Ghosts of writing

I live in the country. I don’t say this imprudently. My office is far removed from the house. I did this purposely. To keep me as far from distractions as possible. So when I heard a knock on the door, it startled me. I looked up to see a young woman standing there. Her expression one of sorrow. Raising from my desk, I went around it and opened the door. I then recognized her. Now, I always said that I write in such a way that if one character from my stories were to knock on my front door, they would not surprise me. However, I never expected it to happen. I could almost see through her. I decided the best course was to pretend I didn’t know her.

I pasted a smile on my face. One I didn’t feel. “Hi can I help you?” She opened her mouth. Her words came out in a wail. “You killed my baby. Why? I loved him so much.” She sobbed. Reaching out a hand, it went right through her.
“Please come in.” I said, opening the door for her. Unnecessary. The woman came through the glass. Once inside, she settled into the old rocker. She put her face in her hands and wept. I set uncomfortably until she raised a tear-stained face. She asks the same question my wife asks. “Why? Why did you kill my baby? I would have given my life for him. He was only five.” Big tears dripped off her chin.

I cleared my throat. I gave her the same answer I gave my wife. “It…was necessary for the story.”  

She looked at me in sorrow. “No, it wasn’t. There had to be another way. What if the killer died instead?”

“I’m sorry. Too early in the story. “ I said, feeling trapped.

“There has to be another way. What if I died instead?” She said, her face twisted up.

“You’re a central figure in the story. I can’t kill you off. “ I said. My mind whirling. I needed to rid myself of this woman. But that wouldn’t work. I needed to help her. I pulled my cellphone from my shirt pocket. I punched in the number I knew so well.

“George, Hunter. How close are we to publication date?”

“Hi Hunter. If we keep working on it about three weeks. Why do you have a new story for us?” George said. He sounded harried.

“Not a new story, but a revived one. I can have it to you by tomorrow.” I said, looking at this mother’s tear-stained face. She had been crying for some time.

“Great, just get it to me as soon as you can,” George said.

“Will do.” I rang off and smiled at her. “Hold on.”

For the first time, I saw a hint of a smile. Stories are not like real life. People who are dead are not really dead. I pulled up the story on my computer. I wrote. Amazingly, in a few pages, I saw where I could change the story. A half hour turned into an hour, then two.

“Momma?” The child stood before his mother. Instantly, she was on her knees, hugging him. Their tears flowed together.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you.” She said, tears streaming down her face. But now they were tears of joy. She opened the door for her and her son. He looked back over his shoulder at me.

“Momma, who’s that man?”

“Come on, honey. Let’s go home and mommy will tell you all about it. “ Standing at the door to my office, I watched them go until they disappeared. Sometimes I love being a writer.