Kackie's Stories

I was born in a big hospital in a big city in California, in 1986. When I was five months old, my grandparents adopted me. Much about my birth and my parents was kept hidden from me. By the time I was four, I made up elaborate stories to other kids about where I’d come from. I was much happier making up the stories and believing them, then asking my grandparents about it. They were happy almost all the time, except when I mentioned my real parents. I knew they were my mother’s parents, but that was it. So, my parents became scientists and archaeologists on big digs in South America, famous movie stars in LA, traveling rock stars, big-game hunters in Africa, teachers for refugees in third-world countries… whatever they were, it was something cool, not something boring or shameful.

When I was seventeen, my grandparents decided to uproot us from Northern California and the house I’d lived in all my life, and move to Maine.
I loved to write and make up stories. My favorite author was one I’d only discovered a year before-Mort Rainey. I loved his suspenseful style in his books, and wanted very much to be as good as him at writing. Despite all of my imagination, I didn’t want to move all the way across the country. I felt like I might as well be moving to Siberia. I had lots of friends and even a really sweet boyfriend. I had writing buddies, and a reputation at school for being, “Woodland’s Best Author.” I had favorite teachers there, and the principal was like a friend. I got to write stories for the school newspaper once a month, and had even been published a few times in the town’s newspaper. To up and leave all of this was something I seriously did not want to do.

On moving day, I felt the moving crew and my grandparents, and met my friends down at Jonathon’s Pizza, to buy one last pizza. I complained to them that I was never going to find such good friends as them and promised to call and write them as much as I possibly could.
We drove all the way to Maine. I just couldn’t be excited about all of the landmarks we saw. We went through Chicago and Cleveland, saw Niagara Falls, and went through the Northern states all the way up to Maine.
It was very different from California. The people talked different, too.

A few weeks later, I was in Waldenbooks, snooping around for some suspense/thriller books to buy. I had a membership card there and needed more points, so I was looking at the hard covers and expensive books.
I can remember very clearly when I looked up and saw a man, probably in his thirties, looking at the bookshelves from behind a pair of big dark-framed glasses. He was dark blonde hair that looked like it had been dyed that color, and a black hat on his head. He wore a long jacket and a green scarf. It took me a few seconds to realize who it was---Mort Rainey!

He finally found a book and picked it up. He noticed me staring and smiled quickly before heading to the counter to check out. The man checking him out grinned hugely and talked cheerfully to him.
I forgot about looking for a book and tried to get up the nerve to go up and introduce myself to him. He walked out before I could, though.
I followed him outside and watched him get into a beaten-up old blue car. I tried to imagine what I’d tell my friends if I admitted I was too chicken to speak to my favorite author. So, I got on my bike and stayed far enough behind that he wouldn’t see me. I couldn’t believe I was doing this--I might as well be stalking him! I should have just spoken to him at the bookstore!
I followed him out of town and onto a dirt road. I saw wooden signs that said a lake was up ahead. It was chilly out, and I shivered a little, but I hurried after him. The name of the lake was long and hard to pronounce, so I ignored the signs.
When I got down to the lake, I looked around and finally spotted the beaten-up car.

What was I going to do? Ride up to the car and say “hi”? I took a deep breath and rode my bike up to the drivers’ side window. I looked inside… but Mort Rainey wasn’t there. I frowned, wondering where he’d gone.
A voice said “hello” from behind me and made me jump. I turned around to find him standing there, smiling. I stuttered out my name and told him I was sorry to bother him. I said I had always wanted to meet him. He shook my hand, still smiling, and asked me if I did any writing. Ignoring my blush, I enthusiastically launched into the tale of all my writing history and told him about my stories and plans. He listened without interrupting, and then asked me if I wanted to come sit down with him by the lake while I talked. He showed me a rock he liked to sit on while writing. I was amazed to find out he wrote some of his first drafts with pen and paper. I stayed there for hours and hours, talking with this famous author. He was very nice, and listened to everything I said. He also told me about the book he was working on. It was about an author accused of killing his ex-wife. He said it wasn’t coming along very well. I asked him if the author in his story was innocent and he said yes. I thought it seemed very personal, and something nagged at the back of my mind. Hadn’t Mort Rainey’s ex-wife disappeared?
By the time I went home, I was surprised to find that I didn’t want to tell anyone about what had happened. I wanted it to be my little secret.

I went back down to the lake a few days later, and found Mr. Rainey there again. By the time I left, I had promised to meet him there again the next day, at the same time.
I started meeting him at the lake whenever I could. I brought my stories with me and he read them and gave me advice. He laughed at the funny parts and looked sad at the sad parts, “tsk-tsked” at the parts where a character did something wrong, congratulated me when I finished a story and encouraged me when I was having writers’ block.
He asked me to call him “Mort”, instead of “Mr. Rainey,” which was one of the most exciting things in my whole life. He asked about my life and I told him about it. He asked about my friends, and I told him about them. I really didn’t consider them “friends” anymore, I explained. We lived too far apart. In fact, I secretly thought that Mort was my only friend.

Mort told me one day that there were mean people who thought he’d killed his cheating ex-wife. I sympathized with him and promised that I didn’t believe it.
He also said he was having trouble with his book again.
My grandparents bought a very small cabin on nearby land to our house and gave it to me for my eighteenth birthday, saying I could use it as a “writing house.” I told Mort all about it.

While at my Writing House, I started working on a story about an author accused of killing his ex-wife, when he’s actually innocent. It was very similar to Mort’s book; the idea was that I would give it to him when I was done. That would help his writer’s block and he would eternally be my friend.

Mort started to change. When I’d meet with him, he was quiet and moody. I wasn’t exactly afraid of him, but I was worried. I wanted to tell him about the story I was working on to help him with, but I couldn’t. I wanted to make him feel better. I thought about him a lot when I was at home, hoping he was okay. When I’d meet with him, I slowly got up the nerve to sit closer to him, take his hand even. The first time I did that, my face heated up, but he just looked at me expressionlessly. I thought he was comforted.
He told me that he and his ex-wife had only ever had one baby, and the child had been stillborn.
“I like babies,” I told him. I hoped he understood what I was feeling. I would love to have married him and been a mom to a bunch of kids. “I like babies,” I said again. He looked out at the cold, clear lake, and never said anything more about it. That night I wrote in my diary that I loved him and wanted to marry him.

The next day I met him at the lake again, but not matter how much I tried to get him to talk, he wouldn’t. He listened to me talk about my day, but he kept his mouth shut. Finally, he said, “How’s your writing?”
He said it in a strange way, with a hard look like he was accusing me of something and not asking a question. I told him it was fine, and the strange look only faded a little. He didn’t talk anymore after that, so I finally said I was going home. He got up and walked to his car without saying goodbye. That night I worried about him, wondering if his loneliness was getting to be too much for him to take. He needed a friend, he needed me.

I went to the lake the next day, but he wasn’t there. I waited for hours, shivering, but he never showed up. He didn’t come to the lake the next three days, and I became more and more worried about him.
On an unseasonably warm morning, I rode my bike to the post office to pick up the mail for my grandparents. I had a package, addressed to my name, waiting there. I walked outside to my bike with the letters and the package, and opened the package. It had no return address, so I hoped it was from my parents. Maybe they were trying to contact me, after all of these years. I ripped the top off and found… a book. It was one of Mort’s books, and on the front cover was a note. It said, “Better go check on your story.” I frowned, wondering what he meant by that. I gulped, getting shaky. I didn’t know why, but I was nervous. I opened the book and saw another note inside. “You stole my story.” I flipped through the pages. There was a bookmark in the middle of the book. “Go ahead and look at this. You stole it.”

I hadn’t ever written anything even vaguely like this book, I knew. The only thing I’d ever written that was similar to his work was that book I was trying to finish for him. I had only a few sentences left before it would be done, and I could give it to him. I wondered why he wanted me to go check on my stories… had he done something to it? I got on my bike and raced down to the Writing House, my headphones still around my neck but my walkman off. This was no time to be listening to music. I doubted I could have heard it over my heart beat anyway. It was thundering in my ears.

I got to my Writing House and ran to the door, my package and letters still in my hands. I looked for the keys in my backpack, but while I was looking, I bumped into the door and it opened. I stepped inside and found the whole place to be an awful mess. Papers were strewn all over the floor, pens and pencils were on the floor, a black cowboy hat was on the table next to the phone, where I usually put my laptop when I brought it, and a shovel was propped up in one corner. I remembered in his version of the book he was working on that the author had been accused of killing his ex-wife with a shovel. Right in front of me was a paper with the words “YOU STOLE MY STORY”. I hoped he was just playing a practical joke on me.

I started looking around for the story I’d been working on for him. It was a very large manuscript of typed pages that had been printed so far, and should have been easy to find. I searched through everything, though, and couldn’t find it. The papers on the floor were pages of an older story I’d been working on when I was thirteen, a sappy love story about a girl and an amazing, older boyfriend. I picked a few of the pages up and looked at Mort’s book. They were nothing alike. I hadn’t stolen anything of his, and I hadn’t copied this story.
The phone rang.

I picked it up and he said I’d stolen his story. I told him he was wrong--his book and the story strewn all over the floor were nothing alike. I said I’d never steal his work. I told him I was working on something for him, though. “It’s to help you with your writer’s block,” I said, realizing I sounded like I was pleading with him not to be angry. I didn’t want him to be angry. I didn’t want him to think I was just some dumb kid.
“Finish it and bring it to the lake then,” he said finally, his voice still tight and dark. He hung up and I put the phone down slowly. I finally spotted the story, somewhere where I hadn’t expected it--under the black hat. I picked it up and flipped to the end. It was so close to done. I picked up a black pen and started scribbling in my planned ending. The last sentence escaped me, though. I sat racking my brain for a long time until finally the words came to me. They seemed just like something Mort would say. I wrote them, and shoved the thick manuscript in my backpack. I ran back outside without even closing the door, and got on my bike.

I rode down to the lake as quickly as I could, and looked around for Mort. I was panting as I swept my gaze across the beach. I finally spotted Mort’s old car, and got off my bike. I walked to his car and looked inside. Again, he wasn’t in the car. I looked inside a little closer, and then turned and looked around the lake. I didn’t see him. Where had he gone?

I carried the manuscript towards the lake, trying to find him. I walked to the water’s edge. “Mort!” I shouted.
“Hi there,” he said quietly from behind me. I whirled around and saw Mort standing in front of me with a shovel in his left hand. He was leaning on it like a walking stick and smiling. “You were working on a story, right?”
“Yeah.”
He asked me if I’d finished it and I said yes. He smiled again, even wider this time. “That’s wonderful, you know. I really needed help finishing that book. Thank-you so much,” he said. I turned around, but there was no one close enough to hear me scream for help. “Writing’s a hard business some times. I find this is the easy part, though,” he told me, swinging that shovel really hard…

The moral of the story is:
1: Always tell someone where you’re going
2: Never, ever, ever make friends with a character created by Stephen King