I see an email on my computer screen.

It's the acceptance letter.

"Oh, my God!  YIPPEE...They were right."

My words echo round the empty computer room.

My heart beats like mad.

Emotions build up inside me as I read...


From Wright and Blue Hand Publishing to Mark Thornton.

Dear Mark,

"It is our pleasure to inform you that your first three chapters of  "A Most Victorian Malady" have met with our enthusiastic approval. Rarely have we read work of this quality, classical almost. We notice that you have used nineteenth century punctuation and spelling; unusual, this adds to the quality of the story."

I can't read anymore. At this stage I let out another, "YIPPEE!" at a similar volume to the first. My hand shakes. Tears of emotion trickle down my cheeks.

Sitting back in my computer chair, I shake my head and  look at the files of rejection letters dating back seventeen years. All those letters. All those disappointments. All those memories!

I shake my head and exclaim out loud, "The publishers are going to be over the moon when they see the rest of the chapters. Especially considering who will be writing them."

This is hilarious. I start to chuckle and soon I laugh so hard my side's hurting.

Then I remember... and.

Something cold creeps its way up my spine. I shudder as I recall. That agreement. That debt.

*

One night last week I'd surfed the net for hours.

At 2.30 am, a message flashed onto my screen:  'MARK THORNTON, we can make your book into A Best Seller-  just click yes.'

So I did and thought no more of it.

*

Next day, a well dressed man called at my door and introduced himself as Nick. Such a smooth cultured person. He offered me an agreement guarantying me success as a writer for a year and a day. I pressed him about what they wanted in return. He became rather vague and stated that I would be required to work free of charge for a period of time. I asked him who his boss was. He said, "You know."

After the sales pitch ended, he produced a sinister ornate contract. It wouldn't have looked out of place as a wall hanging.

After I'd signed, I had to prick my thumb and smear a little blood on it.

*

It's perhaps best not to think too much about it. After all, what harm is there in a having a little help?

Switching my sound recorder on, and with the Ouija board in front of me,  I rub my hands and begin. Making contact is easy.

"Hello, this is Mark Thornton. Your favorite chair is ready for you.

Are you there? Are you there? CHARLES DICKENS, are you there?"


****