Seraphim Falls

Seraphim Falls

Some towns hide their secrets

better than others.

T.R. Toth

Copyright © 2021 T.R. Toth

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations, reviews and other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Contents

Keystroke

Mr. Winston’s Deal of a Lifetime

Return to Sender

Redneck Rendezvous

Laugh in the Dark

The Hotel Arcadia

Keystroke

Emma was in trouble. She ran her fingers through her hair, digging at the scalp as they raked rows through the dark, tangled mess. Her elbows were starting to turn white because of the pressure she was putting on them to support her head.

She sighed heavily and slumped back in the black chair at her desk before leaning forward and grabbing a bottle of aspirin to help with her pounding headache. She reached for the remainder of the stale cup of coffee she had on her desk from earlier this morning.

Emma swigged back the brown, bitter liquid, and said a prayer this would work as well as help her get out of the mess she was in right now.

He’s going to kill me. I don’t know what I’m going to do, but I have to come up with something.

Trying as hard as she could, Emma still sat in front of the computer, blank screen staring back at her.

The sound of the bathroom faucet dripping in the next room and the ceiling fan overhead making its same unbalanced hum did little to help ease her headache.

This is it, you can do this, Em.

She gingerly placed her fingers on the keyboard and willed herself to start writing.

Nothing happened.

She collapsed her head on top of her folded arms on the desk. Was it dramatic? Yes. Did it make her feel better? A little.

When she was younger, her mother wanted her to go to those shady auditions that were looking for the next big child star. But Emma saw them for what they were, cattle call for pedophiles, and refused to go.

Emma pushed herself away from the desk in exasperation and walked into the kitchen to refill her cup of coffee. In her experience, caffeine has done wonders to not only improve her headache, but her mood, too.

Her calico cat, Anastasia, wound her way between Emma’s legs.

I don’t know why I can’t come up with anything, she said while bending down and picking up the cat.

Emma placed her on the counter next to the coffeemaker and gave her a few scratches behind the ear before refilling her mug.

As the coffee enticed her with its smell, Emma tried to think of an idea for her newest book.

I used to have so many great ideas, now I can’t come up with anything.

After all, she was the famous Emma Greatwater, the author of the bestselling, Bloodsuckers in Love, YA novels. Not only had the first two reached the top of the New York Time’s Bestseller’s List, but they had been made into feature films and started the careers of three of the hottest stars today.

Emma getting heat from her editor to write the next book before her readers cooled down for the dreamy, but cocky vampire teen and his moody, but beautiful, mortal girlfriend.

She scratched behind Anna’s ear, left the room, and padded down the hallway back to her office.

It was brightly decorated with photographs of vacations Emma had gone on and artwork from her favorite artist Frida Kahlo.

Along a thin shelf, she had various photos from childhood, her college years, and more recent ones.

What usually stirred Emma’s creativity, especially when she was in a dry spell, like now, was a photo she took of Earnest Hemingway’s office in Key West. Living and writing in Key West was a dream of hers, and this photo of the tropical town was a reminder that maybe, someday, she could be just like Hemingway, going to the beach, petting lots of cats, and writing to her heart’s content.

This time, while she was looking at the photo, Emma was drawn to the black object seated in the center of his desk surrounded by various hunting trophies and adventure photos.

Its sleek, black lines and shiny, metallic, push button keys immediately put a longing in Emma’s heart.

Maybe that’s what I need to serve as my muse, she said. Even if I would use the typewriter just to brainstorm, it might solve my writer’s block.

Emma put her coffee cup on the desk and left to get her winter coat from the hall closet. She grabbed her hand-crocheted beret and bundled up to fight against the blustery, Pennsylvania, autumn afternoon. Emma fought against the wind to pull the door shut behind her as she left for her car.

As she turned her blue SUV into the parking lot of Grandma’s Treasures, a local thrift store, she crossed her fingers hoping to find what she was desperately looking for. After all, Emma was pretty sure her local Walmart wouldn’t have the typewriter she wanted, if they had any at all. With so many people depending on computers she was doubtful anyone would need one.

Emma got out of her car and walked to the store’s front entrance. She pushed the door open, and a little bell softy jingled overhead.

The large front room was dimly lit by overhead lights and antique lamps scattered among side tables.

Treasures and junk were scattered from floor to ceiling thrown together in what seemed like a nonsensical order.

The air smelled like a perfume of musk, mothballs, and an old man’s aftershave.

Emma daintily made her way through the room, stepping over piles of old sewing patterns, ancient books, and dishware with spiderweb cracks.

As she was passing a shelf crammed to the brim with clown figurines and carnival glass, Emma found something that took her breath away.

There it was.

In a darkened corner, left alone and forgotten, sat a worn, black typewriter. It was similar in style to the one Hemingway had on his desk.

Emma bent down, blew a thick layer of dust off the machine, and flipped over a tag that had $25 written on it.

She carefully picked up her prize, which was heavier than she thought, and cradled it lovingly like a child comforting a stray puppy.

After navigating a path through the store, Emma plunked down the typewriter in front of the elderly man behind the counter who was engrossed with the morning newspaper crossword puzzle.

He was bald and the nearby lamplight shone off of him like a lighthouse bringing in stray shoppers as ships in the night carrying in cargo.

Emma inhaled deeply and found the source of the aftershave she had smelled when she first walked in. It was so strong; Emma swore she could taste it in the back of her throat.

The clerk took off his glasses, that he wore down on the tip of his nose and put them on top of the puzzle he had set down when he saw her coming.

I forgot we had one of these, he said.

He had a kindly smile, the sort a grandfather reserves for his grandchildren.

You do know how to use it, don’t you?

If anyone else would have said this to Emma she would have taken personal offense but seeing how sweet he seemed and the look of reminiscing on his face as he handled the well-worked keys, she let it slide.

I think I can figure it out, she said.

The man nodded and reached under the counter to grab a liquor box to nestle the piece of mid-century technology in for safe traveling.

If you don’t mind me asking, in this day of computers, what are you going to do with this old typewriter?

The man rung up Emma’s purchase, took her money, and placed it inside of a cash register that looked like it belonged behind a soda fountain in the late 1800s.

I’m hoping it’ll provide some inspiration. I’m a writer and I have hit a dry spell. Maybe it will bring me luck.

The shopkeeper returned her change and slid the box across the glass countertop.

Oh, I’m sure you won’t have a problem coming up with new ideas now, he said. Best of luck to you.

Emma thanked him and took the box to the car. She knew it was silly, but she couldn’t help strapping it into the seat next to her. She wasn’t sure how delicate the antiquated equipment was, and she didn’t’ want to have to scour eBay for replacement parts.

After pulling into her parking spot in front of her apartment building, Emma cursed herself for renting a place on the sixth floor without an elevator.

She lugged the typewriter up all six flights of steps without needing to stop for a break. Emma felt all her time doing cardio at the local gym was starting to pay off.

When she reached the door to her apartment, she put the box on the ground and dug out her keys. But, when she put the key in the lock, the door opened slightly without needing to be unlocked.

The blood drained from her face as she pushed it all the way open. Emma wracked her brain. In her haste to leave did she remember to lock the door? Could there be someone in the process of robbing her right now? Was she going to become the breaking news tomorrow morning on channel WKRV?

Emma shook her head. She was listening to too many true crime podcasts and was now overreacting.

She quietly stepped into the foyer and heard talking coming from her living room.

Emma gingerly sat the typewriter down inside the front door and picked up a baseball bat she named Otis that she kept near the entrance of her apartment as a way to defend against intruders. She never dreamed she would have to use him, but now here she was wrapping her fingers around the worn bat, gripping it like Babe Ruth ready to take someone’s head off if need be.

She crept along the wall of the front hallway while her heart raced. Emma braced herself and counted to three before she peered around the corner into the living room. With Otis, poised over her head, ready to lower it onto the intruder Emma moved closer to the man who was sitting on her couch watching television.

The audacity of this criminal to come in here and watch my TV. Why couldn’t he just be a normal burglar and just steal my stuff and get out.

Just as she was ready to slam Otis into this person’s skull, the man turned, and a flash of recognition came across her face.

What the hell, Noah? Emma asked.

Noah turned around startled and saw his armed girlfriend standing behind him for the first time.

Whoa! You know it isn’t nice to sneak up on people. Especially with that in your hand.

Emma relaxed and returned the bat to her side.

I didn’t think I was sneaking up behind someone in my own apartment. Especially when said someone left the door unlocked making me think I was walking into a robbery in process.

Noah smiled, and ran his hands through his chocolate-colored hair. He loved how she inserted words that she heard from her podcasts into everyday conversations. He walked to her side, took the bat from her, and tossed it gently on a nearby chair.

He ran his hands down her arms and brought them up to circle his shoulders in a hug.

I thought you would be here. But when you didn’t answer I decided to let myself in and wait. Where were you anyway? he asked.

Noah turned and leaned over the couch to grab the remote and shut off the TV so he could hear Emma better.

A smile grew across Emma’s face as she held up one finger, meaning for him to wait a moment, and left to get her purchase.

I went to get myself a little inspiration, she said while pulling the typewriter from the box. I found this in hopes it would help stir some creativity.

Noah, who was a computer programmer and embraced all of the latest technology muttered Luddite under his breath before chuckling.

What do you want with an old typewriter? Do you know how difficult these things are to use? What is wrong with your computer?

Nothing is wrong with my computer, Noah, she said.

Emma crossed her arms over her chest and looked away from her boyfriend.

Something came over me to buy a typewriter. I just get this feeling that if I use this to do a little brainstorming, it might help me come up with new ideas.

Noah sighed as Emma left the room to go to the kitchen. She pulled out a bottle of wine she failed to finish last night and poured herself a glass.

Emma thought It’s five o’clock somewhere as she justified her midday drinking.

She went back into the living room, wine glass in hand, and flopped down on the couch next to Noah.

Emma leaned against him and rested her head on the soft, blue flannel shirt he was wearing. She breathed in deep his cologne and the scent of sandalwood and oranges helped calm her mind.

Frankly, I’ve hit a creative brick wall and my editor is barking at me every day to give him a new manuscript for the third book. But no matter how hard I try; I can’t get the words on the page.

Noah turned and kissed her on the top of her head before putting her hand in his.

I want you to realize you are a successful writer because of your ideas. Using a typewriter won’t give you anything you already don’t have. However, if it makes you happy and if you feel it will get the ‘creative juices’ flowing, then so be it.

Emma continued to sit there, feeling foolish, thinking a typewriter would solve all of her problems.

Noah let go of Emma’s hand, jumped off the couch, and grabbed the box at Emma’s feet.

He walked toward her office and put the new purchase in the center of the desk, just like Hemingway.

It really does bring something to the room, he said. What do you say we celebrate your new purchase and go out to dinner?

Emma planted a kiss on Noah’s cheek. His suggestion seemed to lift her spirits.

Sounds good, she said.

Noah turned to leave the office and walked down the hall.

Let me use the bathroom first, he said.

While he was gone, Emma stood in her office and looked at the worn typewriter. It felt like it had always been there, and Emma had a hard time remembering what it looked like before its arrival.

As she turned to leave, Emma glanced at the photo of Hemingway’s office and saw the majestic typewriter on the author’s desk. She was lost in the photo when she felt a chill down her spine and saw a shadow reflecting off the glass of the photo. When she whirled around, the room was empty.

I’m ready if you are? said Noah. Are you alright? You look like you’re lost or something.

Emma looked at her boyfriend, and then shook away the uneasiness she was feeling.

It must have just been a shadow or even my own reflection.

No. I’m fine. Just waiting for you, let’s go.

Noah and Emma bundled up and headed out into the cold as the afternoon was turning into evening.

When Emma opened her eyes, the morning light blinded her. She rubbed her temples as she felt her head was going to crack open. She rolled over to look at the clock; its red numbers were flashing 10 a.m.

I guess drinking a whole bottle of wine wasn’t such a good idea, she said.

Anastasia, seeing Emma awake, slinked over and gently pawed her to make sure she was alive