Last Thursday, I had a phone call from my brother. In retrospect, I really should have hung up… but I didn’t.

“What is it, Dave?” Did I sound weary and intolerant? I meant to.
“How you been keeping Ben… and how’s… you know?”
“We’re both fine… get to the point will you please?”
“Okay… You remember a while back… before the ‘thingy’…?” 
The ‘thingy’ was deeply etched on my Soul, and I wasn’t going to forget it in a hurry… certainly not in this lifetime.
“You’re not going to talk about ghostwriting again, are you Dave?”
“Spot on! I knew you’d remember!” 

How could I forget my experience of writing ten thousand words of erotic fiction, only to be find afterwards there were two typos in the advertisement that I’d answered. Instead of: ‘An Exploration of Exotic Plants’, the ad stated: ‘An Exploration of Erotic Pants’. This is why I always turn off my predictive text…

“So, what is it this time… a review of the Retail Store M & S, which is being advertised as ‘Retelling Stories of S & M’?” I asked.
“Come on Ben… it was just one simple mistake… and it’s a different company this time. Writing’s your thing bro; and I really liked what you wrote for that plant article!”

I sighed. Blood is thicker than water, and I’m thinker than both. “All right… so tell me what they want…” As it turned out, what they wanted was right up my street: Ghost short stories!
* 
I found the advertisement on upwork.com, a website I’ve used before for finding writing projects. I read all the fine print, and thought the payment was reasonable for what they wanted – which was $100 for 1100 to 1300-word stories. They were looking for a writer who could do five or six stories at a time – which was no bother to me.

So one evening, a couple of days later, I sat at my desk making a start on my first piece. I’d already emailed them a sample of my ghost/horror writing, with a copy of my CV – including my writing history and background. They were very happy with this, so all I had to do now was write the first story, following the very specific guidelines they’d stipulated.

The first story had to be called: ‘The Hand’. I relaxed my mind and shoulders, as I do before creating something new, and took several deep breaths, with my eyes closed. After a several minutes of meditation, I opened my eyes and focused on my laptop screen. I was now ready to begin, and I typed the title.  But before I could type another word, I felt my left hand stiffen. Not the beginning of Arthritis, I hoped. Then a similar feeling in my right. I put my hands together, wringing them and cracking the knuckles. But before I could resume typing, the hands began on their own! Suddenly, I had lost complete control of both hands. A chill went up my spine as I watched my own hands type words on the computer – words that had not originated from my own brain! I attempted to stop my hands typing, but I was unable to do so: I had no mental control over either of them. I tried grabbing one hand with the other, but that was impossible – and they continued typing relentlessly. Desperate to stop them, I lent down and grabbed my right-hand with my mouth. It fought to be freed, but my bite was far too strong. I noticed that I felt no pain in the hand. Meanwhile, the other hand continued to type on its own. Somehow, I managed to angle my head onto my left hand, pinning it down, whilst retaining my grip on the right hand with my teeth. This position was very uncomfortable, but it did the trick. After about five minutes, I felt my hands go limp, and I used them to quickly close my Word programme and power off the computer.

What had just happened?

The next morning, after a fitful sleep, I awoke to find my hands back to normal, though teeth marks were still evident on my right hand. 

After breakfast, I tiptoed over to the computer and powered up, using the barest touch from one finger, not wishing to awake my hands with their seemingly supernatural power… not yet, at least. But I was naturally interested to see what these hands had typed the previous day.

Reading the text on the screen, I was, quite frankly, flabbergasted! The writing was extremely eloquent, and wonderfully written in a language reminiscent of Victorian British writers. As if awoken by seeing the text on the screen, my hands flexed themselves, then returned to work! The story they had started was clearly unfinished, and they set about the task of completing it. This time, I did not attempt to stop them… I was too desperate to see how and what they would write – and eager to read the finished article, story or whatever it was going to be.

The hands seemed to sense whenever I required them for other things, and would stop every now and then to allow me to make some tea, cook food or use the bathroom. But apart from that, they were relentless in their pursuit of the finished article.

When the work was complete, the hands stopped, and lay flat on the desk. They had produced five thousand words of amazing text. I regained ownership of my hands for the purpose of scanning what they had written. I could feel my face glowing with every sentence that I read.

“May I publish this?” I asked excitedly, once I’d reached the end. One hand looked at the other, as if considering this between themselves. Then they turned to face me and sort of ‘nodded’. I took this to be an affirmation; but I wanted to make one thing clear. “This is not my work, it is yours. So I will only publish it if you will allow me to use your name – is that agreeable?”

Again, the hands studied each other. Was that a smile I noticed? And again, they turned to face me, and nodded – this time much more joyously

“Then, I will need your name,” I smiled. The left hand bowed towards the right, and they quickly typed a name on the screen. 

“Charlotte Riddell!” I read aloud. “I know the name! She… I mean, you, was a famous writer of Victorian ghost fiction!” This was incredible! 

I read the story again from beginning to end – and I loved every word. It was a wonderful piece of prose, written in a style popular more the one hundred and fifty years ago… but still popular today.

I had one last question for the hands. “And just to be sure… this is an original work? I mean, this is this the first time you’ve written it?” I looked at the hands, hopefully and expectantly, first left then right, then right again.” My palms wrinkled into a smile, as they returned to the keyboard and typed after the last line on the page.

“An original story by Charlotte Riddle. Copyright Ben Townsend © 2020.”

I smiled back at my hands; but the spirit, ghost or soul of whatever we should call the embodiment of Charlotte Riddle – had vanished. I was left with my very ordinary hands, connected to my very ordinary brain. But I had had the experience – first-hand experience – of being a truly great writer. And for this, I will be forever grateful.

Ben Townsend.