The Ghosts Of The Gallery
“Daniel, are you sure about this?” I ask as we hurry down the long abandoned street towards the murmuring of the sea that partly covers the empty town.
“It’s your decision, not mine,” Daniel replies as his eyes dart around, searching for the building we’re looking for. I dunno. Coming here in the hope of ghostly intervention or whatever from a bunch of writers who’ve been dead for over a century seems, and feels, really stupid. But I haven’t been able to write for over a year. Not even a word. And I’m our community’s Storyteller. So far, I’ve managed to get by re-reading my old work, but people are getting bored of it now. I need to write something new, and if I can’t…I don’t know who I’ll be if I can’t be the Storyteller.
“It’s here,” Daniel says, stopping at the doorway of a strangely built building whose crumbling entrance seems to loom towards us, beckoning us in. Daniel turns to look at me, one eyebrow raised and with my mind made up, I shoulder past him and push open the rotting remains of the door.
“Urgh!” I pull my mask tighter around my face to try and block out the stench of seaweed and decay as I step further into the building, the wooden flooring creaking ominously under my feet.
“Careful,” Daniel says as a piece under my foot falls away, landing with a splash in what must have once been storage space for food and drink. The water level’s higher than I thought it would be. Shit. I need to hurry. I cautiously make my way to the centre of the building, Daniel shadowing my footsteps and pull my pack off my shoulders.
“So, do I talk first or put down the stuff?” I ask Daniel.
“According to the legend, you need to lay down the offerings first, then explain who you are and why you’re here. Then, you know, you get possessed by a couple of writers until you’ve written something or nothing happens.”
“And we both look really stupid and swear never to tell anyone why we left our zone,” I finish, glaring at Daniel just to make sure he’s got the message. He nods, and just a little bit of the tension making my limbs sore and my head ache slips away.
Slowly, like I’m performing for the probably not real ghosts, I open my pack and pull out my offerings; the most expensive notebook I could find, which given that all paper’s expensive meant saying goodbye to half my monthly wages, a good (or so I’m told) and unused pen that’s been passed down in my family since the beginning of The Flood, a new pair of earbuds I was given for Christmas, and… as I pull my final offerings out of my pack, the back of my neck prickles.
“Zack? Can you feel that? I don’t think we’re alone in here anymore,” Daniel says, his voice morphing into a high pitched sing-song. I lick my lips as I nod in agreement, slowly placing the offering next to the coffee as the prickling feeling grows stronger, like the ghosts are excited. Well, who’s heard of a writer who didn’t run on tea and coffee back when it was so easily available? “Zack? Start talking,” Daniel says, the floor groaning under his feet as he twitches. Right, right.
“Hi, ahem. My name is Zack Hill, and I’m the Storyteller in my community and uh,” I should’ve written this down first, “ I’m here to ask for your help with writing a new story, because I haven’t written a damn, uh, I haven’t written anything in a year, and to be honest, I’ve got to the point where I’d do anything to be able too, cause otherwise, with the position I’m in, I’m not sure what my future’s gonna look like but it ain’t gonna be pretty. So, could you maybe, let me know if you’re willing to help? Anything would be appreciated, very much.” The prickling sensation against the back of my neck grows stronger and suddenly I feel strangely compelled to pick up the pen and notebook. I surge forward, a desperation to write like I haven’t felt in so long pouring through my veins, overwhelming everything else.
I open the notebook, tighten my grip on the pen and the words pour out like water from a breached floor barrier, my skin gliding and rubbing over the paper as I write so fast I half wonder how I’m gonna be able to read it. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters but this. After nearly half the book is full, after my hand has begun to ache, I hear Daniel’s voice, concerned and edged with panic, and feel his fingers on my sore shoulders. I shove him away with strength I didn’t know I had and he falls, crashing through the floorboards and into the water below. He doesn’t matter. No one does.
The book is three-quarters full when I begin to shiver, rising seawater seeping into my trousers. That doesn’t matter. Even as water begins to cover the book and wash away the blood oozing from my raw skin, my hands and mind keep going. I can write underwater. I don’t know how or why but I know I can. Even reality, even life and death, none of that matters anymore. Nothing matters except the new story.
The urban legend of the ghosts in the gallery says that any writer foolish enough to ask for their help will get what they desire. What it doesn’t say, at least not yet, is that after over a century with so many ideas in their heads, but no way to put them down, the ghosts have become desperate. They take no pleasure in the deaths they cause, but as long as there’s an opportunity for their stories to be written down, nothing else matters.
This piece was originally published as part of an anthology produced by a Swansea based creative writing group. You can purchase the anthology here : https://www.amazon.co.uk/ELYSIUM-ANTHOLOGY-Swansea-Creative-2022-2023 Check it out, it's well worth a read.