Page 9 - The Final Words

Denise reached up and pulled down the typewriter. The paper had been filled with
sentences and it kept typing. Denise read the words and they all said the same thing.

Stephen never finished the story. The story must be concluded.

“What does this mean? How is this happening?” Denise put the typewriter on her desk
and it finally stopped typing.

When Stephen died, Denise took the one thing that she thought he would want saved
out of sentimentality. The typewriter. It was, after all, an antique. She assumed it had been
given to him from his grandparents and she didn’t want it to get thrown out. She figured she’d
give it to their son when the time was right, but not after that.

Denise stared profusely at it for what seemed like hours. Dumbfounded, she didn’t
know what to do. It frightened her, and she wasn’t a writer. How could she finish a story? Then
she thought she imagined the whole thing. She decided to lay down and close her eyes. She
thought to herself, that she had an exhausting day and her mind played a trick on her. After a
good night’s sleep, she’d wake up and the typewriter would be back on the shelf in the closest,
and Stephen would be coming home.

The next morning the phone rang.

“Hello.”

“Mom, it’s Stephen. I’m going to have breakfast here and be home this afternoon. I just
wanted to let you know so you don’t worry.”

“Okay, Son. See you later.”

Denise stretched her arms and yawned. Refreshed, she slipped into her slippers and put
on her bathroom to make a pot of coffee, but she stopped in her tracks.

“What the hell!”

On her desk sat the typewriter with the page still in it. Denise, pulled out the page and
read it repeatedly. She didn’t know what to make of the bizarre situation. She wondered if it
had happened to Stephen before he died. Troubled, she put on a pot of coffee. She needed to
think clearly, and the caffeine would help. She took the frying pan out and scrambled two eggs.
She tried not to think of the elephant in the other room, but it consumed her mind. She sipped
her hot coffee and slowly ate her eggs. She didn’t want to rush going back into the bedroom.
After she finished eating and drinking her coffee, she washed the dishes and brought in the
newspaper. She did everything to avoid the issue of the self-typing typewriter. She knew at
some point she’d have to deal with it, but it wouldn’t hurt to prolong it a bit. The typewriter
obviously wasn’t going anywhere.