Because I overslept that morning, I didn’t brush my teeth or shave, but hastened upstairs to keep my appointment with him.  I had a very small window of time: 6:30-6:45.  He wouldn’t wait.  He never did.

    I hobbled up the stairs to my third-floor studio as fast as my bum hip would let me.  I turned on the tall lamp standing by my desk and opened my legal tablet to  a blank page.  I glanced at the digital clock sitting on a nearby book shelf.  6:29.

    Exactly one minute later the first words began to appear across the blank page.

    Good morning, Roy.  Have you checked FanStory yet this morning?  You won a ribbon for that love poem.

    I didn’t have to scribble a reply.  He was somewhere nearby and could hear me.  He just never spoke.

    “We won.  We’re a team, remember?  GhostWriter’s our log-in name.”

    But you do all the composing.

    “And who provides the ideas?  You!  And who nurtures, encourages, critiques my efforts?  You, my friend.”

    Friend.  I am pleased you call me that, Roy.  I had so few when I was alive.

    He has a name:  Lawrence.  I’d learned it shortly after I bought what had been his house, an old Victorian, in a bank foreclosure auction.  His heirs had sold it to a developer who lacked the money to renovate or pay the back taxes.  I bought it cheap and restored it to its former glory, doing most of the work myself.  After falling off a ladder and breaking my hip, I could no longer do any kind of physical labor.  But I’d made plenty of money flipping houses, and now had time to devote to my hobby:  writing.  I’d stumbled half way through a novel before hitting a wall.  That’s when Lawrence first appeared, startling me with a page of suggestions he’d written on some discarded paper near my monitor.

    It didn’t take much to convince me “Lawrence” was real.  I’d often sensed a supernatural presence while working on the house.  My tools would disappear and reappear in another room, or windows I knew I had closed before leaving would be open the next day.  I never heard his voice, even a whisper, but some days I would hear a sigh or a sharp intake of breath if I made a mistake in what I was doing.

    I self-published the book he helped me complete.  

    Then I discovered FanStory.  When I urged him to work with me on contest entries, he eagerly agreed and the team was formed.  

    He’s told me a lot about himself and his family, but he’s very private about his current affairs.  I have no idea why he meets me only at the specified time most mornings, or why he never stays longer than fifteen minutes.  But I'm not complaining..

    There is a supernatural flash-fiction prompt today, Roy.  Will you tell your fans about me?

    “Would you like me to?”

    “Yes.”