“Do you live here?” I asked suspiciously as I fumbled for my keys while juggling the heavy Remington typewriter I’d just purchased from the local antique shop.

The woman standing on the sidewalk, her hands in her jean’s pockets, looking up at my building with palpable curiosity, dropped her eyes to me. She blinked. “Hmm? Oh. I’m considering it. Do you know if anything’s for let?”

‘For let’, it was an odd expression, but so too, was she. She had on a grey fish-bone sweater with a black t-shirt showing at the edges over dark river washed jeans, the knees lighter than the rest, with scuffed Dockers peeking out of the cuffs. I thought she looked like a Maine fisherman.

“There might be. Have you checked with the office?”

She smiled. The smile did wonders for her pale face. It was as honest a face as I’d ever seen. I relaxed under it. “Good idea,” she chuckled. “Do you know where its located?”

“Sure.” I opened the front door, pointed at the door on the immediate right. “Looks like you’re in luck. It’s rent day. Only day he ever seems to be around.”

She laughed and followed me in. I was nervous for a second until it was clear she was headed to the office. “Thank you,” she said as I went for the stairs.

“Good luck,” I replied, forgetting her at once.

I hiked up the three flights, juggling the typewriter with every other step. I hated the lack of elevator, but I loved almost everything else about my studio. I kicked the door open and closed behind me, sliding the chain in place. I sat the typewriter down on my desk, clacking a couple of the keys. It responded perfectly. I smiled down at it, my brain already buzzing with story ideas. I hurried into the kitchen to start the kettle, but I couldn’t wait. Too much creative energy crackled around me. I returned to the room to write my first sentence.

She was there.

I looked at the door. It was still locked. I looked back at her. She hadn’t moved. Her hands in her pockets.

“Get out of my apartment!”

She looked at the typewriter, then at me. “I can’t. Sorry.”

I rushed into the kitchen, grabbed a knife, and came back to face her. “I said get out!”

“My name is Magnolia Wesson. My friends call me, Maggie.”

“I am not your friend.”

“Fair enough.” Her soft eyes looked at the knife. “I can’t hurt you.”

“I can hurt you,” I growled.

“No. You can’t. I’m already dead.”

Silence filled my mind. All thoughts ceased.

“I’m tethered to Remington,” Maggie explained nodding at the typewriter on my desk. “I have to stay within twenty feet of it. Unless you use it. When the keys are pressed, I have to stand next to Remington. Otherwise, I’d still be in the hall. Don’t worry, the effect only lasts for 43 minutes. Once the time is up, I’ll stay out of sight.”

My brain sputtered, misfired, and went still.

“It’s okay. You’re not the only one that can see me. Little kids can see us too. Under five they all can. After that it goes away, mostly. Adults don’t see us. Not as a whole. There are exceptions, obviously.”

“Psychics,” I said unconsciously.

“Writers and artists.” Maggie looked around the apartment, at the bare walls and then at the floor and the pile of books. “You a writer?”

I nodded dumbly.

“I wanted to be a writer. Maybe that’s why I got Remington. It can be anything that we’re tethered too. I know a guy that’s attached to a nail in an attic. I’m lucky. My anchor’s mobile. I get to see a lot of places. The antique shop was nice. Lots of people to watch there. And there were others there like me. The conversations were rather pleasant.”

“Do you want to go back?” I asked, suddenly inspired.

“If that’s what you want, I wouldn’t mind. I haven’t been dead for so long that I’ve forgotten what it’s like to be alive. You’re doing quite well with this, by the way; even with the knife.”

“Thanks,” I said tightly. “Alright, then let’s go back to the shop.” I started for the door, my back to the wall, the knife to her. Maggie stayed exactly where she was. I removed the chain. The door stuck a little, the door always did, but for once the slight resistance felt sinister. I yanked it open to compensate. “Let’s go.”

“You have to take Remington, or I can’t leave.”

I walked sideways back into the room, waiting for her to move. She didn’t. I had to set the knife down to pick up the typewriter. I hoped I could do more damage with its metal brick bulk than the knife.

“Let’s go.”

I stepped forward, Maggie stepped backwards in response.

I danced her out the door.

As soon as she was in the hall I dropped the typewriter, slamming the door, locking it so swiftly I felt like a magician.

I left the door to get my phone from my purse.

Maggie was standing in the room, the same distance from the typewriter as before.

I screamed, ran back to the desk, picked up the knife, and threw it.

It flew sideways, slashed through her torso and collided with the door with a great clatter. Except the knife hadn’t touched her. Maggie rubbed at the spot it’d passed through, not out of pain, but to show me that she was unhurt. “Sorry,” she repeated; at which point I did the most unhelpful of things possible, I fainted.

///

The teapot woke me. I was on the floor.

Maggie was gone. I told myself this was because she’d never been there to begin with.

I couldn’t explain why I’d woken on the floor, or why the typewriter was by the door on its side, or why there was a kitchen knife behind it. I opted to ignore those facts and made myself a cup of tea instead.

I stayed in the kitchen until the sun started to set. It was the darkness that compelled me at last. I wasn’t brave enough to face the possibilities in the dark. I tiptoed into the main room. I sat on the edge of the desk, staring at the toppled typewriter. All I had to do was type a few keys. When she didn’t reappear then that was the end of it.

“Right,” I said after a while. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

I brought the typewriter back to the desk like it was a bomb.

I blew out my breath. Closed my eyes and hit the keys.

“I might’ve explained this poorly.”

I leapt halfway across the room.

“Sorry.”

“You’re real,” I squeaked.

“Sorry.”

I sat on the floor.

“Are you okay? Do you need to leave? I’d offer, but you used Remington, so I’m stuck for the next 43 minutes.”

“Maybe I’m having a stroke,” I reasoned aloud.

“Look, if this is too much, and there is no shame in it if it is, you can just take Remington back to the shop. If you do it quick enough, I bet in a year or two you’ll forget all about this.”

“You think in a year, I’ll forget I can see ghosts?”

“I never said I was a ghost.”

“You said you were dead.”

“That’s not even remotely the same thing.”

I couldn’t tell if Maggie was kidding. I couldn’t tell if I wanted her to be. This whole situation was insane. Or maybe that was just me?

“Do you know anyone with kids?” Maggie asked suddenly. “A four-year-old, preferably. They can speak, but grownups don’t believe what they say. You’ll have your proof that you’re not crazy then.”

“Who said anything about being crazy?”

“You’re talking to a dead woman tethered to a typewriter. If you didn’t think you were crazy, you would be.”

“Oh.” That made sense. Too much sense. “Are you dangerous?”

“No.”

“So, you can’t...possess me?”

She laughed.

“That’s not an answer.”

“Sorry. No. Not in my wheelhouse. Or my personality for that matter. I was kind. That doesn’t change. When you die it’s just like stepping through a door to a bigger room. No, it’s more like stepping through a door and realizing that life, mortal life, was a small house and you’re finally outside. Transcendent awe is the only expression I can think of to describe it. But you don’t change. It’s the same with feelings. Like right now, I can tell you’re freaking out and I want to leave so that you won’t be, but I can’t. I have to stay here until you decide to get rid of me. I’m hoping that means you’re taking me back to the shop, but I’m afraid it means you’re going to dump Remington in a river. And while that may prove interesting at first, I suspect fish aren’t great conversationalist.”

It took me a moment to process everything she’d said.

“Why are you here?” I asked at last.

“I’m tethered to Remington.”

“No. Why are you cursed?”

“Who said I was cursed?”

“You’re tethered to a typewriter for all eternity.”

“Not for eternity. Just for a while.”

“How long?”

“Not sure. They didn’t say.”

“Who?”

“The men in the garden.”

“What garden?”

“There’s a garden in the outside. Lots of them. In one of them, I met some men. They told me about this.”

“About me?”

“Not you. About Remington. They wanted to make sure I understood before I said yes. Agency is everything to them.”

“And yet you don’t know how long you’re stuck here?”

“No, but I knew that before I accepted the job.”

“This is a job?”

“It’s certainly not a vacation.”

“What do you do?”

“Isn’t it obvious? Given the rules and all that?”

“No.”

“Sorry, I know this is a lot to take in. Do you need a moment?”

“No. I need an answer.”

“Kids.”

“What?”

“That’s my job. I look after kids. We all do. That’s why we came back. To protect them.”

“How does being stuck to a typewriter protect children?”

“Kids like them. When they play with Remington, I can keep an eye on them. Whisper a kind word in their ear. Kids need more of that, you know. You can never whisper too many good things in a child’s ear.”

“What about the man? The one in the attic. The one stuck to a nail? Is he there to protect children too?”

“Of course. Adults only go in attics to put things out of reach, and if there is one thing a child can’t resist, it is a thing out of their reach. That’s why they play with typewriters too. They know, instinctively, that they weren’t made to be toys; it makes them irresistible.”

“And that’s why you’re stuck to a typewriter?”

“Yes.”

I believed her far more than I intended to.

“Why can I see you?”

“You’re a writer. Stories can protect children too. Books sweeten their dreams and fill their days so that they’re never lonely. That’s why you can see me. We have, potentially, the same job, except where I can only guard twenty feet from Remington, a writer’s shield could span the world.”

I stood up and began pacing the floor like a caged animal. “I don’t write books for kids.”

“I didn’t say you had to.”

“But you think I should?”

“I think everyone should, but I’m not telling you anything. I’m in the guardian class, not the messenger core. Do what you want.”

I stopped pacing. It was foolish, but the idea that Maggie wasn’t interested in me was insulting. But, after a minute, it was also comforting.

“So…I really could just take you back? You wouldn’t stop me?”

“I can’t stop you. And it isn’t me you’re taking back, it’s Remington. But yes.”

“Great!” I declared. That was my plan. Simple. Cowardly. But clear, nonetheless.

I didn’t speak to her after that. I went back into the kitchen where I could hide.

///

In the morning, I found Maggie in the hall, leaning over a newspaper, reading as much of the articles as she could in its wrapped state.

“Let’s go,” I barked.

Maggie followed without complaint. She didn’t speak. She didn’t ignore me either. Whenever I glanced at her, she smiled reassuringly. She understood why I needed to be done with her. That was the worst part. I had to look away from the smile every time.

We reached the shop. It was closed. I set the typewriter on the front step, tucked up against the building for safe keeping.

“Okay, well...”

“It was nice to meet you too. Good luck.”

“Thanks,” I said uncomfortably and then I just left.

I looked back at the corner.

Maggie was leaning against the bricks, her hands in her pockets, a calm expression radiating from her face as she looked up at the sunrise soaked clouds, singing quietly to herself. I followed her gaze, wondering if she could see straight into heaven, or if it was just the clouds that filled her with such contentment? My eyes drifted back to her. I was jealous of her peace. The feeling scared me. I turned to leave again.

A young mother was walking hurriedly past. She had a baby in a stroller and a small child trotting alongside her. The mother paid no attention to Maggie leaning against the bricks, now in full song. The child did.

My heart stopped.

“Good morning, princess,” Maggie said, pausing from her song, flashing an angelic smile at the girl.

The little girl giggled.

///

“I ran back to the shop. Every time I relive that morning, I run back to the shop. It was the only sane thing to do. Maggie was real. I had to go back. But I didn’t. I was too cowardly. I went home. I’ve been haunted by that decision ever since. It took me years to go near an antique shop, let alone into one. Even now, whenever I see someone standing by themselves, not quite engaging with the crowd, and yet, not ignoring it either, I wonder. It’s the same with typewriters. I never touch the keys, but I do watch children play with them; particularly if it happens to be a Remington.”

“Did you hear that honey?” Dell asked into the hush that followed my story. “My typewriter is haunted!”

“Forget the typewriter,” Lucy said, smacking her husband. “Did you ever look Maggie up?”

“You know this isn’t a true story, right?” Dell asked in a stage whisper.

The crowded living room laughed in response.

Lucy shrugged his taunt off, leaning forward, eager to hear my reply.

“Actually, I did.”

“How did she die?”

“As she lived. According to the article I found, Maggie was a schoolteacher in a tiny Alaskan town. Or rather she was going to be a teacher. A fire broke out on her first day. Maggie got her class out then went back into the building, again and again. She died two days later of smoke inhalation. She was the only casualty. The article said Maggie had a hand in saving nearly every school-aged child in the town. They called her a saint.”

Lucy whimpered as a tear slipped out of her eye, right on cue.

Dell was less impressed. He always had been. Even as a boy he’d held me to a higher standard than my harshest critics. He did clap, however, he always had.

His clapping broke the spell. The rest of the room clapped with him.

I bowed my head. The party goers came up to me, thanking me for the story. Soon, a small tug at the corner of my dress brought my eyes down to Dell’s youngest son. “Yes, my dear?” I asked, leaning down so that our noses were at the same height.

“I liked your story.”

“Good. I told it for you,” I whispered back.

“I know,” he giggled.

“Alright. You’ve thanked her, now it’s off to bed with you,” Lucy said, scooping him up. “Say goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Aunt Rose!”

“Goodnight, my dear.”

“Goodnight, Maggie!”

Lucy paused mid step. The crowd stuttered. Then, cautiously, afraid that someone would notice, they looked in unison at the old Remington typewriter perched on the mantelpiece. There was a moment…but then, no…logic won out. They laughed, turning their backs on the relic and the child in his mother’s arms.

It was then that Maggie spoke. “Goodnight, little prince,” she purred. “Dream well. Live better. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Owen grinned, letting his mother ferry him out of the room without another ounce of protest. Lucy, however, dragged her feet with every step. She kept looking back at me and the typewriter, her expression clearly asking, was she brave enough to let it be true?

I waited until she was up the stairs to turn to Maggie. “Good to see you again.”

“Likewise,” Maggie said with her warm honest smile. She wore the same clothes, and stood in the same pose, hands in her pockets, yet where I’d once seen the haunting of a grey ghost, I now saw the glow of a guardian angel.

“I took your advice,” I told her eagerly. “About my career. Children’s stories. Every one of them. Even the ones written for the adults are really meant for the kids inside them.”

“Good for you.”

“It has been. In every sense.”

Maggie nodded. “I can see that. Well done.”

“Aunt Rose? Are you alright?” Dell asked, suddenly at my side. “You’re crying.”

“Oh.” I wiped the tears from my eyes. “Look at that.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” I took my nephew’s arm, smiling up at Maggie. “Except, would you grant your old aunt one favor?”

“Name it,” he promised.

“Move Remington to Owen’s room.”

Dell laughed, but then, like his wife, he frowned at the typewriter and began to wonder.