Sean Doyle hopped off the bus with a smile on his face. As the bus doors hissed shut behind him, he headed down the high street. There was nowhere like Manchester city centre. He could spend hours mooching around the city. He particularly enjoyed the area known as the Northern Quarter. The streets had a buzz all of their own. The Northern Quarter had an old-fashioned yet ultra-modern vibe. He imagined this was what Greenwich Village in New York would have been like in the 1960s.

Sean wandered down the bustling streets, gazing around like a tourist, despite being a native of the city. He stopped off at a bookshop. He squeezed carefully in between the crammed shelves. Among the paperback books he found a couple he was tempted to buy. He flicked through one novel, a science fiction story from the Nineteen Eighties, before sliding back onto the shelf. Not today, he decided. Maybe he’d come back again another time. He headed back outside.

A few bookshops, and one real-ale pub later, Sean came across the antiques shop. He couldn’t recall seeing the curious looking antique store before. Mind you, in this part of the city, pubs and bars, shops and restaurants, popped up and vanished again so quickly. Perhaps that was part of the excitement of the area. There was a sense that you had to be here now, had to be part of what was happening right there and then.

The bell over the shop door jangled as Sean went into the antique shop. The small store was packed full of objects for sale. Each item had a small paper price tag tied with white string. The shopkeeper looked up from his broadsheet newspaper and bid him good afternoon. Sean drifted around the dusty shop, pausing to get a close look at certain items. There was a silver pocket watch in a leather pouch. That would be cool, he thought. He could imagine himself on a Northern Quarter bar, pint of craft ale in front of him, checking the time on the pocket watch. Maybe he should get himself a waistcoat, too. He would look so hip, check shirt, waistcoat and pocket watch on a silver chain. He nodded, adding the pocket watch to the maybe list in his head.

The next object to catch his eye was a ventriloquist’s dummy. He shivered just looking at it. The dummy looked like something from a horror film. There was definitely a story in the wooden puppet. He tapped a quick note on his mobile phone, idea for story: guy buys creepy dummy from antique shop.

Sean has been writing stories since he was a child. It was a childhood hobby that he had never grown out of. He found there was a story in everything. The bus into town had been late. That went down in his notes on his mobile phone. The last bus, about a group of people waiting for a bus one evening.

He spotted some old books in a corner of the antique shop. The books were leather, and fabric bound and looked ancient. They would look wonderful on his shelves at home. There was so much good stuff in this strange little shop. He wondered for a second if there was a website or a delivery service for the place. Judging by the age of everything in here, he doubted they had a computer, never mind a social media account.

He kept on browsing. There were some interesting items from the First World War. According to the mounted card, the English pennies were from Nineteen Seventeen and were dug up from the battlefields of Belgium. There was something for everyone in this quirky little store. He tried down the next narrow aisle.

Then he saw it. The item was perched on top of a wooden cabinet, that was itself up for sale. Sean approached the item slowly, as though it was an animal in the wild. Typewriter. He whispered the word.

The black typewriter was just perfect. He could image Ernest Hemingway or Tolkien writing their great works on a machine like that. He stared at the typewriter, just taking in how wonderful it was. He had to have it. Sometimes, when he saw something he wanted to buy, he would leave it, and return at a later date, having mulled it over, and made his mind up. This, however, was not one of those occasions. This was not one of those items. This situation, and this item, he thought, as he gazed at it, was completely unique.

As a writer, he was interested in notebooks, and pens. He had some lovely leather-bound notepads, bought from craft shops and market stalls over the past few years. The typewriter would go perfectly on his writing table in his spare room. The table currently held his laptop, writing paper, and a couple of paperback books. He would clear the table and have his latest purchase, sitting pride and place. A typewriter for his writing desk. The writer and his typewriter. He checked the price tag. Not that the price mattered, he would be purchasing the item, regardless. He would have this item no matter how much it cost. If he had to cancel his upcoming weekend away in York with friends to afford it, then so be it. It would be worth it. Three hundred and seventy-five pounds. No problem. He would put it on his credit card and do the maths later.

Sean turned to the shop owner and half waved, half pointed, to the typewriter.

‘I’d like to buy this, please.’

‘A lovely bit of kit.’ The guy said folding his newspaper. ‘I know a few people who have these old typewriters as ornaments.’

‘I’m a writer. I’ll be writing my stories on this.’

‘Wonderful. I’m sure this machine will take your writing in directions you never imagined.’

Without taking his eyes off the typewriter, Sean replied that he hoped he was right.

On the bus journey home, Sean had the typewriter on the seat next to him. It came in a black case with a carry-handle. He rested his hand gently on top of the case. This was precious cargo he was carrying. He hoped this was the start of something.

Back home he busied himself sorting the space for his new purchase. He cleared room on his writing desk. He placed the typewriter on the desk and shifted it, left a bit, right a bit. Once satisfied he took a step back, to get the full effect of the machine, now it was in its rightful position.

It was just perfect. The swivel chair, the oak desk, and now, the typewriter. He was quite sure Agatha Christie would have been happy thrashing out a Poirot novel at the desk. He grabbed his mobile phone and took a few photos. It was, he thought, a writer’s dream to have a machine like this. To writers, typewriters were like record players and vinyl to music afficionados.

Sean entered the pub. The air was thick with chatter and laughter and tinny pop music. He squeezed in a spot at the bar and waved to the barman. Once he’d been served, he went to find his friends.

He found them at a table in one corner. They were loudly debating a controversial goal in the afternoon’s football match. Sean said hello and feigned interest in the debate despite having no idea what they were talking about.

‘So,’ said a lad called Matt, ‘what have you been up to this afternoon while us real men have been watching football and drinking lager?’

‘I had a wander and a pint in the Northern Quarter.’

‘As you do.’

‘I made a purchase, too. Wait till you see this.’

Sean scrolled through the images on his mobile phone, then waved his mobile, grinning with pride.

‘What on earth is that?’

‘It’s a typewriter.’

‘Why have you spent good beer money on a piece of old junk like that?’

‘I’m gonna writer my stories on it.’

‘Get with the times, Sean, lad. You need a laptop for your stories. There must be apps and software you can get.’

‘I can’t explain it, there’s something special about writing on a typewriter. It’s retro. It’s classic.’

‘You are off your head, mate.’

Sean just laughed and shrugged.

The next evening Sean crossed the landing with determination and focus in his step. He opened the door and flicked the light on. And there it was, his spare room, which he had decided to call his writing room from now on. He was a writer. He needed a room dedicated to his craft. He hoped that purchasing the typewriter was the start of something big for his writing. It was time he took his writing seriously. Admittedly, he would have to scan his completed pages onto the computer, but hopefully, his work would be more inspired. Who knew, maybe a previous owner of the typewriter had been a writer, maybe even a famous novelist.

He lowered himself down gently on to the swivel chair. Sitting there in front of the typewriter for the first time, he felt like a concert pianist, about to perform in public for the first time.

He had had this one idea for a story rattling around his head for a while. Ideas tended to spin around his mind like silver balls in a pinball machine. He smiled. He was about to write a new, fresh story on his new, old typewriter.

He stretched his arms over his head, fingers linked together. And then he started. He punched the typewriter keys. The deep, clacking sound as he hit the keys was just wonderful.

He thrashed out a story about a hitchhiker on a stormy night. He was so excited to be working on his new story on such a classic piece of equipment. As he typed away, the wind picked up outside. The wild gust howled and whooshed down the street, blowing rubbish bins over, their contents spilling out, and blown away along the pavement. The rain started to batter against the window, like a hundred angry watering cans.

Sean always found the Manchester weather helped with his writing. When the weather was bad outside, there was nothing better than being inside, working away on his latest short story. He recalled a comment explaining how the Manchester music scene was always so good because of the awful weather. When the weather was bad there was nothing else to do but rehearse.

He tapped at his typewriter, describing a dog barking out in the night. As he hit full stop, a dog barked right outside his window. Sean laughed at the coincidence and carried on with the story.

The storm at his window was almost hypnotic as he wrote on. He quickly lost himself in the tale of a hitchhiker and a murderer. The black Ford Mondeo moved through the night, killer and victim, side by side. Around two hours later, Sean stopped typing. He yawned and stretched, smiling to himself. It was such a rush to work on the typewriter. He felt more like a writer, somehow, using the archetypal equipment. In his head, writers wrote on machines like this, not modern laptop with the latest applications. He wondered where his writing would take him now that he had such an inspiring piece of kit. He headed downstairs and poured himself a large measure of whiskey as a reward for his endeavours, and to make his debut on the typewriter.

The next evening Sean was flopped on the sofa, reading a dog-eared paperback. He had the radio on in the background. The novel was a generic action-thriller about a New York cop on the hunt for a killer. It was cliché ridden guff but was an entertaining read none the less.

On the hour, the music on the radio gave way to the news headlines. The main story interrupted Sean’s reading. A man had been found murdered on the side of the M60 motorway. Police say that, judging from CCTV footage, the man in his thirties had been hitchhiking.

How strange, thought Sean, that was just what my story was about.

The news report concluded that police were currently searching for the car, a black Ford Mondeo. Sean dropped his book, it hit the carpet with a soft thud. Hitchhiker. Murder. Ford Mondeo. That was such a frightening coincidence. It was just so spooky. He went over the few details the report had given. The horrific murder was so similar to what he had written on the typewriter. Nothing like this had ever happened in his years of writing. He would make up some random silly story and that was that. Sure, some of his writing was based on previous events but it had never predicted an event. Had it been a premonition? Perhaps it was a vision of what was about to happen and that had manifested itself in his story. Was that possible? Something else occurred to him. He had written hundreds of stories, and nothing like this had happened. This was, however, the first tale he had written on the typewriter.

A shiver went through him. The odd typewriter that he’d bought in an antique shop, wants a brand-new piece of equipment. This was an ancient machine that could have been almost a century old. Goodness knew what history the machine had. Sean stop, he told himself. His vivid imagination that helped him come up with all these far-out stories, sometimes popped up, unwanted and unannounced, outside of when he was writing. He was getting carried away and he knew it. It was just a freaky coincidence, that was all. That’s all it could be. He shook his head. He recalled a horror writer being involved in a car accident that was bizarrely similar to an incident he had written about. When interviewed on the subject, the author has simply shrugged, saying he would ‘rather not think about that’.

Over the weekend Sean wrote a funny little story about an ice cream van that distributed its wares for free. In the tale, children lined the streets to get to the van giving away the ice cream.

On Monday evening as he pulled into his street, he slowed to a crawl. The pavement was crammed with queueing children. The kids were fizzing with excitement. Sean wound his window down and listened to the chatter as he drove by.

‘Can you believe it? Free ice cream!’

‘It’s true. I’m on my fourth go.’

Sean drove away slowly.

He pulled up outside his house. As he dodged the queue of children to get to his front door, he couldn’t believe this was actually happening. It was just as he had written. He kicked the front door shut behind him and stumbled into the living room. Feeling sick, he slumped to the sofa, head in hands. Outside the children still chatted excitedly.

This was so strange. He had written two stories on the typewriter and both had come true. How was this possible? Could the two occurrences have been mere coincidence? Maybe the hitchhiker murder, and the free ice cream van would have happened even if he had not written about it. Who knew? He grabbed a cold beer from the fridge and flicked the television on.

He drank the beer in quick gulps and tried to concentrate on the documentary about a stand-up comedian from the 1970s. Every time the typewriter came to mind, he would shake his head and tell himself that it was just coincidence.

As he lay in his dark room that night trying to sleep, he repeated, almost mantra-like, that this was just a coincidence. Just a coincidence.

The next morning, he felt better about things. The killer in the Ford Mondeo, and the ice cream van, were nothing more than coincidences. Maybe he was a little psychic or something. It was certainly nothing to worry about. But he decided not to write anything else on the typewriter just in case. For now, until he had fully processed things, and got his head right, he would write his tales by hand, and then type up on his laptop. He would avoid the typewriter for now, until this sense of dread faded, and hopefully, it would have all the terror of a half-remembered bad dream.

A few weeks later, Sean had plans for Saturday night. Some of his friends were going into Manchester city centre. The details were vague but would include beer and curry. That was all that had been decided upon. That, Sean agreed was all the organising that was required. When his friend Phil had mentioned the night out in town, at the word curry, Sean had quoted that business TV show. I’m going to offer you all of the money, he’d laughed, I’m in.

Around five o’clock on the Saturday afternoon, Sean’s mobile phone pinged. Sean swore as he read the message from Phil. Sorry mate, tonight’s cancelled, a few of us have the lurgy. Despite being really disappointed Sean replied, no worries, mate. That was a standard response. A bit like saying fine when things were far from it. He decided he would have a curry takeaway sent in and have a few cold beers too.

He popped the top off the beer bottle and took a long swig. He watched the highlights of the Friday night rugby and downed a few more beers. The curry was delivered on time, bang on the forty-five minutes they’d told him. The food was lovely. The dish had just the perfect kick to it and the naan was slightly burned around the edges, just as he liked it.

It was later that evening that an idea came to him. The typewriter. He suspected that the typewriter was connected to things that had actually happened. He didn’t know how or why, but whatever he had typed on that weird machine had come true. As he opened another lager, he wondered if something would work.

He flicked the light on in his writing room, and carefully sat in front of the typewriter, as though it was an unexploded bomb. Maybe this machine was just as dangerous. But, he wondered, perhaps something positive would work too. He swigged from his beer bottle and, chuckling to himself, typed, I have a brand new, shiny black pick-up truck.

He stretched and peered through his curtains. In the parking spot outside his rusting red Fiat Punto sat, as usual, the orange glow of the streetlight. He hadn’t actually believed it would work. Part of the reason he was trying this was to prove his crazy theory wrong. Sure enough, he had written for a new vehicle and it had not happened. In that case, the typewriter’s streak of prediction was finished. Only some of the things he’d written had come to fruition. He had debunked the theory completely.

With a bounce of relief in his step, he padded downstairs and opened another beer. He popped the lid off the bottle with such gusto, that the bottle-top skittered across the work top and the beer frothed like champagne. Such was the relief that the odd little typewriter chapter was done, he found himself belly laughing at a mildly amusing television show. Tonight, he found the show hilarious. Every now and then he would peak through the curtains, and every time, his run-down car was still in situ.

He woke the next morning with a headache, and heavy limbs. Then he remembered popping all those beers. The kitchen would be littered with scattered bottle tops. He would have to head to the recycle bins and clink away all those empty bottles. He could almost hear his neighbours, commenting that somebody had a few too many last night.

He dressed in his grey tracksuit bottoms and a faded Shed Seven t-shirt and went downstairs. Sure enough, the living room was lined with empty green beer bottles. It took him over ten minutes to clear the bottles and tidy up. He scooped up the bottle-tops and wiped the spilled beer from the surfaces.

He flicked the kettle on. A brew would help sort him out. Then he could face the day. While he waited for the kettle to boil, he wandered back into the living room. He looked around at his freshly tidied room, satisfied with the results. Still with his gaze hovering over the scene, Sean yanked open the curtains. He glanced outside. For a moment he thought some cheeky so-and-so had parked in his space. Then he realised the full horror of the shiny new vehicle parked outside.

He turned and reached into the cabinet drawer where he kept his car-keys. Sure enough, the keys to his Fiat Punto had vanished and had been replaced by a fancy key-fob. Sean knew they were for the pick-up truck. His stomach churned and gurgled, the living room swaying around him. This was just too much to take in. He perched on the arm of the sofa and tried to process everything that had happened. He knew the truck belonged to him, and that somehow, his words on the typewriter had produced it. There was no other explanation. The results spoke for themselves, regardless of how much that frightened him.

He grabbed the key-fob and went outside. He clicked the fob buttons and the gleaming pick-up truck doors unlocked. One of his neighbours, passing by gave him a nod.

‘New wheels, Sean? Very nice.’

Sean smiled weakly, without taking his eyes from the gleaming inky paintwork. It was a really nice car.

For the next three days, Sean tried to forget about the strange events. Nothing else happened. He decided that things would be okay as long as he didn’t type anything else on that cursed machine. When he could face that awful machine, he would stick the dreadful thing in the loft. For now, he couldn’t bring himself to look at the typewriter, never mind, handle and move it. So, for now, the typewriter lay dormant in his writing room, the door firmly closed.

By the following week, Sean was driving the pick-up truck. He pushed away the way it had appeared, and focused on how great it was to drive, and the admiring glances it attracted. If this was some B-movie or silly short story, then Sean would start writing things he longed for, like getting three wishes from a genie. As it was, Sean simply wanted to forget about the things that had happened. The truck was amazing, though, and over the next few months, with no further strange events happening, he almost forgot about the typewriter and sudden appearance of the vehicle. After the bizarre little blip, like seemed to return to normal.

One Saturday night his friend Phil called round. They were going to watch the rugby. Beer, rugby and a chippy tea, was on the cards. The only thing that could scupper the perfect evening would be if England got beat. Having had a beer and a catch-up, Sean rubbed his hands in anticipation.

‘Time for the chippy, mate. We should be back in time for kick-off.’ said Sean.

‘I’ll wait here if you don’t mind. I want to watch the anthems.’

‘The national anthems? Really?’

‘That’s the best bit, man. Proper gets the atmosphere going.’

‘Fair enough,’ said Sean, pulling on his coat. ‘I’ll be as quick as I can. Make yourself at home. Help yourself to beers, just put some in the fridge when you take the cold ones out, yeah?’

A full fifteen minutes later, Sean let himself in the front door.

‘Have I missed kick-off?’ he called. ‘Took ages. The chippy was hammered, and just as I got to the front of the queue, they ran out of chips. Had to wait for a fresh batch. They smell amazing, though.’

The living room was empty. On screen, the players were forming a scrum, and the fans were singing.

‘Phil?’ he called out.

‘Up here, mate.’

Still in his coat, and carrying the chips, Sean headed upstairs. The light spilled onto the landing from the open writing room door. He found Phil sitting at the typewriter.

‘Don’t touch it, Phil.’ He warned. ‘Don’t type a word.’

‘You’re going to be impressed, Sean. I’ve written a story.’

‘No, you can’t have. Not on that!’

‘It’s a story about a global pandemic.’

Sean dropped the bag he was carrying, the food spilling out onto the carpet. He stared at the typewriter. The black keys seemed to have a dark, sinister energy to them.

‘What have you done?’ whispered Sean.

By Chris Platt

From: United Kingdom