the writer without a soul

7/31/2019 The Writer Without a Soul

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THE WRITER WITHOUT A SOULby Matthew Acheson


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THE WRITER WITHOUT A SOUL

by Matthew Acheson

When the door swung open Penny was met by a face she didnt recognize. A tanned and

well muscled young man with an armful of packages stood on the little flight of granite steps that

led up to her ground floor suite.

I have twenty three items here for Penny Reinhart with Stranger than Fiction Magazine,

the postman said.

Thats me. Wheres Fred today?

Freds on vacation this week. So youre the editor of the magazine?

Guilty as charged. Penny smiled and carefully balanced the stack of envelopes in her

arms.

You probably get some pretty weird stories huh?

Thats one way of putting it, Penny chuckled.

The mailman took a step forward and drew his face uncomfortably close to hers. He was

attractive, but she was a mother of two and had been happily married for eleven years. A little

playful flirtation was harmless, but the wry grin on his face danced farther across the borderlands

of mischievousness than she was comfortable with.

I couldnt help but notice that this one was sent by Robert Bruce Argyle, he whispered

as he handed her the envelope.

Yes. Pennys mind changed gears from flirtation to much darker avenues of thought.

I also noticed that the return address is the Maine State Prison in Warren.

It would appear so.Penny felt her pulse race as the rivers of her thoughts were stabbed over and over again

by icy daggers of recollection. Professor Robert Bruce Argyle the coldest, most calculating

and ruthless murderer of the Twentieth Century.


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With trembling hands and a sick feeling in her stomach she tore open the envelope and

removed the manuscript. Balancing the Scales, by Robert Bruce Argyle, she said aloud. Then,

without any further hesitation she folded back the cover page and began to read.

Nothing on this Earth can stop a predator on the hunt. Poor little Buttercup tried, but

she was easily placated with a choice hunk of filet mignon. The fast acting tranquilizer did its

work and within the span of a few minutes the guard dogs hot entrails were steaming on the

dewy grass. Canis lupus familiaris such an admirable species. They are the only beasts in the

known cosmos that will willingly give their own lives to protect a human master.

As I approached the house in almost total darkness I went out of my way to make

footprints in the dirt and gravel driveway. My sneakers were two sizes too small and the toes

were cut out to allow for comfortable locomotion. All of the windows were dark with the single

exception of the picture window in the living room. A lone figure lay on the couch watching

television.

It was a warm summer night, which made my entry into the home a trivial matter. I

made a quiet tour of the first floor but found no sheep at all, only the lamb on the couch. It is a

fascinating thing to watch your prey as they sleep. Their chests puff in and out with a slow,

peaceful regularity that is intoxicating to behold, and the looks on their faces betray a sense of

total serenity. They feel safe, which makes ending them all the more rewarding.It pained me greatly to have to stifle those delicious cries by placing my hand over its

mouth as I slid my knife between the ribs and punctured both of its lungs. It simply would not

do to spoil the party by alerting the other sheep to the presence of the wolf. As its feeble gasps

became more and more sporadic, I cut the throat to hasten its destruction.

I found three more creatures upstairs, still asleep in their beds...

Penny stopped reading and shuddered. Like the others, this story was a crystal clear

window into the mind of a madman. Professor Argyle wasnt a gifted writer, but what lacked in

his prose was compensated for by the raw power and realism of his first person narratives. She

skimmed ahead several pages to avoid reading some of the more unpleasant details.

I was tempted to remove her skin and wear it while dancing around the house in the

manner of the Aztec priests of old, but my plans required that she remain alive. My literary

agent was away on business, and the purpose of this affair was to ensure that he returned to find


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his life in pieces. Three children turned into inanimate works of art, and a wife with a shattered

mind what a glorious legacy I left for him. Any bumbling dullard can take a life. It takes a

true artist to permanently ruin one.

This was all part of our little chess game you see. I created stories of unparalleled

realism and artistry. He destroyed them. I wrote them because in prison there is nothing better

to do than to relish old glories. He destroyed them because he was afraid that by sharing my

great works with the world he might somehow infect the minds of the plebeians.

My literary agent learned a hard lesson that day - censorship has a price.

Pennys heart skipped a beat and her breath came in wheezing gasps. She gripped the

oak desk so tightly that her fingernails scored the surface of the wood. With a strength of will

that only mothers posses, she grabbed her purse and sprinted out of the office.

The November breeze was brisk and howled down the city streets with a ferocity that

sent a chill through her. The sky was dark and the lone streetlight between her office and the

parking garage did very little to set her mind at ease. She clutched her keys in one hand and a

can of pepper spray in the other, and covered the ground with long, quick strides.

About halfway up the stairwell she stopped suddenly and her whole body trembled with

the icy fingertips of fear. Was the shuffling shed heard the sound of her own footsteps echoing

throughout the stairwell, or something else?Hello? she called out. Her voice reverberated strangely off the glass walls and cement

steps. She held the pepper spray out before her and continued up the stairs slowly. When she

reached the third floor landing, a metal door slammed shut below. Penny fled as fast as her legs

could carry her.

The garage was nearly empty and she spotted her car immediately.

Penny lost her footing as she ran, and one of her shoes went careening off under an old

green truck. Panic had taken over, and she did not stop to retrieve it. She threw herself into the

car and locked the doors. She peered over her shoulder in every direction, scanning the lot for a

figure lurking in the dark. There was no one.

She felt a sense of relief as her vehicle rocketed out of the garage and onto the street. Her

gaze shifted back and forth from the abandoned streets to the rear view mirror almost constantly,

until she reached the solace of the freeway. The presence of other cars and drivers brought her a


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measure comfort, and after a few minutes she abandoned the notion that she was being followed.

Instead her thoughts returned to her family.

Her hands fumbled about desperately within the bowels her purse, until she realized that

shed left her phone on its charger in the office. Penny felt overpowered by a sense of dread,

and the rest of her commute was made at speeds far in excess of the legal limit.

Her heart thundered as she eased her car into the garage. She flung the kitchen door open

with wild abandon and was about to call out to her children when she caught a flash of

movement out of the corner of her eye.

Pennys fear instantly transmuted into the protective instincts of motherhood. She

removed a large blade from the knife-block perched near the end of the countertop, and slowly

stalked down the dark hallway in search of the intruder. The door to the downstairs bathroom

was open, but as she peered in and found it empty she thought she heard a scraping sound in the

laundry room at the end of the hall.

After shed crept more than halfway down the hall she remembered that the hallway light

switch was in the kitchen behind her. Every instinct in her body told her that turning her back on

the laundry room would be a fatal error. Instead she steeled herself, and shuffled step by step

towards the doorway. Brandishing the knife before her, she pivoted into the room and switched

the light on with her other hand.The only living thing between her and the dryer was her tiger cat, Sampson.

With a relieved sigh and an embarrassed smile, she turned and walked calmly back down

the hallway and up the stairs. She cracked the door to the boys room and found them both

asleep in their beds. She padded over and kissed them on their foreheads. It was truly the

happiest moment in her life to find them safe and sound. She realized shed been working too

hard, and felt guilty that she wasnt spending enough time with her family. Penny made a mental

note that things would be different.

Her husband awoke with a groan when she flipped the bedroom lights on. After rubbing

his eyes for a moment, he cocked his head and gave her a questioning look. Did you have a

strange day at the office? He gestured towards the knife she still held in her hand.


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Penny laughed long and hard. It was the kind of healthy, soul cleansing laughter that

only someone who has survived a traumatic experience can appreciate. You dont even want to

know, she said. She gave him a kiss and went back downstairs to pour herself a glass of wine.

As she made her way over to the living room it dawned on her that she was only wearing

one shoe. She flicked it off and let out a belly shaking cackle that might have sounded crazy

under any other set of circumstances. She settled into the couch with a sigh, closed her eyes and

pressed the cold glass against her forehead. Her cares melted away - all except one.

The telephone receiver made an audible click as she took it off hook and dialed. After

three rings an official sounding voice picked up and answered.

Maine State Prison, can I help you?

Actually yes. I have sort of an odd question for you, she said.

Go ahead.

Robert Bruce Argyle is he still in your custody?

Hold one moment please maam. The voice was replaced by the sound of music.

Penny lurched upright, spilling wine on her pants in the process. Oh my god hes

escaped, she gasped aloud. Her head flicked over one shoulder, and then the other, but the

room was empty. After a terrifying wait that seemed to last for hours, another voice crackled

across the receiver.This is Lieutenant Walters with the Department of Corrections. I understand you have a

concern regarding Robert Argyle?

Thats correct, she replied sharply.

May I ask who Im speaking with maam?

My name is Penny Reinhart.

And what is your relationship with Mr. Argyle?

Im his editor, well I used to be. He submits short stories to my magazine, although Im

not exactly sure how this is relevant. All I need to know is if hes escaped or not.

What makes you think hes escaped maam, the officer said.

Nothing. Well actually, this afternoon I read a manuscript that he submitted to us

And it caught you up in one of his head games.


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Penny took in a deep breath and let it out slowly; all of her fears left with it. So hes in

custody then?

He most certainly is, and I wouldnt let his little tricks get to you maam. We have him

locked down in solitary confinement 24 hours a day. Hes not going anywhere.

Thank you. Thats good to hear. Thank you so much.

Penny eased back into the couch and brought the glass of wine to her lips. Then a

thought occurred to her and she shook her head and sighed. A hundred miles away, in a cold,

dark cell, a deranged old man was laughing at her.

the writer without a soul

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