Well Really- "Chapter Two -The Ghostwriter" a Serialised Story

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Chapter 2 - The Man in the Next Chapter

I woke with my cheek creased into the pillowcase, that knot of forgetting already tightening in my chest. The kind that came with static in the air and something coiled low in my ribs, waiting. My neck ached. My wrist throbbed. The crazy cyclist had hit me like the ageing process: quick and hard.

Somewhere downstairs, the boiler let out a weary sigh.

Home. I was definitely home. My lilac hydrangeas drooped outside the bedroom window like hungover bridesmaids. My flannel pyjamas smelled faintly of last week’s toast and bad decisions. Everything looked right. Quiet, familiar, safe. At least, it was meant to be.

And yet.

The floorboards creaked like my knees on a cold morning. The boiler wheezed again. Almost a sigh. Or was it a groan? I threw off the duvet and stood still, listening. Nothing. Just the pipes. Definitely pipes. Probably. I told myself it was the anaesthetic, still clinging to the edges of my mind. A wonky internal monologue.

I made tea. The mug was hot in my hands, the warmth grounding. The kitchen felt off. Not haunted exactly, just… judged. The toaster telling me wearing pyjamas all day wasn’t a win. I opened the fridge. One tired lemon, half a block of cheddar, and a limp stalk of celery. My life in food form. I shut the door with a decisive thud and wandered into the living room.

My phone buzzed.

KYLE [8:07am]

Mum?? Trish just told me you were in hospital? WTF?

I blinked. Trishna. Of course. She must have messaged him. Typical.

ME [8:08am]

I’m fine. Bit of a bump on my head. Don’t worry.

KYLE [8:08am]

Concussion isn’t just! You sure you’re OK?

ME [8:09am]

Ego bruised more than body. Resting.

KYLE [8:10am]

Maybe I should come over?

Maybe?

I typed nothing. I didn’t know what would make me feel better, him here in person, or him texting the right thing for once. And then—

KYLE [8:11am]

The silence of a woman who reads secretly and writes privately.

The words stopped me cold. That was what Peter had said. Behind the curtain. His exact phrase. I hadn’t told anyone. Not even Trishna. What was Kyle playing at?

ME [8:11am]

Why did you text that?

KYLE [8:12am]

What? I didn’t send anything.

I flicked through our chat stream. The message was gone. It wasn’t just Kyle denying it; the digital evidence itself had vanished. Was I having a senior moment?

ME [8:13am]

Ignore me. I need coffee.

Kyle gave my reply a thumbs-up. Was that Message received or just proof he’d rather have Siri as his mum? I couldn’t summon the energy to reply. I slipped the phone onto the kitchen counter. The day was already performing its best impression of a surrealist play.

The doorbell rang. Too cheerful, considering.

“Your porch smells like vintage Dettol and regret,” Trish (full name Trishna Ali-Nair, and always two decibels above acceptable) announced, breezing in without waiting. Her scarf left a trail of floral carnage—Marc Jacobs and midlife panic.

“Let yourself in, why don’t you,” I said, trying to sound annoyed. Mostly, I was relieved.

“The door was unlocked. Only vampires need an invitation to enter.”

“And ex-husbands.”

She plonked a bag of oranges and ginger tea on the counter. “You ignored my texts. I assumed you’d joined a wellness cult. Or worse, the Reform Party.”

“I was asleep. Possibly concussed.”

She looked me up and down. “You look like the ghost of a librarian.”

We sat. I sipped. Trish eyed the living room like she was planning to redecorate it with a flamethrower.

“Bit beige, isn’t it? Still clinging to that minimalist phase or just letting joy fade naturally?”

I ignored her and gave the details about the accident—handlebars, tofu, Deliveroo.

“At least you didn’t come home wearing ill-fitting dentures,” she said, covering my hand. “I texted Kyle and the school.”

The school. Work. Not now.

“Thanks for doing that,” I said. “Did I tell you about the man in the hospital bed next to mine?”

“No,” she said, suddenly attentive. “You’ve been ghosting me like I was a Jehovah’s Witness.”

I paused. Unsure how to proceed. “Something… strange happened.”

“Let me guess, you bad girl! You buckled up and climbed on top of him and rode that semi-conscious bull!”

“No! I was in a hot mess, not attending the rodeo.”

“Any woman can be assured and sexy in a bedroom wearing lacy underwear. But a confident, hospitalised woman wearing her cuts and bruises like jewellery — there’s your diamond in the rough.”

I laughed. “You’re incorrigible.”

She gave me a side-eye. “You sure there wasn’t even a little shenanigans?”

“No.”

“Nil-by-mouth, then?” she said, disappointed. “No impromptu CPR with benefits?”

“Trish, you’ve got a dirty mind.”

She shrugged. “I want my single friends to do all the things I can’t. Then I want all the nitty-gritty details.”

I laughed. “It was different… he talked about books. Argued, really. Snobby, brilliant, maddening. Said his name was Peter Elwood.”

Her brows wrinkled. “Didn’t you make me read him on our holiday… I hated it.”

“Fugue State. You didn’t hate it.”

“It was crap. The dog made no sense.”

“You hated that you couldn’t stop thinking about it. And now, I can’t stop thinking about it.”

Trish gave me a long look.

“Maybe. The nurse told me there wasn’t anyone there. The bed was empty.”

“You must felt at home.”

“Idiot! I had a long conversation with the man. I swear.”

“It’s not only AIs that hallucinate.”

My gaze landed on the Radio Times. A shimmer ran across the cover, distorting a headline. Gone in a blink. My phone flickered too, the date flashing to something from last year, then normal. I rubbed my eyes. Too much screen time. Or not enough.

Trish stood. “Citrus and mystery. That’s what I’m leaving you with. If the house starts whispering or you quote Don DeLillo, call me. And don’t do that British thing where you suffer in silence with tea and a packet of digestives.”

She left.

I opened the cupboard and found the digestives. Put on the kettle. It helped drown out my thoughts. This was normal. Tuesday. Just a slightly more haunted Tuesday. I even tried school emails. The usual nonsense. Parental requests for poetry slams (Fortnite raps incoming), glitter disposal protocols, and Mrs Dart’s latest on the subjunctive mood. Being a TA felt like adult-wrangling with a glue stick. I nearly emailed her back to suggest she try the subjunctive in a hospital ward.

The search bar blinked. My fingers moved before I thought.

Peter Elwood.

Seven results. Author photo. Reviews. A stub of a Wikipedia page.

Born 1962. Died 2019.

My hands went cold. The screen shimmered. Sour light. The living room’s light flickered. I hadn’t touched the switch. The silence pressed against me. The TV turned on. Static. Then, for a moment, a page. A sentence. Then static again. I backed away.

Down the hall, I opened the charity box. Bottom of the pile, a book: Fugue State. Torn spine. My notes inside. Page 57. Pencil: You missed this. Don’t miss it again. My phone buzzed.

MRS DART [11:45am]

“You missed this. Don’t miss it again.”

Startled, I almost dropped the phone. Fingers trembling, I texted back:

ME [11:46am]

Did you mean to send me this?

MRS DART [11:50am]

I didn’t text you? Are you feeling ok. Will you need more sick days? No pressure :)

I checked the chat stream. The message was gone. This wasn’t a side effect. This was personal. And Peter Elwood was dead. That night, I dreamt of the white, hospital curtain. Peter sat behind it, scratching charcoal across skin. Not parchment. Skin. The smell of iron. The sound of writing.

“You were meant to finish it,” he said. Or maybe thought. Or both. I woke up. Cold. My phone buzzed. Another message:

TRISH [3:17am]

“The story isn’t finished.”

ME [3:18am]

“What’s this supposed to mean?”

No reply.

Just the blue ticks. Watching.