Newspaper of the Dead

The clatter of ancient typewriters makes Joseph think he’s trapped inside a set of chattering teeth. Inside some demon’s jaw. But they’re a good team, Joesph thinks. Dead or not, they’re hard workers. Got real spirit. He allows a rare grin as he marches the aisle inspecting their work. He’ll turn this whole damn business around — he just needs a little time.

There are blue wisps of people sitting at each of the desks, memories that still linger long after the fire that singed the building black and ashed their bodies into piles. Their hands dip in and out of the metallic keys as they write. Waves against rocks.

“Sir!”

It’s a man in a fedora floating up to him, a pencil behind his ear. He shimmers like a moonbeam under a wavering branch. He’s one of the reporters.

“What you got for me?” asks Joesph.

”I got a scoop on a multiple homicide,” says the ghost-man. “Cops got no leads, but I got one, boss. A good one!“

Light, the color of weak tea, twists in through windows smeared in dust, pooling next to the reporter. Joesph closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He smells the musty odour of ancient paper, of sweat, of charcoal-death.

He can bring this place back.

”This might be what we need,” says Joseph. “Our first big scoop.” He opens his eyes and now the office is empty. Dark. Cold. He’s standing alone on a patch of spoiled moonlight, the once green carpet now curled black moss beneath his feet.

His head hurts. He needs sleep. Rest. Where are the journalists? If they don’t get the headline sorted before sunrise, the whole place will go under…

Except.

Except this place has clearly been abandoned for a long time. The building looks condemned, could fall in a minor gale.

He tries to think what he’s doing here.

Wasn’t this his job? To bring this place back to life? And he was so close to succeeding, once.

He remembers, vaguely, nights and days of blistering no-break work. Of high staff turn-arounds, of them pleading for second chances. Of him pushing them to breaking point, yes, but all for the good of the paper. He was shedding the chaff before it weighed them all down.

He coughs. Blinks.

The workers are back. The typewriters click and clack once again under tireless spectral fingertips.

The uneasy feeling in his gut remains, however.

”Boss?”

It’s the same reporter.

”The homicide, boss. I really think it’s front cover material.”

Joseph concentrates on his breathing. He’s got to keep his head in it if he’s going to turn the business around. His hair dangles in front of his eyes — he’s become messy in his struggle to save the paper. As he brushes it away, he notices how grey his hair’s gotten. And his hand — it’s veined by purple snakes and marked by large liver spots.

How old he’s suddenly become! Perhaps too old for all of this.

The reporter goes on: “This is what I got so far, on the case: The boss, also owner, of failing business, can’t turn its flagging fortunes around. He fails to save said business. Decides to claim insurance on the building instead.“

Joseph clamps a hand around his forehead. It’s like there’s a hornet inside his head that won’t stop stinging, drilling.

”The thing the boss doesn’t know, or maybe doesn’t care about, is there were still fifteen workers in the office when he started the fire. See, he didn’t go upstairs to check and they were working unpaid overtime to try to please him.”

”No,” gasps Joesph. “That’s not right…” But he can’t remember. These days he can’t keep anything straight. He shouldn’t be here — he should be swallowing his pills and watching TV in the home they put him in. How did he get here? Wasn’t there a note… a request for his presence…

”Oh it’s right all right,” says the reporter.

The lights flicker. Or his vision does. Darkness, then light. Dark then light. Dark, light. The ghosts are gone again.

And now Joseph is alone in the building he used to own, at the business he once ran. His memory puzzles together.

This is the place he burned down.

He remembers now, if only for a moment. He wouldn’t let himself fail. Better to destroy the whole damn place than ever admit to himself he’d failed.

Afterwards, it was just a matter of lying. Of years passing by and letting himself truly believe all his lies.

His vision flickers a final time.

When it returns, the workers are back. No typewriters chattering. Instead, the staff are all around him now, closing in. Burned faces, skin flaking off in red-black waves. The stink of burning flesh.

”We’ve not been able to rest for longer than we can remember,” says the reporter. He has a letter-opener in his hand now.

”Yes, we’ve been waiting so long,” says another, as they near together, as a single tight noose.

”But now we are nearing peace at last.”

”Please,” says Joesph. “Please.” The typewriters chatter. Or his teeth.

He hears himself scream. The screams warps into a memory of the building — this building — with fingers of purple flames strangling it. A dozen or more people scream for help from the windows.

But Joesph couldn’t go and fetch help. He’d wanted to, but it’d be too suspicious if he was the one to have found them, to find the fire — he wasn’t usually here at this time, after all.

Instead he sat on a hill overlooking the building, eyes closed, listening to the screaming, pleading howls.

The first touch of the reporter’s hand feels knife-cold against his neck.

The second, as blood pours out of the fresh wound, feels as hot as all hell.

*****

THE END.