The Haunting

She talks to me every day, every hour, nearly every minute. "Write my story. What's taking you so long?" she asks.

"I have AutoCrit. I need to check my word and phrase repetitions."

"Like I care?" she roars. "Just write!"

"I did. Two books in 90 days - I beat the 90-day novel challenge. By the way, I used the Fiction Analyzer and found a dozen things you left out – things you failed to tell me."

"Minor details. You’re stalling. Write the damn story."

"I’m not stalling – they are called plot holes. I even documented the part of your death you don't remember. Maybe you should read it to see what happened."

"That was my first death, and I don't care. There's more to tell," she said. "Uniting the kingdoms, raiding the treasure, infiltrating secret societies that want to wage war on Hel's Dragons. And you still aren’t taking my brothel seriously."

"Well, you have to admit the alliteration of 'Helsgaard's House of Heroic Healing and Whoring' is pretty funny."

"Some of the Kingdom's best intel was collected in the throws of passion. Now write the story."

I feel her stare at me. Her reddish-orange hair in plaits falling down her back, along with her pale redhead skin and delicate Aelfinn features, makes her really attractive, but the red eyes just really creep me out. They were blue, but resurrection has side effects. And she can see in the dark, so there's no escape. Three o'clock in the morning, she sits there staring at me. "Go away!"

"Write-my-sto-ry," she says in a flat monotone voice with monosyllable rhythm reminiscent of a petulant teenager. "Just-write-it-now!!!"

It's now 5:40AM and my alarm goes off.

"About damn time," she says, like 'Lil Sis Nora in her music video. "You have time to write before work. It's not like you go anywhere. Sit your ass down and write my story."

Ah… the benefit of a permanent virtual job. "Why don't you go haunt the guy who dug up your grave?"

"He’s an oaf. Talks in riddles about dee-en-ay not being human. No skitr, I'm not human – I’m half-Aelf. And I found you - now write my story."

***

"There! I finished," I declared, satisfied with my victory.

"You got it wrong," she said.

"What?"

"That's not how it worked. Go look it up."

Six hours of research later, and I saw she was right. "Wow! You were right!"

"Ya think? I was there! I gave you the third book outline last week. What are you waiting for?" Then she adds in that petulant monosyllabic tone, "Write my stor-eeeee!!!"