictions. I attempted

to arm myself with knowledge by finding out what I could about

imps and their ilk, just in case the creature was a physical

reality and not a mental illusion. From these studies, both online

and using what reference books I had, I deduced that this creature

was a being of mischief, though not particularly dangerous, and

that its evil reputation had arisen mainly at the time when

creatures of ancient folklore had been demonised by the church.

This did instil me with a slight sense of comfort that this

creature would be unlikely to have intentions any more nefarious

than hiding my slippers. However, this had distracted me from my

 Wheeldon / THE GHOSTWRITER / 10
main impending dilemma, which was whether I would accept this

offer of collusion with a creature not of this world.

! The evening came round all too quickly, and I lay there in my

bed, conclusions bounding back and forth like some internal,

infernal, tennis match. By the morning I had not slept and my

brain felt like it was stuffed with cotton wool. Though my mental

faculties were clouded by tiredness one thought was clear, that I

would accept this creature’s offer. If the imp was real then maybe

by typing its stories it may release the floodgates of my own

creativity again. If the imp was an illusion then it was only

another faculty of my twisted psyche and the tales were coming

from me anyway. The alternative was to continue along the jagged

path into the abyss that I had been on, sliding inexorably into

oblivion.

! As I sat waiting, like a student waiting for the postman to

deliver his exam results, I could hear a faint padding coming from

the hallway, approaching the bedroom. A shot of adrenaline coursed

through my body as the imp entered the room and my field of

vision. It leapt up onto my bed as agile as a capuchin monkey,

which surprised me greatly considering its rotundness.

! “I am here as promised. Do you have an answer to my

proposal?” It inquired in as pleasant a manner as can be expected

from such a grotesque creature.

! I indicated that I would be willing to collaborate, though I

was obviously unnerved by the revelation of its existence, real or

 Wheeldon / THE GHOSTWRITER / 11
otherwise. It tried to reassure me that its intentions were noble

and was looking forward to a rewarding partnership. It then

informed me that it would return the next morning to begin work,

if I was amenable to this, and would spend the day recounting the

first tale to me. I was to take notes with which I could then use

to form into a full novel. It would leave me in peace, only to

return once the novel was finished and a new one could be started.

This seemed like a fair arrangement so I concurred with its plan.

And with that it was gone.

! After sitting for a short while, calming myself from the

adrenaline rush, I felt suddenly invigorated and enthused, like

coming out the other side of a bad case of flu. I felt an energy I

had not felt in a long time and decided that I should spend the

day as if I was the subject of a television make-over show. The

anti clean-shaven look was the first to go, along with the pungent

aroma of body-odour I had accrued over months of very intermittent

washing. The barnacle covered rocks in my mouth were brushed back

into some semblance of a normal set of teeth, and nails were

trimmed and scraped of unpleasant, unidentified matter. Once

dressed I took time out to look at myself in the mirror and

grinned with pride at the amazing transformation, sure that I

should be on the page of some ‘before & after’ advert in a

magazine, though not so sure that extolling the virtues of

partnerships with fairytale creatures was really the thing for the

pages of a monthly periodical.

 Wheeldon / THE GHOSTWRITER / 12
! The next task was the house, which received a similarly

thorough cleansing; not having been touched in months, in which

time it had taken on the characteristics of a house long abandoned

by its owner, mentally if not physically. By the time that I was

content that it had been returned to at least a pretence of a

regular family home, I was exhausted and resolved to spending the

evening relaxing in front of the television. As I lay on the sofa,

allowing the waves of sitcoms and consumer shows to pass through

me I realised something most odd. I became cognisant of the

absence of craving for alcohol. Could it be that effortless to

give up something that had held me in its grip for the past

months? Something didn’t ring true, but then was it any more

extraordinary than the other events of the preceding days?

! The following morning I awoke with the same renewed vigour

that had energised me the day before. By the time the imp turned

up I had already washed and breakfasted, and sat waiting at my

much neglected desk, spinning slowly in my chair. The imp

sauntered in and leapt onto my desk, perching itself on the edge.

! “You look well.” It mentioned, with what I assumed was a grin

on its wide face. Though it was difficult to judge emotion on such

an alien creature. “Are you ready to start? We have much work to

do.”

! I readied my notepad and pen, which was finally going to

realise the potential I had failed to bring it. The creature

quickly began to utter forth a tale of such horror and

 Wheeldon / THE GHOSTWRITER / 13
grotesqueness that it made my very soul shudder. Luckily my hand

moved with its own determinism, because my mind was frozen in fear

with the terrible words that passed the creature’s vile lips. I

could barely believe the story that the imp was narrating, it was

of such horror the likes of which I had never heard, or ever

wished to hear. My ears craved to be covered, protected from the

sickening waves of sound violating them. I felt compelled to

continue writing, though my decency cried out for me to stop. I

was never a great fan of the horror genre, and must confess to not

having read much in that field, but I couldn’t imagine that

anything written thus far could match the depravity of the tale I

was laying down on paper. In the back of my mind I wondered how I

could possibly put my name to such a story, having people believe

it was born from my twisted imagination. I was so relieved once

the story had ended that I let out a visible sigh.

! “Shocked are you?” inquired the creature, with a wry smile

upon its craggy face. I puffed my cheeks and let out a puff of

air, my eye brows raised high. No words could suitably sum up my

reaction to what I had just heard, and the words I had just

committed to paper. “Maybe I should have warned you that my tales

are of uncompromising horror, but they are what I know of and what

must be told. Does our deal still stand?”

! I conceded to write up the notes into novel form, though I

did admit to doubting there would be a market for such a tale of

perversion. It assured me that not only did a market exist, it

 Wheeldon / THE GHOSTWRITER / 14
would lap it up like a ravenous beast. I took it on its word and

immediately turned to face my typewriter. The imp vanished, like

only it can, promising to return only once I had finished with my

work.

! Sitting, facing my typewriter, my nemesis for so long, was a

peculiar feeling. Once an extension of me, I hadn’t felt connected

to it for over a year now. It was like reuniting with a lost

relative with whom I had fallen out with years previous. Furtive

at first, but I soon found my flow and it was like we had never

been apart. In fact, I typed with a singular fervour that was at

once exhilarating and unnerving, like being at the wheel of a

speeding car. It was like the story possessed me, flowing from the

notes, through me, and onto the typed page. I hammered away on the

keys for hours without respite, the story not allowing me to stop

until I was just too exhausted to continue. I wrenched my rigid

hands away from the typewriter and stumbled to my bed, where I

collapsed on top of my duvet and fell unconscious almost

immediately.

! I soon learned to prepare and eat a hardy meal before

beginning to type, as the story would not let me out of its vice

like grip until I had achieved a sufficient amount of work. I felt

literally chained to my desk by forces unknown and unyielding. It

took me a full two months for me to finally finish the novel, and

after that I was completely drained. I spent the following two

 Wheeldon / THE GHOSTWRITER / 15
days in bed, drifting out of sleep’s warm embrace only to fulfil

my body’s necessary functions.

! After the two days of recuperation I awoke to find the imp

perched at the end of my bed, as it had done the first time it

appeared to me, though this time I was less startled.

! “I’ve read the novel. It pleases me no end to see it in print

like that. Will you now take it to your agent?”

! I explained that there was no guarantee that my agent, or a

publisher at that, would be interested in the novel, or that

anyone would buy it if it was released. At this the imp was as

upbeat as ever, eerily convinced that it would be a literary

triumph.

! I took the opportunity to try to glean some information out

of the creature; such as what its name was and what its home realm

was like, as I was curious to know more about my new writing

companion. Alas it said that it could tell me nothing; that it was

taking a great risk in communicating with me at all. It left me

frustrated and suspicious of its intentions, but still comfortable

enough to continue with our arrangement. If only I had listened to

my intuition, there would be no need to do what now needs to be

done.

! I made my way to my agent’s office, now not having any

working phones to my name, wary of my reception after many months

of silence on my part. To my surprise he welcomed me in without

the bitterness I expected. I will not name him, as I do not wish

 Wheeldon / THE GHOSTWRITER / 16
to bring curious readers to the doorsteps of those involved in my

spiral into abysses unthinkable, as they remain wholly ignorant of

events transpiring behind the scenes. He claimed that many of his

clients have had, what he termed, a freak-out, and was giving me

time to rediscover myself. I placed my novel before him, warning

that the material was rather extreme and he should be prepared to

be shocked by how it differed from my normal fare. As I left, he

seemed genuinely excited to read these pages of grotesquery,

though I remained dubious that he would feel that way afterward.

! Later that day, surprisingly, my agent appeared at my door. I

have never encountered anyone so enraptured outside of pop music

fandom. He stormed past me, raving about how incredible the novel

was and asking why I hadn’t tried writing horror fiction before,

because we would all be rich by now, drinking fine wine out of

golden goblets. I questioned him as to whether he thought it might

be too grotesque for general consumption, but he was convinced

that it would herald a new age for the genre. He stormed back past

me, saying that even though it was out of office hours he was

going to fax the novel to several publishers and demand they read

it that night.

! Although my agent seemed to have been mesmerised by the

creature’s tale I couldn’t see publishers being quite so zealous.

Surely they must have a more measured approach towards such

undoubtedly controversial works. Although the success of this

novel would give my career new found life, I couldn’t help but
 Wheeldon / THE GHOSTWRITER / 17
feel misgivings about the road I was about to venture down. Events

seemed to be out of my hands, as a meeting with my agent the

following day informed me of a brewing price-war for my work. The

publishers had all read the novel that night and were equally as

enthusiastic as my agent had been. I was stunned by the glowing

reception the story was receiving; was I the madman, or the only

sane one? I felt that maybe it was just that I didn’t understand

the genre and maybe this was as exceptional as people were telling

me. I decided that I should stop mentally undermining myself and

enjoy the positive attention. A large sum of money was exchanged

and the book was released to an unsuspecting public. My first

novel as a horror writer was ‘The Terror at Black Ridge’ and was

an instant success. Even the critics, usually no fans of my work,

heaped praise upon my new opus, fully unaware of its origins.

! It was a full six months before the imp returned, to revel in

the glory of our success.

! “Did I not tell you to trust me? I knew that you people would

respond to my modest tale, especially with you rendering it for

me. And for that I will be forever thankful.” It bowed to me in

thanks.

! I perceived a distinct growth in the creature’s stature. It

must have grown by a few inches at least, and more slender in

girth. I commented on its obvious physical change, to which it

claimed to be a normal growth cycle in its development and not to

judge its changes in form by the standard for my species. It then

 Wheeldon / THE GHOSTWRITER / 18
enquired as to whether I was prepared to begin the next of his

series of tales. I was very anxious to return to writing after the

six months of rest I had been enjoying, so suggested we start

straight away. Its second tale was as horrific and terrifying as

the first, but I must have become desensitised because I wasn’t

nearly as repulsed as I had been by its previous story. I duly

took handwritten notes, which were subsequently typed with the

same energetic frenzy that took me over before. The only

difference was the frequent visits the imp paid me throughout my

time writing. At the time, I put it down to its excitement from

the success of ‘The Terror at Black Ridge’.

! ‘The Shadow at the doorstep’ was my second novel released

from my blasphemous partnership with a being from realms unknown.

It was an even more phenomenal success than the first book, and

there were murmurings of film deals and graphic works based on the

stories so far. The feelings of repulsion I originally felt may

have dimmed, but my shock at the popularity of these books never

ceased to amaze me. Though with this success came a notoriety.

Stories started emanating from the tabloid papers of people

apparently driven to madness by the horrors contained in the

books, even people claiming to have seen the monstrous creatures

described therein. Experience had taught me to ignore these

reports as the mutterings of the needy and feeble minded, and a

press ravenous for stories to scare their readership. I had seen

it before with other novels, comic books, films and video games;
 Wheeldon / THE GHOSTWRITER / 19
all claimed to be the cause of a collapse in some fictitious moral

wonderland of the past.

! As the years passed I was falling into a neat routine of note

taking and solid typing sessions, and was feeling a sense of

general contentment. That was, until the stretches of rest I

needed to take after such intense periods of frenzied work. This

down-time gave me pause to dwell upon the nagging fears lurking at

the back of my mind. The imp continued to grow at a concerning

pace. It was soon at least six feet tall and not what you could

describe as an imp anymore. It took to hiding itself under a

makeshift cloak, made from some sheeting it had scavenged from

somewhere in the house. It effectively disguised its true form,

though I am sure I saw a monstrous tentacle or tentacles, writhing

within the darkness under its covering. It visited more often, and

for longer periods, lurking in the dark areas of the house like

some infernal observer.

! Two worrying aspects kept me pondering into the nights. If

this daemonic creature was a product of my disturbed imaginings

then did its growth in stature, and increasing time spent in my

presence mean that it was exerting an ever increasing dominance

over my psyche? Or, if it was a being of abhorrent reality, then I

felt it was keeping vital information from me, to possibly

nefarious ends. Surely it couldn’t be an imp of lore, since there

was nothing written that indicated anything about a change in size

and form. I felt compelled to investigate further, though I knew I

 Wheeldon / THE GHOSTWRITER / 20
couldn’t conduct any research within the house, due to its

extended presence lurking in the dark recesses. Fortunately the

ever increasing popularity of our work meant that I had become

much in demand for signings, interviews and other such public

engagements. Which, in turn, meant I would have a justifiable

excuse for leaving the house for long periods of demonic study. It

irritated the creature when I left the house; it seemed intent on

me being its work-horse, typing all day and night. But it knew

that I had to work at the other aspects of publicising the novels,

in order to expand the readership, which I would use to my

advantage.

! I was unsure of where to start in my search for genuine books

on the dark arts and demonology, knowing that I was unlikely to

find such works of forbidden lore on the shelves of the high

street bookshop chains. I decided that my agent would be the ideal

person to ask, due to his overwhelming, almost omniscient,

knowledge of the book market. I enquired as to whether there were

any shops locally that specialised in the occult, masking my true

intentions by claiming that I needed research for the novel I was

currently working on. He knew of one shop, about half a mile from

his office, that dealt with occult and witchcraft paraphernalia

and books, though professed to never having set foot inside.

! The occult shop was located in a passageway that ran parallel

to the main high street. It appeared like an archaic, crumbling

shopping arcade, lost to time, hidden away out of sight and

 Wheeldon / THE GHOSTWRITER / 21
forgotten by the rest of the town. The passage couldn’t have been

more than eight feet across and was flanked either side by

forbidding shops, that seemed to loom down towards you. A second

hand clothes shop, a reclamation centre, a vintage photography

shop; all selling those unwanted, unloved or misplaced items

looking for a new home.

! I approached the shop with great trepidation, both with fear

that I may find no answers and fear of what answers might mean.

The shop was the kind of small, intimidating store that would only

appeal to those interested in the darker arts. From the outside,

the interior was dingy, under-lit and almost completely obscured

by the display in the window. Grotesque figurines lined up along

the bottom, with assorted skulls and candles on small pedestals

behind them; various masks, many in the masquerade style, were

hung from the ceiling with fishing wire, along with numerous

pendents, broaches and trinkets, which were also strewn over, or

hung from, any viable object. As I pushed the solid, red, door to

enter, a bell tinkled its high pitched call, to alert the

shopkeeper of my presence. I entered onto the sort of carpeting

you only see in shops, with ultra short pile. A furrow of wear led

my eye around a store that had obviously seen little change for

many years. Everything adorning the shelves showed its age, almost

as if I had visited twenty years ago it would have looked

identical.
 Wheeldon / THE GHOSTWRITER / 22
! The man behind the counter peered up slightly from his book,

through a curtain of long hair, just to check that he had really

heard someone in his shop, but showed little interest in what I

was doing. I guessed that only two types of customers normally

frequented the store; those who knew exactly what they were

looking for, and those looky loo passers by who entered out of

some kind of morbid curiosity. As I perused the many books of dark

arts and demonology I was unsure of what I was looking for. Tomes

such as the Ars Goetia, Books of Magick, Grimoire Bestiae, and

various other compendiums of black magic and witchcraft stared out

at me with forbidding spines of promised mystery. Were any of them

what could be classified as authentic enough for my purposes? The

store keeper kept, not so subtly, looking up at me, like a second-

rate secret agent. Until finally he asked what he had been

obviously keen to ask for several minutes.

! “Hey, aren’t you that writer guy, Darren Price?” He asked in

a smoke-scorched estuary English accent. I had to concede that it

was in fact me.

! “I’ve read all your books. They’re hardcore, man. What can I

do to help you? You looking for anything in particular?” He asked

with a sudden excitement brought on by meeting a literary

celebrity.

! I fabricated a scenario of researching a certain creature for

my next book; one that I had heard about from sources

unremembered, and needed greater knowledge on said beast than I

 Wheeldon / THE GHOSTWRITER / 23
could recall. I described the foul minion of some infernal realm;

about how it first appears as an imp, like a grotesque you would

find gurning down at you from a gothic church. Gradually mutating,

growing larger and more monstrous, with burning amber eyes and

abhorrent squirming tentacles. At first he showed me through some

of the books I had glanced at on the shelves. The Ars Goeatia

showed illustrations of the minions of hell, with their names and

hellish rank, though no creature matching my description graced

its forbidden pages. The remaining encyclopaedias and grimoires of

darkest magics contained similar tales and illustrated examples of

foul creatures, both familiar to me and thankfully unknown. But

nowhere could I see the loathsome fiend that haunted me daily, and

was surely lurking somewhere in the dark recesses of my home.

! Due to my obvious exasperation, and his confessed admiration

of my work, the storekeeper told me to wait where I was while he

unearthed something or great secrecy that may aid my quest. He

reached into the pocket in his leather waistcoat and produced a

small silver key, and then disappeared behind the counter. Dreaded

thoughts of him returning with some strange pornography pervaded

my thoughts as I patiently waited. After some fumbling he came up

with a large book of such antiquity that I scarce guess its great

age. Bound loosely in what appeared to be a rough, tan, leather,

it showed no sign of lettering or symbol upon its exterior. I

enquired as to the nature of the tome and what it was called.

 Wheeldon / THE GHOSTWRITER / 24
! “This, my friend, has no name. It’s so old, no one knows how

old it actually is, or where it came from, or who even wrote it. I

acquired it from a fellow student in the dark arts, and he

acquired it somewhere in the Caucasus region. Before that is a

mystery. What you’ve seen so far is child’s play compared to this.

This is the real deal. You can’t tell anyone you’ve seen this.”

! I nodded in agreement, and dearly hoped that the creature

would be contained within this most forbidden of texts. At least

proof of its existence may mean I could finally vanquish this

beast from my life. Whereas the alternative would lead to a

realisation of my complete mental breakdown, to which there may be

no escape. As he turned the accursed pages of that aeons scribed

book, I spied creatures of such demonic ghastliness I am scarcely

able to describe their infernal aspect. Detailed illustrations and

descriptive script, in a language unknown to me, adorned the

ancient pages, in some kind of red ink, still surprisingly clear

considering its undoubted age. My hopes waned as each page was

turned and the creature described was not the one of my waking

nightmares. About two thirds of the way through countless pages I

stopped the storekeeper and got him to turn the book towards me

for an unrestricted view. Yes that was it. That was the creature

that had brought me my great literary success and my creeping

dread. The artwork clearly showed the imp-like thing that had

approached me those many years ago, next to what must be the fiend

hiding under that makeshift cloak. The height looked right, it

 Wheeldon / THE GHOSTWRITER / 25
being presently around seven feet tall. It showed a demonic beast

of human-like proportions, with a head, torso, two arms and legs,

but that is where the similarities ended. Several tentacles

extended out from its torso, which must have been what I had spied

in terror that day. Monstrous hands, ending in titan talons

several feet long. Its face took on a visage of demonic

malevolence rather than the impish look I remembered. The

storekeeper pulled the book towards him, to attempt to translate

the archaic text that accompanied the monstrous artwork.

! “You’ve got a nasty one there. It’s referred to as the

Xagloth, or ‘the Gateway’. Basically it acts as a gate between

here and the demon realms. It takes a lot of energy for it to come

to this side, so comes over in a weakened state. What it does is

use complicit parties to spread its message, be it through

stories, artwork or song. As people hear its message they become

more in-tune with the idea of the demon realm, which gives the

creature power. The more powerful it becomes, the more its realm

leaches into ours, until the two become one. So basically hell on

earth.” He looked up, eyebrows raised.

! My head swam. What had I done? If this was true then I have

played a part in bringing about the end to everything. It

explained all those reports of madness and mania brought about by

the creature’s stories. The stories I had helped it inflict on the

world. How long until its infernal goal would be realised? How

long would humanity have left until the creature’s demonic

 Wheeldon / THE GHOSTWRITER / 26
brethren are tearing at flesh and rending limbs, as our world

ceases to exist? I tried to keep as much composure as I could

muster, as I asked the storekeeper if the book told of any way to

vanquish this beast. He claimed that there was nothing in the text

about banishing such demonic creatures, but must have seen the

obvious desperation in my eyes, as he mentioned an acquaintance

who was much more knowledgeable than himself in such matters, and

may be able to furnish me with the relevant information. He told

me that he was sure that he could arrange a meeting in a week’s

time. I would have preferred an earlier date, due to the dread of

having to share a home with this harbinger of the end for an

entire week, but would have to settle for anything I was offered.

! I returned home knowing that I must hide my newfound

knowledge from this Xagloth, terrified that it would be able to

sense my apprehension. My hand trembled as I fumbled the key into

the lock, slowly opening the door, hoping to carefully sneak my

way to the bedroom without disturbing the creature. But what

powers of fate there are, were not with me that night, as it was

waiting for me in the corner of the hallway, close to where I

headed to remove my outerwear.

! “You are home late tonight.” it growled accusatorially, “We

need to get started on the next book.”

! I recoiled like a child, scorned for not returning within

curfew. My conscious mind knew I had to remain calm, but my

subconscious knew what was concealed beneath that cape, the images
 Wheeldon / THE GHOSTWRITER / 27
from that infernal grimoire flashing like beacons on a lonely sea.

I scrambled for a response, laying the blame on my agent, who had

insisted on a celebratory meal. Then chastising it for making me

start, deflecting my outer terror on mere surprise. It seemed

placated for now, and I firmly stated that I needed to rest before

commencing any more work. I briskly took the stairs to the

bedroom, a cold sweat rushing over me. I lay awake for much of the

night going over events again and again, trying to plan for the

week ahead. I knew I had to spend as little time in the house as I

could, without arousing too much suspicion. I was all too aware of

the Xagloth’s desire to continue with its hellish work, but I knew

that I couldn’t proceed for twofold reasons. If I began typing the

following day, then whatever force it was that takes me over would

prevent me from attending that vital meeting in a week’s time.

Also, how could I be complicit in the beast’s demonic work now

that I knew its true purpose? It could be just one book away from

completing the convergence between our world and whatever demonic

realm it spawned from. The sleep I did manage was fragmented, like

window shards flashing by, showing me a view onto a Hadean world

ripped into ours like some grotesque infection. Creatures beyond

the fears of mankind tearing at our realm and claiming it as their

own. Certainly no place for any of the creatures of our world to

exist. I was compelled to put aside any clawing fears I had, and

concentrated on the meeting with this expectant saviour in less

than seven days.

 Wheeldon / THE GHOSTWRITER / 28
! I awoke the next day with a foggy plan to make it necessary

to leave the house everyday and not return till dusk. The Xagloth,

however, had other plans. As I went to leave, the creature blocked

the doorway with its great bulk. I protested, explaining that I

needed to make an important meeting with my agent.

! “I can’t let you leave. We must start the next story. We must

start it today.”

! As much as I objected, there was no way it was going to let

me leave, and it was blocking the doorway. I could have tried to

make a dash for the window, but I feared what it could do, and

didn’t want to ruin my chances of vanquishing this foul beast for

good. I pretended to phone my agent to rearrange our made up

meeting, which I believe I pulled off successfully. Settling down

into my seat, like a child attending a detention class, I readied

my notepad to write down notes on its latest blasphemous opus. As

I wrote, images from my previous night’s dream projected

themselves out of my subconscious to haunt me. I awaited the

typing frenzy with a sense of eagerness, as I knew I wouldn’t be

so tormented by such ghoulish thoughts. The Xagloth left me to

type, as it knew I was a prisoner to its feverish embrace until

the evening. All day I toiled, aiding the creature in its

diabolical objective, though one day closer to discovering if

there was a way of purging it from my life.

! By the Thursday night I was exhausted from several days of

solid typing, and terrified not only that the book was that much
 Wheeldon / THE GHOSTWRITER / 29
closer to completion, but also that I could find no way to escape

the house. The only time I could possibly get on my own, when not

typing, was if I was to have a shower. It had been several days

since my last shower and I was feeling rather ripe. I knew that

the fall from the first storey window could injure me, but felt

resolved to make a literal leap of faith and hope for the best. I

insisted that I must wash, as it was normal to shower or bath

every day, to which the beast had to concede. It must have felt

secure that I couldn’t flee, as it seemed content to let me lock

it out of the room. I ran the shower and opened the window, with

the sudden realisation that in my haste I had forgotten to bring a

change of clothes in with me, which left me with only my pyjama

trousers and a T-shirt to make my great escape in. I tied several

large bath towels together, which made a poor and not overly long

makeshift rope, but any reduction in my fall would be a blessing.

I attached this approximation of a rope to the radiator under the

window and eased myself outside, holding onto the end. I grinned

as it seemed to be working. That is until one of the knots holding

two of the towels together came loose and I crashed to the floor

like a drunk teenager on a Friday night. Fortune must have been

smiling upon me that evening, because, not only did I not injure

myself in the fall, I didn’t disturb the beast, or my neighbours,

as I rushed out of my garden in my nightwear.

! I now had to find somewhere to spend the night, and pray to

any gods who would listen that the Xagloth could either not leave
 Wheeldon / THE GHOSTWRITER / 30
my house, or would not dare risk it for fear of exposure. I found

my way to my agent’s office, through several pockets of abuse from

inebriated members of the public, alternatively amused and

offended by my lack of daywear. I bypassed the, severely lacking,

office security system, through a side window, and curled up on

his reception sofa for the night. Not the most comfortable place

to spend a night, but at least I had escaped demonic clutches, for

now.

! I was abruptly awoken by keys at the main door. I swiftly

made my exit out of the side window, before whoever the early

starter was entered the reception. Walking barefoot down the

chilly morning streets, I knew that it was too early for the

occult shop to be open, but had nowhere else to take me in;

nowhere that would not question my attire, and mental state. I sat

on the front step of the shop, waiting for the storekeeper to

arrive, like a homeless Willy Winky.

! It seemed like aeons had passed before he arrived, carrying

an oh so inviting cup of blissfully hot coffee. He felt pity on me

and offered me his drink, questioning my choice of attire as I

rose to shake his hand. I told him that I had managed to lock

myself out, but didn’t want to miss our arrangement due to a late

locksmith. Smirking, he ushered me inside and volunteered me his

leather jacket to keep warm, as he continued with his usual

morning routine.
 Wheeldon / THE GHOSTWRITER / 31
! “This man you’re going to meet.” He said as he prepared the

shop for another day of goths and curious tourists. “Well, he’s

what we call a journeyer. He’s been to places and seen things even

the gods fear to imagine. I’ve told him about the information

you’re after, and he’s keen to meet you.”

! I asked when this journeyer was likely to make an appearance,

to which I was informed that he would visit sometime today, but

specifics were unknown. As the day progressed I became

increasingly restless, pacing the shop and skim reading many of

the books, anxiety preventing me from concentrating enough to read

them properly.

! As the afternoon came to an end, and the storekeeper was

about to close up shop, a bell sounded at the back of the store,

out beyond the door next to the counter. He quickly locked the

front door and dashed to the back, hovering around the door,

clearly unsure whether to invite me back before or after his

mysterious visitor was let in. He decided to get me to wait while

he let his guest in, and I stood, tapping my fingers nervously on

the counter. A few minutes later he returned to usher me to the

back room.

! “Before you meet him, be aware that where he’s been, well,

things leave their trace, and his consciousness exists on a

different plane to us. If it’s like he looks through you, like a

ghost, then that’s normal.”

 Wheeldon / THE GHOSTWRITER / 32
! I took a nervous deep breath, before following the

storekeeper down a narrow corridor and into a small room at the

rear of the shop. The room was about eight feet square, with only

a battered set of Seventies table and chairs in the middle, and a

small sink in one corner. The storekeeper returned to the front of

the shop, leaving me across the table from a man of strange aspect

to me. I really couldn’t place where this friend of the

storekeeper, this traveller of realms, could possibly hail from

originally. And when he spoke, he spoke with an accent I had never

heard before. Maybe it was as the storekeeper had informed me,

that the realms he had visited had left their mark. He was

certainly correct about the gaze, the way he stared at you, yet

through you. It was as if the world was a sheet of paper, but one

of an entire stack. Where you or I might only see what is on the

one sheet, it was as if he could see what was on every sheet at

once. He can see you, but also what lies behind you, in the other

realms, at the same time. He appeared gentle of nature, and soft

of voice, in his strange and unplaceable accent.

! “It is a pleasure to meet you.” he said “Contact with the

other realms has left its mark upon you.”

! I started to contradict him, trying to maintain my pretence

of book research, and then realised that it was pointless trying

to fool one so human and yet so utterly alien. I explained my

predicament, and hoped beyond all hope that he would have an

answer to my need.
 Wheeldon / THE GHOSTWRITER / 33
! “There are ways to banish any being from a realm that is not

its own. I have such magics that will aid you.”

! A warm glow of relief emanated from my core, making my skin

tingle.

! “Though, with any magic this powerful, it must be targeted.

You cannot blindly fire into a crowd, without a target to aim at.

You must know its true name in order for the banishment to

succeed.”

! I was confused, as I believed ‘Xagloth’ to be its name. But

the stranger informed me that it was a Xagloth of species, and it

would have a name like you or I. I enquired as to how to discover

its name, as I doubted sincerely that it would tell me if asked

again, especially after I escaped its clutches earlier that day.

! “There is one way. You must invoke a powerful deity called

Kulath L’an, The Sayer. It knows all, and if invoked with the

correct ritual and magic, it is bound to tell you the answer to

the thing you seek.”

! The thought of having contact with yet more demonic

abhorrences filled me with dread. Though, what choice did I have?

I couldn’t let our world be overrun with these monstrous

creatures. The stranger placed two sheets of parchment upon the

decrepit table, informing me that they laid out the invocation

script for recital. He ran me through the pronunciation of the

archaic text, until I could effortlessly read the incantations out

loud. Placing a small ceremonial dagger, of undoubted great age,

 Wheeldon / THE GHOSTWRITER / 34
next to the parchment, he told me of its function in summoning

this Kulath L’an creature. I would need to sacrifice a large

mammal before reciting the incantation. I reeled at this news, as

I had never taken the life of anything larger than a bug before,

and the thought of actively stabbing a sentient life form to death

induced waves of repulsion and nausea. Though, if it meant the

saving of existence itself, how could I not? I resigned myself to

accepting my task and thanked the traveller for his assistance. He

humbly accepted my thanks and gave me some final words, before

gracefully gliding from the shop, exiting through the rear door.

! “One final thing you must know. Once the creature is banished

to its own realm, all of its influence returns with it. The

stories it has spread amongst mankind are a measure of its

influence and will return with it. It will be as if they never

existed, and no one will be aware they ever did. Except you.”

! Though part of me would miss the success that came with my

hellish collaboration, I knew that even returning to my individual

decent into oblivion was preferable to damning all of life on this

planet.

! I collected together the items the stranger had presented me

with and walked through to the front of the shop, to offer my

gratitude to the storekeeper for setting up the meeting, and

return his jacket. He stated that it was an honour to help, and

hoped for a credit in my new novel, to which I agreed, knowing

 Wheeldon / THE GHOSTWRITER / 35
that it would, in reality, be an impossibility if my quest was

successful and the beast was banished.

! I must have wandered for hours, in the dark, in my bed

clothes, unsure how I was going to tackle the task of raising some

demonic deity, by the tried and tested method of blood sacrifice.

Something my mind had consigned to biblical times and horror

movies, now loomed large in my life. I couldn’t bring myself to

slaughter a cat or dog, someone’s beloved pet, so it would have to

be something like a sheep or a cow, something I had been complicit

in every time I ate a lamb shank or beef burger. That might make

this marginally more palatable. I took a route towards the edge of

town, wishing I had at least worn slippers when I had made my

great escape. By the time I reached the outskirts of town it must

have been at least two o’clock in the morning, the ground moist

with morning dew. I vaulted a fence and made my way across a

sodden field, clueless as to whether I would even find any

livestock running loose at this time of the night, just hoping

that the fates might be smiling down on this land so close to

annihilation. As I reached the opposite side of the field I

spotted five sheep in the conjoining pasture. I carefully climbed

over the gate and moved towards them as non threatening as I

could, feeling both warmed that providence took me instinctively

in the right direction, and dread of what I would now need to do.

I steadily approached the nearest sheep and stroked its matted

fleece, gently asking for its forgiveness for what I was about to
 Wheeldon / THE GHOSTWRITER / 36
do. With the parchment in front of me, I read aloud the

incantation, briefly pausing before plunging the ceremonial dagger

into the side of the sheep. Blood splattered across my face and

chest. I blindly stabbed at the poor animal, its horrific cries

echoing for miles around. Once the horrendous bellowing had ceased

I found myself on my knees in mud and viscera, the bright blood

luminescent under the voluminous moon. Standing up in the utter

isolation of that, now deserted, field, I wondered when the

demonic force might make its presence known. The thought entered

my head that maybe this was some form practical joke at my

expense, until I heard a distinct bestial breathing behind me.

Turning with a start, the sight that met my gaze was that of shear

abomination. Even having had contact with the monstrous Xagloth

hadn’t prepared me for a being bred of unimaginable chaos. It

crouched before me, still over six feet high, its ape-like arms

resting in front of its haunches. The beast appeared to have no

skin, giving the impression of a flayed carcass; a viscous slime

running over its entire body, glistening in the moonlight.

Switchblade teeth lined its enormous jaws, in a head that was

almost entirely mouth, there appearing to be no eyes, ears or nose

that I could tell. The head connected to its bestial body by a

long neck. I inched backwards, almost tripping over the dead

sheep. And then it spoke to me with a serpentine hiss.

! “What is it that you seek from me? What knowledge must I

impart to you?”
 Wheeldon / THE GHOSTWRITER / 37
! Through a haze of utter panic I remembered what the traveller

had told me, and spoke to the Kulath L’an with a reverence due to

a god of demonic realms, if only in fear of what it could do to me

if I didn’t. I bowed my head in both instructed deference, and

revulsion of its hideous appearance, asking it the true name of

the Xagloth that resided in my home. It spoke a word I cannot

possibly put into writing, but was somehow indelibly printed on my

mind and lips. I stood there, head bowed, the name repeating again

and again in my head, until I noticed the utter silence had

returned. I gazed up and realised the creature had gone, no doubt

irritated by a mere mortal summoning it for such trivial matters.

! After wiping off as much viscera as I could with moist

foliage, I made my way back across the field wondering if I should

head straight home to confront the Xagloth, while the adrenaline

still coursed through me. But I decided the wiser course of action

was to head to my agent’s office, where I knew that a shower and

warm sofa waited for me, to help clear my mind for the

confrontation ahead.

! And this is where I now sit, writing this account of what has

occurred. Part of me still doubts that this is real, that my mind

has truly departed into the dream-world of madness. But I cannot

risk the well-being of this entire realm, if there is even a slim

chance that what has happened is real. I am about to confront this

Xagloth creature, armed with the parchment bearing the incantation

and the beast’s true name. If you are reading this, and you don’t
 Wheeldon / THE GHOSTWRITER / 38
know the name of David Price, then, with luck, I have banished the

fiend back to whatever infernal realm it came from; my works, and

the fame that coincided with them, ceasing to have ever existed.

If I have survived the encounter, then I am hopefully enjoying a

life of humble anonymity somewhere away from the public eye. If

not, then maybe it’s as much as I deserve.