Ghost In the Tweet. (Fiction)

The cursor blinked consistently. Kneading his hands, Marcus read the Twitter feed over again.

"Can't be..."

Silently hunched over the keyboard, a hand propped his head, fingertips to temple.
He typed with one hand: Why won’t you talk? 

A knock at the front door made him jump.

How did you get my account access?(Marcus)

The open window displayed the fire escape.
"Marcus Brennon! Open this door--now!"

~

(HinderedMag) So you write? 

Yeah, have a few stories. (Marcus)
(HinderedMag) If you do all the edits in this last story you sent, I'll consider publishing it.

Ok. I'll get right on it! :-D (Marcus)

~

The crack in the mirror split Marcus' face in half. The center was distorted, merging the two sides in a Frankenstein way.

"Just wanted to be a writer..."

Marcus turned his head slightly.

"You are a writer. You just needed some ... inspiration."

The crack had a slight blur at the center.
"You killed them."

The white sink held two drops of crimson, then a third and forth. Marcus flexed his bloddy fist.

"I just needed--"

"Shut up!"

The split in the mirror exploded into a spider crack that quickly formed to all sides of the frame. In the center was Marcus' fist. Blood spilled in a thin line down the middle of his reflection, splitting the two distorted sides of his face.

~

How did you make it so real? (Marcus) 
(HinderedMag) I did it. To understand, you have to act. To write, you have to experience.

Did what? (Marcus)

(HinderedMag) You know what...

No. Tell me what, and how did you get into my account?(Marcus)

~

"It wasn't me." Marcus gripped the phone. "You gotta believe me."

"They have video, man--watched you all the way home." Marcus's friend sighed. "Someone even got you on their cell. The video's all over YouTube. It's gone viral, bro."

"I don't--but, I didn't even--"

"Can't be on the phone with you, man--I'm on parole. They tap your phone I'm toast..."

~

(HinderedMag) I must kill to write.

There are other ways.(Marcus)
(HinderedMag) You must do, to know. To feel.

~

Marcus looked at the screen. He'd just finished typing: To feel.

He picked up a smartphone beside the keyboard and began typing under his Twitter handle.

~

"I repeat, last warning. We will break down this door. OPEN NOW!"

An explosion of splinters and metal as the deadlock ripped the door frame.

Inside, there was nothing. No furniture except a rickety table and a single chair. On the table was an open laptop. Power off. 
The window was propped open, a breeze blowing in.
                         
"Radio the guys on ground, I want a team surrounding the perimeter! You go and assist."
"Will do!" A man with thick bulletproof padding rushed out of the apartment.

"Sir!

The squad leader came over to the table where a second from his team stood looking down at the laptop.

"Get a look at this."

On the screen was the Twitter name: 

HinderedMag. There was a conversation open with Marcus:


All I wanted to do was write like you.(Marcus)

(HinderedMag) You have to find the writing in yourself. It's there, waiting to come out.

I didn't steal them. (Marcus)

 They were mine.

Do you hear me?

Hello?

I didn't kill him I dfheh


Fffft: "Boss?"

The squad leader pressed TALK on his communicator: "Come in."

"We got 'im. Hiding in a dumpster."
"Good work. Be right down."

"Sir!"

The squad leader turned. "Manuel, what d' you got?"

"Sir, look."

Hindered Magazine was typing. The keys on the laptop depressing before their eyes.

(HinderedMag) Maybe you didn't. But who are they going to believe? hahahahahahaha

THE END

William Marchese 
Copyright 

Let me know what you think. Did you like it? Did it suck? Follow and comment below. Do you prefer this font over Courier New? I'm doing a poll on Twitter. Let me know. 

WCM

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