Short Nightmares

Ding! Ding! Bentli snaps out of the book he is lost in. He quickly tosses the bookmark into the pages and slams it shut, a little more aggressively than intended. His social anxiety has spiked. He slips into his customer service voice.

“Hello.” He waves nervously at the old man rounding the corner, a heavy typewriter in his hands. “How can I assist you today?”

“Some help would be nice.”

“Oh, yeah. Sorry.” Bentli rushes from behind the desk to assist the older gentleman. It had been so long since anyone had stepped foot inside the antique shop. He definitely wasn’t expecting anyone on such a dreary day.

“How much for this thing?” The old man says as he motions to the typewriter.

“Uhh… I don’t know off the top of my head. Let me check.” Bentli darts behind the desk to examine the price book. After searching for a bit he finds the base price set at $40. “I can give you forty dollars for it.”

“I’m going to need more than forty dollars for this.” He folds his hands and places them on the counter. Bentli feels his heart rate elevating even more. His social anxiety was up from the start of this interaction and it hasn’t gotten better.

“Uhh… maybe I should go get my boss? He is the one that usually deals with a price switch.” Bentli turns to exit.

“This isn’t any old typewriter, you know. This right here… it will make you rich.” The old man strikes a key as he says this. Bentli stops and looks back at the man with a smirk on his face.

“Nice try. You know how many times people have come here saying those exact same words?” He begins to relax a little. This man had a poker face, but it was just another kook trying to make more money.

“I’m not lying.” He stated plainly. “This isn’t like anything you’ve encountered before. I’m sure of it. This typewriter will make you rich, but it will come at a cost.”

“Oh, man.” Bentli mumbles under his breath. The old man shoots him a displeased gaze. “Look, sir. Like I said before, I can give you forty dollars.” The man was so unwavering. Bentli almost believed him.

“Fine.” The man sighs. “No harm in trying for more.” Bentli counts the cash and hands it over to him.

“The one flaw in your story… if this does make you rich, why are you selling it in a pawn shop for forty dollars?” The old man chuckles as he takes the money.

“Like I said, it comes with a price. A price I wasn’t willing to pay. Now, I just want it out of my life so I can continue to live in peace with whatever time I have left.” Bentli couldn’t help feeling like the man was sounding crazier the longer the interaction continued. “If I were you, I’d destroy it.”

“I see. Unfortunately we probably won’t do that.” Bentli turns on his customer service voice once more. “Anyway, thank you so much for your business today. We are grateful for your exchange. I hope you have a great rest of your afternoon.” Bentli grabs the typewriter. As he does, the man latches onto his hands. Bentli tries to pull away but cannot.

“Listen to me closely, boy. No matter what you do, do not sell this to anyone. What I said is true.” The security guard comes over and struggles to remove the old man’s hands from Bentli. “The price is too steep. Do not be the one responsible for placing this curse upon somebody.” The security guard is dragging the man from the shop as he calls out. “Destroy it! Before someone else suffers.” This is the last thing Bentli hears before the door closes.

“You alright?” The security guard asks as he locks the door.

“Yeah. Thank you. Crazy old guys.” Bentli chuckles, trying to pretend like he wasn’t shaken by the encounter.

“Won’t be the last.” The security guard replies. Bentli stares down at the typewriter, his curiosity peaked. It looks like a normal typewriter. Pretty nice quality actually.

“I have been wanting a typewriter.” He mumbles.

“You say something?” The security guard startles Bentli.

“What?! Uh, no, no, sorry. Just talking to myself.”

“Oh. Alright.” He replies, raising an eyebrow. "Holler if you need anything.” Bentli nods. He scoops up the typewriter and carries it into the back. The old man’s words still echoing in his ears.

After pondering whether or not he really wanted the antique, Bentli decides to take it home. He knew the boss wouldn’t mind as long as he paid for it, so he pulled out $60 from the ATM before closing the store down. His boss gave it to him for $30, so he stopped at Fast Burger on the way home and treated himself to a buffet of calories before heading home for the evening. He sets the typewriter on his desk and flips on the desk lamp. He pulls out a stack of paper and begins to load a sheet, trying to get it as even as possible before closing the paper guide. He places his fingers on the keys ready to type but stops. After a few seconds of thinking, he types a few words. Deciding he doesn’t like them, pulls the paper out, tosses it and starts again. After an hour of repeating this pattern he finally gives up.

“I really thought you would help me find some inspiration.” Bentli says to the typewriter. He leans back in his chair and sighs. He lights up a cigarette and stares at the blank page. He continues trying to think of something… anything, as the ember begins to burn into the filter. He exhales one last puff of smoke before extinguishing the cigarette, flipping the lights and heading to bed.

Uneasy sleep would put it lightly. For whatever reason, Bentli barely slept at all. When he did, monsters and demons terrorized him. He remembered having a dream where no matter how hard he tried to run away he couldn’t. The monsters would grow closer and closer and he would try harder, but eventually they caught him and ripped him to shreds. He called out sick to try and get more rest, but only ended up staring at his ceiling instead. Replaying the nightmares over and over in his head. He made himself some coffee and decided to try writing something again. He sat down and loaded the paper. He leaned back in his chair and lit up his first cigarette of the day. As he exhaled he felt the wave of relaxation taking over. Staring at the blank page in front of him, an idea came to his mind. He leaned forward and began to type.

He barely noticed the sun go down. He hadn’t created like this in such a long time. It felt almost effortless and even more exhilarating than he remembered. He was glad he decided to stay home from work. His stomach rumbled. All he had today had been caffeine and nicotine. He searched for his phone, finding it on his night stand. He lit up a cigarette as he paced around the room, ordering food from his favorite restaurant. As he headed to the bathroom Bentli caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He stopped to look for a minute, noticing lines at the corners of his eyes he had never seen before. The purple bags under his eyes were also heavy, and his stubble had grown in quickly. He stretched his back and shoulders, trying to relieve the tension from being hunched over writing all day. He cracked his knuckles and noticed the soreness in his finger joints.

“Wow. I’m out of practice.” He mumbles out loud. “I look like shit. I need to sleep.” He waits for his food, reading what he has written so far. He begins to fade in and out of sleep when the doorbell snaps him out of his trance. He pays the delivery girl, ignoring the judgemental glare on her face, and tips her extra. Once the door is closed he immediately begins stuffing the food in his mouth. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was until now. As he finished he could already feel sleep taking over. He grabs an ashtray and smokes one more cigarette in bed before falling asleep.

Another restless night. Bentli was unable to dream without horrible images passing through his mind. At one point he remembered burning alive in his bed. He had never had nightmares like he had been having the past couple of evenings. Why now? He looked around and noticed he had let one of his cigarettes burn itself out. Maybe his subconscious was trying to warn him. He pondered for a little longer before letting it go. He glanced at the typewriter as he got out of bed. Loaded and ready to go. Had he reloaded it last night? He couldn’t remember. As he flipped on the light to the bathroom he caught a glance of himself in the mirror. A quick cry of astonishment. He stares at himself as he slowly approaches his reflection. It looked as though he had aged ten years overnight. His smooth skin had now grown light creases around his eyes and in his forehead. His beard, now grown in full, had begun to sprout grey hairs. His teeth felt like they had begun to rot or as if they had been ground away slowly over time. His posture had become slightly hunched and his knuckles ached.

“I’m losing my mind.” He says to his reflexion. He slaps himself to make sure he is awake. He spends time shaving his beard away and trying to make himself look younger, with no success. He calls off from work again. How was he going to explain this? His head began to pound. After making himself some coffee he sits down in front of the typewriter, remembering the old man’s words. “It can make me rich but at a cost.” What was the cost? Maybe it was responsible for the nightmares and the constant urge to finish the story he was working on? Maybe his eyes were deceiving him and this was all some horrible dream or hallucination brought on by lack of sleep. Maybe if he finished the story, he would find himself back to normal. He glanced at the stack of papers he had already written. He tried to distract himself as long as he could but his head only stopped screaming when he was at the typewriter. As he leans forward the images of the story he was writing flash through his mind. He begins to type.

Ring! Ring! The phone startles Bentli awake. He fumbles for it before answering.

“Hello?” He mumbles.

“Bentli? Where have you been, man! I’ve been trying to call you for three days. What’s with the no call no shows?”

“The typewriter.” He mumbles. “I’ve got to finish.” His voice has grown raspy and weak. “Nightmares. I need to finish or I’ll never be free.”

“You don’t sound alright, Bentli. I’m going to come over and check- He hangs up the phone and leans back in his chair, lighting up a cigarette. His hair has turned grey and is beginning to fall out. His skin has become wrinkled and withered, covered with age spots and sores. His posture has grown hunched and his bones are brittle and ache with every tap of the typewriters keys. A stack of paper sits piled on the desk. He leans forward and types a few final sentences before finishing with, “The End.” He smiles as he places the last page on the top of the stack. Unfortunately for Bentli he never saw the fortune his best selling novel made. As soon as the last page was finished, he had a heart attack. He tried to call for help but death overcame him quickly. As the typewriter moved on, Bentli became nothing more than another lost chapter in a long book of unfortunate souls.