"When are you going to give up this nonsense, Grant? You’re already twenty-four, It’s time that you settle down and get a real job that pays some money?" his mother called out to him, loud enough for all the neighbors to hear.

How many more times would Grant Wilson have to tolerate his mother’s discouraging remarks? She just couldn’t seem to get it through her thick head that writing meant more to him than anything else in the world.

On and on she went. "All you do is keep writing short stories that nobody wants to read. It seems like I wasted all my hard earned money putting you through college."
Grant sighed. "Why can’t you understand, Mom? It takes time to succeed. Writing is very competitive. I’m sure some editor will recognise my talent soon."
Mrs. Wilson shook her head. "When, in a hundred years? Don’t make me laugh. Stop living in a fantasy world. Now, if you were like your writer friend, Adam, that would be different. He’s got talent. Look how his stories always sell. Now that’s what I call success."
At this moment, Grant could have taken a hammer and smashed the old lady’s head in, mother or not.
Getting up from his computer, he stormed out of the house.
To his chagrin, he bumped into Adam half way down the block. The conceited son-of-a-bitch was smiling. "Hi, Grant, how’s it going? I’m thinking of gathering all of my successful short stories into an anthology."
"That’s great,"Grant muttered.
"And what about you?" Adam inquired. "Any positive results after plugging away at the keyboard?"
"As a mater of fact," Grant lied, "there is an editor who’s considering one of my latest stories. I’m hoping to hear from him within the week."
"That’s great!" said Adam. "Say, why don’t you come to my new apartment tomorrow afternoon? I don’t think you’ve seen it. It’s in the new high rise on West Sixty-fourth Street. Bring a few of your stories along. I’d love to read them."
Grant hesitated. "Well . . . "
"Ah, come on," insisted his friend. "If I think they’re good, maybe I'll show them to my literary agent."
"Okay," Grant acquiesced. "What time?"
"Make it around two."
When Grant got home, there was an email from one of the magazines he had submitted a story to.
"Oh, please, don’t let it be another rejection," he softly said to himself.
But that’s exactly what it was. Polite, perhaps even a little encouraging, but still another rejection:
‘While we enjoyed your story very much, it was not what we are looking for at this time. Good luck in placing it elsewhere . . . ‘
The next day he arrived at Adam’s place with some of his short stories in a folder.
Adam didn’t get around to reading Grant’s story until first showing off his fancy apartment with its large terrace that faced the park, and bragging about his recent accomplishments. From his attitude, the guy must have thought he was the greatest author in the world. Still, pompous or not, with all of his contacts, he might be able to help Grant.
After reading a few of Grant’s stories, Adam sadly looked up and shook his head.
‘They’re okay, but to be honest, None of you plots are original. There’s nothing special about any of these stories.’
"I don’t think you’ve read all of them, and . . . "
"True," Adam interrupted, "but I‘ll bet that they all have that problem."
"Now, he thinks he’s a prophet," Grant thought as he gathered his stories and got up.
"Ah, come on, don’t be angry, I’m only telling you the truth. You do have some talent, and I’m sure you’ll eventually come up with some good ideas. Maybe you’ll get a better understanding of what I’m trying to tell you if you take a look at my latest story. It’s my first attempt at writing a full novel. It’s a thriller called THAT MIDNIGHT HORROR. I just finished it this morning. You’re the first person to see it."
Out of curiosity, Grant returned to his seat and skimmed the manuscript. The more he read of it, the more jealous he got. The story was outstanding. No doubt, it would eventually be made into a successful motion picture.
"Damn, why can't I have this kind of originality?" he pondered.
Totally disgusted, Grant just wanted to get away from Adam as fast as he could. But suddenly, his friend’s face turned pale and he began to pant heavily. "I’m getting an asthmatic attack. Please, Grant, get my bronchial inhaler. It’s on top of the sink in the bathroom. "
But Grant didn’t move, jealousy had gotten the upper hand and instantly turned him cruel. Impassively, he stood there and watched his friend gasping for breath, then falling to the floor. Calmly, without any sort of conscious, Grant grabbed Adam’s story and left the apartment.
A day later the body of his friend was found. Of course, Grant pretended to be shocked, telling everyone that Adam had been well when he had left him that afternoon.
Soon Grant began altering his friend’s story to fit his style of writing. Incessantly, he worked for weeks. Once the task was finished, Adam's manuscript was destroyed. The title changed to SCREAMS IN THE NIGHT.
Confident, Grant sent out the story to one of the publishers that accepted unsolicited work. While waiting for the result, he continued receiving lots more of the familiar story rejections. Finally after as few months, eureka! He received a flattering letter and a sizable cheque for SCREAMS IN THE NIGHT.
The next few months became the best time of his life. Shortly after the book was released, it became a top seller. But best of all, there were no more discouraging remarks from his mother, who now went around bragging about him. Oh, if only she knew!
His happiness finally ended when he received a call from one of the editors of the publishing company after about a year.
"Hey, Grant, everyone is wondering when you plan to start writing your next book"
Grant felt a lump in his throat. "Oh, very soon," he managed to stammer and cut the conversation short.
"Why worry?" he rationalized to himself. "I can probably write a good novel like Adam."

But then he remembered of all the rejections from his own short stories. Imagine trying a full length book! Who was he kidding? Nothing he wrote would come close to Adam’s style.

For the next few days, Grant walked about the city in despair. "Soon they’ll be calling me a one book author," he predicted to himself. "I’m a has- been."

On a cold windy night Grant sat alone in his recently bought bachelor pad drinking too much Scotch.

"Just what am I to do?" he cried out to himself. While walking to the bathroom, he lost his balance in a drunken stupor and crashed to the floor.

Suddenly the lights went out. In the darkness he saw a puff of bluish luminescent vapor spread out to form the image of his late friend, Adam. A golden aura surrounded him.

In his high alcoholic state, Grant began giggling. "Now I’ve seen everything. Beats pink elephants."

The supernatural phantom looked at him with a smirk on his face. "So, you started drinking now. Afraid that your successful career as an author is over. Well, what did you expect? You stole my book after helplessly letting me die right in front of you. How foul you were."

Grant waved his hand. "Ah, go away. You’re dead. There’s nothing you can do to me, sucker."

The aura surrounding the sprit turned red. "Think so? I will not rest until I get retribution."

"And, pray-tell, just how do you plan to accomplish that?" Grant sputtered out.

"By doing something that you’ve read in many horror stories. I’m going to take over your body."

"Do you mean possession? And just what will happen to my soul?"

"It will go straight to hell where it belongs."

"Hell? Oh, please, give me a break. That’s only a myth. That place doesn’t really exist."

"Maybe not with fire and brimstone, but as you will shortly learn, there is such a place even more terrifying."

"I think becoming a ghost has made you loco," replied Grant, trying rising, but falling back onto the sofa.

Silently, the phantom bent over him and put his hand on Grant’s head.

Grant’s faded as his last moments on earth turned to pain as his soul was torn away from his body and began its journey to eternal damnation.

***

During the next three years, Grant Wilson wrote two more books. His creative productivity seemed endless. Despite all of his success, he remained a simple, nice guy, becoming very close with Adam’s family. In fact, he had moved into the apartment of his late friend. In fact, many people who knew Adam, noticed how Grant’s personality became strikingly similar to Adam’s. When they questioned him about it, Grant smiled and said, "I guess I’m just a copycat."

BACK TO TOP