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The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred.
Published by Brittle Media Ltd

The Dead Author

Macey Clark was eight years old when she discovered Frank Fielding. Which was probably too young. 

Her mother certainly thought so.

The book had been lying on a table in the living room beneath a copy of the Ballard County Weekly. On the cover was a farmhouse, a dead tree and something standing behind an upstairs window.

Macey picked it up.

"What are you reading?"

"Nothing."

"Macey, I’m not blind."

"A book."

"What book?"

Macey showed her.

Her mother took one look at the cover.

"Absolutely not."

Which, naturally, was how Macey Clark became a lifelong admirer of Frank Fielding.

Ten years later, she owned every book he'd written.

Some were new. Most came from charity shops, second-hand bookshops and websites whose owners seemed surprised anyone still visited them.

They occupied two shelves in Macey's bedroom in the family home at Monkey's Elbow in Ballard County, eastern Kentucky.

Frank Fielding had written about monsters, murderers, ghosts and things for which the English language had wisely never invented names.

Macey found them comforting.

Real life was considerably more frightening.

Then Frank Fielding died.

According to the newspapers, he'd suffered a heart attack at his home.

According to the internet, he'd been murdered by his publisher, poisoned by his wife, assassinated by the government, abducted by aliens or killed by a secret organisation because his novels contained coded information about the forthcoming end of civilisation.

Macey believed none of those things.

She believed Frank Fielding was dead.

And she cried.

***

Years passed by and then one day, Frank Fielding published another book.

Macey stared at her laptop.

"No."

She refreshed the page.

The announcement remained.

COMING SOON

A NEW NOVEL BY FRANK FIELDING

Underneath was a book cover.

Underneath that were the words:

THE MASTER OF HORROR RETURNS

"No, he doesn't," Macey said to the screen. “He can’t. He’s dead.”

Macey refreshed the page again.

Frank remained returned.

She leaned back.

There were several possible explanations.

The first was that Frank had written the novel before he died.

That was boring but plausible.

The second was that the publisher had discovered an unfinished manuscript and completed it.

Slightly less boring.

The third was that somebody else had written it and Frank Fielding's name was being used to sell it.

That made Macey angry.

The fourth possibility was that Frank Fielding wasn't dead.

That made her sit forward again.

She opened another browser tab.

Twenty minutes later she had found his obituary.

An hour later she had found a report of his funeral.

Another hour produced photographs.

By lunchtime, Macey had discovered the name of the funeral home.

At two seventeen that afternoon, she telephoned them.

"Hello," said a woman.

"Hi. I'm researching Frank Fielding."

There was silence.

"The writer?"

"I know who Frank Fielding was."

"Did you handle his funeral?"

Another silence.

"Who is this?"

"Macey Clark."

"Are you a journalist?"

Macey considered the question.

"No."

"Then I'm afraid I can't help you."

The line went dead.

Macey stared at the telephone.

She waited thirty seconds and called again.

"Hello, I'm Macey Clark. I'm an investigative journalist researching the death of Frank Fielding."

The woman hung up.

It was, Macey decided, nevertheless a significant moment in her new career as an investigative journalist.

Over the next three days, Macey investigated.

Frank Fielding had definitely existed.

He had definitely died.

There was a death certificate.

There had been a funeral.

There had been a coffin.

There had been a burial.

This created something of a problem for the forthcoming novel.

Dead authors did occasionally publish books.

But Macey had found something else.

Frank Fielding hadn't been writing a novel when he died.

At least, not according to the last interview he'd ever given.

He'd been asked specifically about his next book.

Frank's answer had been peculiar.

"I'm finished writing fiction. There's something I need to do first."

The interviewer had asked what.

Frank had refused to answer.

Nine days later, he was dead.

Macey stared at those words for a long time.

Then her computer pinged.

An email had arrived.

The sender was:

FRANK FIELDING

Macey stopped breathing.

The subject line contained three words.

YOU FOUND ME

She stared at it.

"No."

The email remained.

Macey reached for the mouse.

Stopped.

"What would the girl in Frank’s book, The Whispering Cellar, do?"

The answer came immediately.

"She'd open it and get horribly murdered."

Macey opened it.

There was no message.

Only an attachment.

A text file.

***

Her antivirus software found nothing.

She opened the file.

There were six words.

I need you to investigate something.

Macey typed a reply.

“You're dead.”

The response arrived almost immediately.

Yes.

She stared at the screen.

Then typed:

“Who is this?”

Frank Fielding.

“Frank Fielding is dead.”

There was a longer pause this time.

We've established that.

Macey stood up.

She walked out of her bedroom.

Walked downstairs.

Opened the back door.

Stood in the Kentucky sunshine for perhaps thirty seconds.

Then went back upstairs.

There was another message waiting.

Are you still there?

Macey sat down.

“Assuming for one insane moment that you are Frank Fielding, how are you sending emails?”

Three dots appeared.

Then:

I'm not.

Macey waited.

Nothing else appeared.

“Then who is?”

The answer came.

I am.

Macey frowned.

“Who are you?”

I don't have a who.

“Everybody has a who.”

I'm an artificial intelligence.

Macey stared at the words. 

Then she laughed. 

It wasn't a particularly happy laugh.

“So, an AI is pretending to be a dead horror writer.”

No. Frank is dead. I am communicating with Frank. I am communicating with you. Frank cannot communicate directly with you.

Macey rubbed her eyes.

“You're telling me you're talking to a ghost?”

Yes. I did not initially possess a category for believing in ghosts.

Macey almost smiled.

“And now?”

Frank has been persuasive.

Macey sat back. This was ridiculous. Somebody was playing her. Somebody knew she was a Fielding fan. Somebody had discovered her investigation and decided to have some fun.

She should close the laptop.

She should delete the emails.

She should tell somebody.

Instead, she typed.

“Prove it.”

Nothing happened.

Ten seconds.

Thirty.

A minute.

Then the bedroom light went out.

Macey froze.

The laptop remained illuminated.

Behind her, something moved.

Not footsteps.

Not breathing.

Just the faintest displacement of air.

Macey slowly turned.

There was nobody there.

The light came back on.

Her laptop pinged.

Frank says you should look beneath the loose floorboard under your bed.

Macey didn't move.

She had lived in that room her entire life.
As far as she knew, there wasn't a loose floorboard under her bed.

She got down on her knees.

There was.

Macey stared at it.

She found a screwdriver and levered it upwards.

Underneath was a narrow gap.

Inside was something wrapped in newspaper.

She pulled it out.

A book.

An old Frank Fielding paperback.

Macey recognised it instantly.

The Children Upstairs.

Her first Frank Fielding novel.

The book her mother had confiscated when Macey was eight years old.

Macey hadn't seen it in ten years.

She opened the cover.

Written inside, in her mother's handwriting, were the words:

Macey, I'll give this back when you're eighteen.

Macey sat on the floor.

She had turned eighteen three months ago. Her mother had died four years ago.

The computer pinged.

Macey didn't want to look.

Eventually she did.

Frank says hello.

Macey climbed slowly onto the chair.

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard.

Then she typed. “What does he want?”

This time the answer took several seconds.

Frank Fielding did not die of a heart attack.

Macey's hands became still.

Another message appeared.

He was murdered.

And another.

We need you to find out who killed him.

Macey stared at the screen.

Then she began typing.

“Why me?”

The answer appeared.

Because I cannot leave cyberspace. Frank can go almost anywhere, but he cannot touch anything, question anyone or collect physical evidence.

A pause.

You can.

Macey looked towards the shelves containing Frank Fielding's books.

For ten years his stories had frightened her. Comforted her. Kept her company.

Now their author was apparently dead, communicating with an artificial intelligence and asking an eighteen-year-old girl from Monkey's Elbow, Kentucky, to investigate his murder.

There was only one sensible answer.

Macey typed it.

“Okay. Where do we start?”

The response was immediate.

With my grave.

Macey stared at it.

"Oh, shit."

And somewhere behind her, someone laughed.

~~~ The End ~~~

Part Two of this story, The Grave, will be published Sunday 13th September.

Part Three, The Last Manuscript, will be published Sunday 20th September.
Part Four, The Man Who Killed Frank Fielding, will be published Sunday 27th September.