Excerpt: The Ghost Writer: Fear of the Pen

Even though my stomach was in my throat, I turned to meet the voice. Before me, in what looked like a candle glow, stood a man who appeared to be in his early 20’s. He was dressed in jeans smeared with grease, and a nondescript t-shirt. His hair was very short, and very dark, and he had a baseball cap tucked into the back pocket of his jeans. He was slender, almost too skinny, and clean-shaven. He looked like he had just gotten finished working in a garage or gas station.

“Who are you?” I managed to muster in a robot-like voice. I could barely understand the tone coming from my own mouth, which confused me even more than what was standing or floating or whatever it was doing in front of me. Did I want to hear his answer? Did I want to know why he was there? Why wasn’t I running away like a raving lunatic?