A Story by S.H. Cooper

Written completely of her own free will

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Five minutes.

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Ten minutes.

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She stared at the screen, waiting for someone to comment. A DM. Anything. It seemed so obvious to her, but was she mistaken? Had she fallen into the old writer’s trap: Clear to me because I wrote it? She liked to think she was better than that, but the lack of real response wasn’t helping her confidence.

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It had been a bold move. She’d even tagged her in it. If these people, by and large a savvy group of other readers and writers, hadn’t caught on, there was hope that she wouldn’t either.

The creature she’d come to know as Elle.

It had started off simply enough. An author who needed an editor, and an editor who needed an author. Had Elle reached out to her, or the other way around? She couldn’t remember. It didn’t matter. Elle had done a good job with that first manuscript, and conversations about proper comma placement and removal of extraneous uses of the word “that” turned into the small talk that sparks friendships.

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Elle had been engaging and funny and sprinkled in little bits and bobs about her beloved homeland, Wales. Elle had been easy to talk to. She’d needed that. A friend she could trust.

If only that really had been Elle.

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The long-talked-about visit took six months of planning and saving to make a reality. She would visit Elle first. It was easier with her schedule and life to make a big trip across the pond. They made all kinds of plans: landmarks they’d see, other authors they’d share a few drinks with, places Elle insisted they had to go to. She’d been so excited. 

A driver was waiting for her at the airport. Elle had left a message that her car wouldn’t start, but she was suuuuuper excited and waiting at her house. She accepted it at face value. Elle was her friend, after all.

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The house where she was dropped off wasn’t what she expected. A cottage in the country, far from any neighbor save a field of sheep. She was sure Elle had said she lived near the city centre. She checked her phone, saw a text message come in. Something stirred in her gut, an uneasiness that whispered, This isn’t right. She ignored it, wished the driver a good day, and headed for the door.

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With trembling fingers, she clicked on the latest notification. The profile picture was a familiar one. A joyfully shrieking brunette girl wearing a red coat on a theme park ride. That was the Elle she’d pictured. The one she’d talked to on the Skype calls. It wasn’t who had been waiting for her in that cottage, or who replied to her tweet with, “I unchained her to let her write this so maybe do what she says, yeah?”

Her lips quivered. Was she smiling? Trying not to cry? She couldn’t tell anymore. The shackles keeping her at the small desk shivered with her. Seated across from her, behind a laptop of her own, the withered remains of a brunette girl in a red coat bared her teeth in an eternal grin. She, at least, had escaped.

A door opened at the top of the stairs leading to the small cold basement room where she and the former resident stared each other down day after day. A suctioned slurp. Another. The quiet burble of her breath. The stench of her bulbous form. The tip of one of Elle’s appendages appeared on the railing.

Elle. It had taken her a while, but she saw the humor in it now.

Elle.

Eldritch.

She looked away, unable to watch that thing’s descent into the basement. Unable to look in its formless features. 

Instead, she studied her tweet again. It jumped out at her right away, but still, no one else had noticed. No one but Elle. Next time, she couldn’t be so subtle, hiding a message in plain sight. Next time…

Elle’s hot breath burned against the back of her neck.

If there was a next time...

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Elle(@elleturpitt) 

Let her edit your work like I do. 

Publish with confidence! 

Make your book shine 

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