“What book did you get from the library?” Asked the elderly woman who ran the house.She lifted The cover…”a summer in yellow. Such a wonderful book. Poor thing worked so hard on it.” She said as she walked back towards the kitchen.
Ask her about the book. Ask her about the book. Ask her about the book.
“Excuse me!” Rachael collapsed in the chair across from him.”you shouldn’t be reading my book. You will become manic depressive. Believe me. I know. I wrote it. And now I can never leave the house.”
“I thought you said it wasn’t published?”
“Did I?… Huh…that’s strange.”
She pulled her hair back into a bun.
“You need to stop writing.Seriously.”
Great. An author who is going to boss me around now.
“I mean it. Michael. I’m not here. Stop writing. Look out the window…”
It was snowing. In July.
“What’s your book say?” Rachael asked.
Snow that’s what it says…
Mrs Anderson walked back into the room …
“Excuse me.What do you mean by she worked so hard on this? I thought it wasn’t published?” He asked.
“Oh dear.it wasn’t. She died before she could finish it…so sad. Drowned in the bath.”
What the hell
“Are you sure?”
“Well I hope so. It happened in room 107.”
Michael looked at Rachael
She just sat there staring at him.
And then he noticed. Mrs Anderson only looked at him. Not Rachael.
“Michael…I told you I’m not here. Not really. Stop writing. I’m here to help you.”
“What do you mean?. Why?.”
“Open the book to page 75…”
Page 75…23…65…7- ???
“It’s only blank pages…I don’t get it.”
“Everything you write comes to life here…this house is alive…the weather…the stories…once you’re finished or give up…your story is added to the library…but you can never leave Michael. You have to stop writing. ”