Ghostwriter
Ghost Writer
The First Day
“Do I have to touch it?” Beth asked.
“First of all, refer to it as ‘him,’” Doctor Peters answered. “Did you and Tim touch a lot while he was alive?”
Her neck pinked. “When we were young, we couldn’t keep our hands off each other. As we got older… well, we still held hands a lot. He had such soft, warm hands.”
“I don’t think a little hand-holding would hurt.”
She swallowed and looked at the device in the bed, wearing Tim’s face. “Is it cold?”
Peters clicked his pen. “It has an internal heater. As long as the battery’s charged or he’s plugged in, he should be a perfect 98.6.”
Beth snorted. “You said ‘it.’’
The doctor shrugged. “We’ll need to do some adjusting, but try not to confuse ‘him.’ We’re not sure how firmly the memory implant is set.” He pursed his lips. “How long do you think this will take? He was five chapters from the end, right?”
“At Tim’s normal speed, he’d write a chapter a day, then revise the entire manuscript twice, so maybe five days before the first draft is complete, then—”
“That’s all we need. The editors can take it from there. Just make him believe he’s Tim Matthews for the next five days, then we can shut him off, and you’ll get the final payment. Understand?”
Beth’s lips thinned as she surveyed the robot again, then nodded. “Tim was a wonderful writer but a terrible investor. I need the money.” She looked at the robotics engineer. “Flip the switch.”
There was no whirring to prepare her for the eyes opening and a voice, Tim’s voice, saying, “Good morning, beautiful. I must have overslept.”
“Y-yes,” she said. “A bit. I was telling Doctor Peters here…” She nodded at the man in the white coat beside her, “…about your accident. He stopped by to see how you’re doing.”
Peters flinched when Beth said ‘accident’ but kept his smile as vanilla as possible.
The forehead wrinkled, and the figure said, “Accident? When was this?”
“You had a mild concussion, Mister Andrews,” the doctor said. “You were on a ladder cleaning your gutters and fell. It’s common not to remember the trauma after a head injury. I was at the hospital when you came in, and it’s not every day I get to treat a famous author, so I came by to see how you’re doing and ask for an autograph.” He winked. “You weren’t in a signing mood when you arrived.”
“Of course, Doctor. That explains why I’m in this hospital bed.” He looked at Beth. “I’m sorry if I worried you.” Turning to the doctor, Tim noted, “My legs are a bit numb. Will that pass?”
“It’s common to have some residual effects, but you should be fine in a week or so.” The doctor produced a small notebook. “About that autograph…”
“Certainly!” ‘Tim’ said, signing with a flourish.
Peters examined the signature and smiled. He handled the pen easily, and the penmanship matched the original. He tucked the notebook away. “Wonderful! Now, the best way to fully recover is to work that talented brain of yours. Beth tells me you’re almost done with the final book in your series. I know millions of fans are waiting to see how it ends.”
The face broke into a grin as he turned to Beth. “I couldn’t have made it this far without her, Doc. She taught English while I hammered away in the spare bedroom.” He patted her hand, not noticing the slight flinch. “She put me where I am today.”
Peters turned to go when ‘Tim’ asked, “By the way, Doctor, what’s your specialty? If you’re a script doctor,” he chuckled, “I have several friends who could use your services.”
“Neuroscience and computers, I’m afraid. I’m interested in similarities between the brain and computers. What we know barely scratches the surface.”
He left. Once in his car, he dialed Tim’s manager. “The brain scan was in time. Now it’s up to Mrs. Andrews to get him writing.”
“How long do you think?” the voice asked. “The longer it takes, the greater the chance of this getting out. We can’t have people learn the final book in the Silver Dragon series was written by a robot.”
“The robot will type the words,” Peters said, “but the essence of Tim Andrews will be behind every sentence. No one, not even his wife, will be able to tell the difference.”
“I don’t like it, but the money for the books, then the film rights… well, it’s worth the cost.”
“You’re the boss. I can pull the plug any time.”
Peters heard throat-clearing on the other side. “Is that how you’d do it? I mean, is there an actual plug to pull?”
“Nothing so dramatic. The brain is still far more efficient at storing data than any computer we’ve built. No, he’s connected wirelessly to a hard drive in the closet. The operating system for movement and audiovisual interpretation is in the robot, but the essence of Tim Andrews is in a blinking gray box between his tuxedo and a shirt from his favorite football team. When we want to shut him down, I just turn off the wireless connection. Then, to ensure no one learns our little secret, we destroy the box and the robot, and that’s that. A perfect crime because–legally–a dead man can’t be murdered.”
“I uh, well, thank you for the details.”
“Would you care to meet him to satisfy yourself that he’s as similar to the original as you need?”
Peters snorted when the line went dead.
***
Beth brought his laptop, “Remember, the sooner you get to writing, the sooner you get back to your old self.”
Tim stroked his computer like the old family dog and didn’t notice the tear in Beth’s eye as she placed it in his lap.
“How about some tea and a kiss?”
She gave him a quick peck on the forehead before disappearing.
“Could I have some Scotch in the tea?” he called out.
“Not with that head of yours,” she said, putting a generous dollop of Dewars into hers.
The robot had a bladder of sorts; whatever it drank went straight there. No allowance had been made for solid food, so Beth said he should only take liquids until he was fully recovered.
Enough to satisfy him for five days, she hoped.
She returned in an hour to recover the teacup and saw him dozing. Perhaps the strain of downloading so much information overloaded the batteries, but she was grateful not to have to talk with the ghost in the machine, for that was what this thing was. A speaking phantom—a bizarre reflection of the man she’d loved.
She gently removed the computer from his lap and noticed how peaceful the face was—almost his face.
The chapter was done. She’d been an early editor of his and recognized his style; the overuse of commas was identical. Tim was still in there, somewhere, telling his tales of pirates and derring-do. She emailed the chapter to his editor and went to the closet. If she did nothing, she had an evening and night with this animatronic zombie, pretending everything was normal.
Beth switched the modem off, leaving the device frozen in the bed.
She finished her tea and made another cup, doubling the dose of medicinal whisky.
Day Two
After a restless night in the spare bedroom, she showered, had two chocolate donuts, and rebooted her husband.
“Good morning, sleepyhead,” she said softly. “Sleep well?”
“Like the dead,” he said drowsily as various programs came online. “I need a big cup of coffee to get the brain cells fully charged. Whaddya say? Can’t a working man get a cup of coffee around here?”
“Coming right up, Tim, “Beth said, startled at how easily that slipped out.
After a big swig, he scowled. “Odd, this doesn’t have any taste.”
“Probably a side effect from your injury,” Beth said. “Want another cup?”
“Nah. I gotta pee, then time to hit the salt mines.”
“Let me help.”
“My manly pride will have to give in. I’m still unsteady, and the last thing I need is another fall.”
Beth let him lean on her shoulder as he crept to the bathroom.
“Been a long time since I carried you over the threshold,” he joked while he did his business. “Not sure I’m up to it now.”
“You saying I’ve gotten fat?”
“Hum, is that the real story of how I got the head injury?” Tim teased.
“Not the first concussion,” she said, “but maybe the next.”
“I defer all further questions on the advice of counsel,” he said as they swayed back to bed.
Once settled, she brought him the laptop and left him alone. An hour later, she found the next chapter complete and Tim dormant. The chest rose and fell in a regular rhythm, and she had to remind herself this was a thing.
After sending the next chapter off, she made another cup of reinforced tea but left the modem on. What the hell, she thought. We only have three days left.
She laid the laptop on the nightstand and sat beside the bed, drifting off to the soft sound of the plastic bellows expanding and emptying in Tim’s chest.
When she awoke, he was looking at her over the top of his computer. Frowning.
“What’s wrong, Tim?”
He turned the laptop around. “I read something I don’t understand. According to the Washington Post, I died two weeks ago. That’s the bad news. The good news is my book sales are going through the roof. I’d say let’s not tell anyone otherwise, but then there’s this…”
Beth noticed how his fingers flew across the keyboard. Tim had always been a slow typist, but now the images danced across the screen like lightning flashes.
“You seem pretty torn up in this picture at my funeral.” Tim looked at Beth and took a deep breath. “Just what kind of doctor is this Peters guy?”
Beth was suddenly aware that the robot was between her and the exit. Swallowing as she considered her answer, she rose slowly.
“Not a medical doctor, but a scientist. He was hired by your manager to help you recover from the accident.”
“Recover how? By falsifying my death? Wait.”
Tim removed his pajama top and looked at his right shoulder. “My tattoo. The one I got in the Navy. It’s not there.” He stood and paused when Beth shrank into her chair.
“What are you afraid of? Me? You’ve never been afraid of me.”
He staggered to the bathroom and stared long into the mirror. “Close. Very close,” he muttered, “but no cigar.”
Beth sidled into the hallway when he called out, “What really happened? Who am I? What am I?”
She ran to the door before turning. “Don’t come any closer, or I’ll leave. You’ll never see me again. Understand?”
“Not in the least,” he said. “But how about I sit down while you explain?”
She began weeping. “Tim is dead. That part is true.”
“So, what am I? A zombie?”
“Sorta. You’re Tim’s memories. Doctor Peters performed a brain scan on you, saving your memories onto a computer so you could finish the book.”
Tim put his face into his hands. “How long?”
“You’ve been dead two weeks.”
“No. How long before they switch me off, or are they going to put me in a museum?”
“Once the book is finished, they’ll end the project.”
“The project. How clinical. How clean. And you went along with this… apparently.”
“We’re broke, Tim. You lost it all in the market.”She wiped her eyes. “I thought you’d approve, one last way to take care of me.”
The silence weighed on her as the room grew dark with fading day. Finally, she asked. “What now?”
Tim rose and went to the bedroom. Before he closed the door, he said, “Finish the book.” He looked at his hands, then chuckled.
“What’s so funny?”
He shrugged. “Shakespeare was a pretty smart dude, but for once, he got it wrong.”
“How so?”
“Cowards die many times before their deaths. The valiant never taste of death but once.” The door closed softly, and she heard him say, “Good night. I’ll let you know if I dream of electric sheep.”
***
Day Three
Beth gritted her teeth when she saw Dr. Peters’ name on the caller ID.
“Just checking in, Mrs. Andrews. I hear the first two chapters were spot on. My client is pleased. Any problems on your end?”
“Problems? I’m living with a robot who thinks he’s my dead husband. How could there be any problems?”
“But he’s still writing?”
“Hang on, I’ll check.”
She went to the bedroom and knocked. “Tim?”
“No one by that name lives here,” his voice answered.
“It’s Doctor Peters. He wants to know how you’re doing.”
“The third chapter is done, and how are you this fine morning?”
She walked back into the living room. “I’ll send the next chapter in a few minutes. Does that answer your question?”
“It’ll do. Thank you. I’ll let you go.”
“Yes, thank you. I think I need to change my husband’s batteries, or something.” She hung up.
She entered the room without knocking and saw him on the internet.
“What,” he asked, “don’t the household appliances get any privacy around here?”
“I’m sorry, Tim, I wasn’t thinking.”
“Well, it’s not like I’d be doing anything obscene with the vacuum cleaner, so don’t apologize. What’s up?”
“I need to send your chapter in, for one.”
“Here you go.” He looked up as he handed the laptop over. “Will it hurt?”
“Will what hurt?”
“When you terminate me?”
“Do you feel pain?”
“Ha! Good point.” He slapped himself loudly across the face. “Nope, apparently not. Problem solved. I guess that makes it easier for everyone, especially me, or the reflection of me, anyway.”
“Stop talking like that!”
“Excuse me. I really shouldn’t talk to my creator like that. It’s disrespectful.”
“I never claimed to be God, Tim.”
“Ah, but you are. You didn’t push the button to turn me on, but you can terminate my program whenever you want. I guess that makes you more powerful than God. Certainly more powerful than me.”
Beth rubbed her face. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Neither do I. Next chapter tomorrow. Now, since I don’t really eat or drink, I think I’ll lie here and think of how to write a big finish for the Silver Dragon. I want it to be the greatest posthumous work ever created… posthumously.”
He pointed to the door. “Enjoy your tea. I’d join you, but it would be a waste of tea and whisky. In my case, a lot of whisky.”
Beth put on her outdoor face and went to a local café. Thankfully, no one spoke of her loss.
Two more days, she thought. Then she laughed so hard that people began to stare, wondering if turning Tim off for the last time would count as an exorcism.
Day Four
Beth awoke with a hangover, the next chapter on a labeled thumb drive under her door. She’d heard of condemned prisoners being forced to dig their own graves, and each chapter was another spade closer to his end.
She sent it off after briefly looking it over. Tim–or Tim’s memory, at least–still took pride in a well-crafted story. He seemed determined to go out with a bang.
One more day.
She knocked on the door this time. “Tim? Care to join me in the living room?”
“Sure.”
Beth noticed he was wearing his favorite football shirt. “Too bad it’s not football season. We could watch a game.”
He shrugged. “I found something interesting when I decided to wear my play clothes.”
He poured her some coffee before continuing.
“A shiny gray computer that I don’t recall us having. Does it have anything to do with me?”
“It’s you.”
“Oh. I mean, well, shit. That’s where ‘me’ really resides?”
“Yes. Your brain scan was downloaded into that device. It talks to the smaller computer in your head via a wireless connection.”
“So, to shut me down, you just have to turn it off or break the wireless connection?”
“If we break the wireless connection, you still reside in the mainframe. No, we’ll need to shut the computer down to turn you off.”
“I see. Well, I’m disappointed.”
“How so?”
“You could have at least put a racing stripe on it. I mean, gray? Seriously?”
“Go to hell,” Beth said. “I watched you die. I watched your body be lowered into the ground. Now I have to sit here and take shit from the ghost of the man I loved. Do you see me laughing? Write that last chapter and go back to the grave where you belong. I need to get on with my life, and I can’t do that until you’re completely dead.”
Tim sat beside her on the couch and took her hand. This time, Beth didn’t flinch. “I’ll finish tomorrow, I promise. I might as well. I can’t go anywhere. All I can do is mine the memories I borrowed from a dead man so I can pretend to be alive.”
He looked out the window for a long time, silent, and Beth imagined the microprocessors in the gray box talking to one another as they contemplated their collective situation. How was that any different from the neurons in her head, trying to make sense of it all?
“One nice thing about fiction,” he said, “is you get to write the ending.” The plastic bellows expanded and collapsed in an approximation of a sigh.
“One more day,” he said, “and we’ll both be free. Deal?”
Beth kissed him, and Tim smiled despite the numbness and, for a moment, felt alive.
“Could I go outside and feed the birds?”
“Sorry, Tim, but no. You’d lose the signal and freeze.”
“Could I at least watch you feed the birds? Then I’d like to make you dinner. I can’t eat, but I think I can still cook. What would you like?”
“Make me some of your chili, Tim,” she said. “But who ever said you could cook?”
That afternoon, after a bowl of perfect chili, Beth and her lover’s echo sat in silence and looked out the window at the birds, the clouds, and the sky.
Day 5
Beth sipped her sober cup of coffee while Tim proofread the final chapter. Satisfied, he hit “send” to the publisher and wished him good luck.
“Now what?” he asked.
“Doctor Peters is coming over around noon to reclaim the equipment.”
“And to shut me off?”
“Yes, and to shut you off.”
Tim nodded. “Do me a favor?”
“Anything.”
“Wait until I ask. I want you to turn me off. I don’t want some geek in a white coat to play God with me. If it’s anyone, I want it to be someone who loved the person I was. Can you do that?”
“Yes, Tim,” Beth said, and they kissed, his lips the perfect temperature.
She brought a chair into the closet and had him sit there before touching his cheek. “Goodbye, my love,” she whispered and shut him down. She looked at the robot sitting perfectly still, waiting for the next summons to stir, talk, and…think?
She looked at her watch. She’d have to hurry to get back before noon.
Day 6
Tim awoke in the spare bedroom, Beth sitting beside him, coffee cup in hand.
“If this is heaven,” he said, “things turned out better than I thought. What happened?”
“Doctor Peters took the computer. I mean, the computer I switched for his, and he let me keep your body.”
“What happens now?”
“I have a business proposition for you.”
“A proposition? Then this definitely isn’t heaven. What is it?”
“We write together. You can never leave the house, but you stay alive, or at least animate and aware. How’s that?”
“But you keep the off switch.”
“I don’t see a way around that, Tim.”
He nodded slowly. “May I brew you a pitcher of iced tea while I think about it? I don’t feel the heat, but you’re glowing, so I reckon the house is warm, or you think of me as an animate sex toy.”
“Tea would be nice.”
“I see sexual innuendos are not an option. Pity.”
Tim filled the pitcher to the brim, a little over a half gallon; then, as Beth settled on the couch, he walked into the closet to the gray box and opened it. He gazed down at all the happy blinking lights and was reminded of flying over a small city at night, except this town had a population of one.
His home.
His cage.
He considered the pitcher in his hand a moment longer before pouring its contents over the blinking lights... and wrote his own ending.
Statement:
This work of fiction is purely my own. I did not use artificial intelligence, relying solely on my own, save for liberally applied caffeine augmentation.
