100th Run - Book Three: A Regressor's LitRPG Adventure by Flossindune

Author:Flossindune [Flossindune]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Shadow Alley Press
Published: 2024-03-26T00:00:00+00:00

TWENTY-EIGHT

Ostwriter’s Townhouse, Atlanta - 8:07 PM

Walking into the townhouse, I immediately had to watch where I was stepping in order to keep from stomping on errant pieces of paper littering the ground. The pens had resumed writing, leaving an obstacle course through the ghost’s home, and I could only guess what furniture this place had before its incorporeal resident moved in.

It looked like there might have been a couch against the far wall, but it was covered in paper. The TV stand was probably the huge stack near the front door. Two similar stacks of paper flanked a long stack in the center of the room, which I assumed were a pair of chairs and a coffee table. The whole place was a fire hazard, which certainly was one way to get rid of a ghost if you didn’t need something from it first.

“Come this way and don’t touch anything,” Ostwriter snapped, levitating towards the ceiling.

“Yes, sir,” I said, heading towards the staircase near the kitchen.

I didn’t even bother looking in there, knowing that I’d see the same scene of dozens of pens writing on papers that floated in midair. The staircase was similarly covered, and I didn’t want to disturb these piles lest I bring the wrath of Ostwriter down on me, so I began climbing up the banister. Once I was high enough up, I jumped over the railing and set my feet down in the upstairs hallway.

The second floor was just as hectic as the first, and the bedroom and bathroom I passed by looked fine but only because all I could see was paper. For all I knew, they were wrecked and the damage was hidden. Taking my last few careful steps, I finally made it to my destination.

Ostwriter hovered a few inches off of the ground, gently caressing a typewriter on an antique roll top desk. A brand new office chair that looked like it had never been used was in front of it, and a small table with a dead plant was situated near the door. Aside from the papers meant for the machine and a manuscript next to it, this office was free from the clutter terrorizing the rest of the house. When I took a step inside, the ghost turned to face me.

“So you want to read my book, do you?” he asked, none of that anger and hysterics affecting his voice now that he was near his life’s—and death’s—work.

“I do, I really am interested,” I said, trying to sound convincing.

It didn’t matter if I was or not, because a big grin bloomed on his face as it always had when I was polite. He tried to pull the chair back and offer it to me, but his hand passed right through. “Please, have a seat. I’m afraid I haven’t gotten your name.”

“Anthony Franklin,” I replied, taking a seat.

“Mr. Franklin,” he said. “You have the honor of being the first person to read my manuscript. It’s still not done, I have a lot of writing left to do, but any and all feedback is appreciated.

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