Ghost Writer

Posted On May 24, 2026

He drifted into town one day from no one quite knew where. A roguishly handsome young man claiming to be an aspiring writer. A bit vauge as to his own origins, his accent was difficult to place. No one could pinpoint quite where he was from. Not an unusual happenstance in this quiet little village nestled in the north woods . The bespectacled young man seemed friendly enough, sporting greyish green eyes, tousled black hair, a friendly smile and ready handshake as he introduced himself around town. “Hi, I’m Chris Morgan.” He rented a small studio apartment on a quiet sidestreet and quickly found work as a waiter in a popular tavern overlooking the village’s namesake river that snaked it’s way through the middle of town.

Aside from the occasional flirtatious female dinner hour patron, resident townsfolk really gave this village newcomer who drifted into town from no one quite knew where much thought. He quietly joined the local writer’s club. Beyond that, when not at work waiting tables, Chris Morgan the aspiring writer pretty much kept to himself.

He’d been waiting tables for nearly six months, when suddenly things broke Chris Morgan’s way. A short story he’d written and read aloud at a writer’s club open mic night caught the attention of a well known regional magazine editor who happened to hear it. His story got published. He used that as a resume to land a job with the local newspaper as its human interest reporter.

The aspiring writer’s life proceeded quietly for a while. He settled into a routine, spending his days chasing local stories about cooking contests and dog parks and his nights chasing tips. This served his needs for a brief period of time, but young Chris Morgan had aspirations of literary aclaim, fame and fortune. He soon became bored.

Each evening after his waiter’s shift ended and the small town’s last dinner patron was fed, Chris quietly went home to his small studio apartment overlooking the river, booted up his computer, and worked through the night writing and rewriting draft after draft of half finished fiction short stories. He kept hours that no sane man should keep. His countenance took on a disheveled look. He began missing deadlines and waiter’s shifts. Writing consumed him. He was clearly obsessed.

Finally, one day the newspaper’s editor called Chris into his office.

“Morgan! Get in here! Where’s that story I assigned you on the grand opening of Mrs. Tribleca’s homemade trinket shop? Don’t tell me you missed another deadline. That’s the third time this month!”

“Mr. Dolittle, I’m sorry. I’ve been distracted. It will be on your desk tomorow.”

“Tomorrow? If I’d have wanted it tomorrow, I’d have asked for it tomorrow. I don’t know what I’m going to do with you, Morgan. By all rights I should have already fired you. But there’s something about you that reminds you of me. I can see you have talent. Tell me boy, what’s the problem? Is it a girl? Is it that damned online gaming nonsense? Have you fallen to drugs?”

“No Sir. I can assure you, it’s nothing like that. It’s just that, well, it’s just that chasing around these human interest stories just doesn’t inspire me. You see Sir, the truth is, I don’t really want to be a reporter.”

“Don’t want to be a reporter! Then why in God’s name are you here?! Everyone has to start somewhere. What is it you want to write?”

Chris Morgan dropped his eyes as he stood facing the editor seated behind his big wooden desk. Chris shifted his weight uncomfortably from right foot to left. “Well Sir, the truth is, what I really want to do is write stories.”

“Stories?! You want to write stories?! Well, that’;s what I’m trying to get you to do! Now, write me a story about Mrs. Tribleca’s homemade trinket shop!”

“No Sir. That’s not what I mean. I mean I want to write short stories. Fiction. Like Mark Twain, Edgar Allen Poe, or Robert Louis Stevenson.”

“Short stories? You want to write short stories? I’m running a newspaper here. I need reporters, not story tellers. If you want to keep your job here Mr. Morgan, you need to focus.”

The aspiring young writer hung his head and sighed. “I understand Sir. I will do better. I’m sorry.”

The veteran editor sat back in his chair, studying the figure standing in front of him. Something about this tousele haired kid reminded him of a younger version of himself. Mr. Dolittle leaned forward.

“Tell you what I will do. You want to write stories? Fine. Give me a story. Folks might enjoy a short change of pace tale over their morning coffee. I want something with punch. A good clean north woods plot. No sex, drugs or any of that crap. Something that reaches in and grabs them by the heart. You’ve got seven hundred and fifty words. Not one syllable more. I’ll run it Saturday morning. Give me your very best. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

The young writer looked up with fresh light in his eyes. “Thank you Mr. Dolittle! Thank you very much. I’ll write a story your readers will love. You won’t regret this. I promise.”

“Well, we’ll see, won’t we. One more thing Mr. Morgan. That Tribleca piece had better be on my desk first thing in the morning.”

Chris Morgan exited the editor’s office with a bounce in his step. This was it. His big chance. He grabbed his jacket and raced home to write. Then as he reached his apartment’s front steps, he remembered. His heart fell. Before he could commence chasing his dream, he had to hurry back across town to Mrs. Tribleca’s place for a quick interview and photos so he could put together his promised trinket shop human interest story.

By the time he finished with that, he had to report for his dinner shift at the restaurant. When the aspiring storyteller finally sat down at his computer to write, it was well after midnight. He was exhausted.

He kept at it until 3am, but his mind drew blanks. Worn out, exasperated, he felt opportunity slipping away. Finally, in one desperate epiphanal moment, he did something as a writer he’d never dared do before. He googled Microsoft Co-Pilot.

“Hi Chris, what can we do for you today?”

“Can you write me a story?”

“Yes. I can do that.”

“Great. I need a story with punch. Can you make it about a teenage girl, a runaway, from a group home? Running from a childhood of abuse, seeking refuge in the woods. Have her rescue an eaglet. Have them develop a bond as she nurtures it back to health. Call the girl “Star.” Name the eaglet “Sky”. I need something that reaches in and grabs readers’ hearts. In 750 words or less. Title it “Starlight”. Can you do that?”

Microsoft Co-Pilot’s little blue thinking wheel turned.

“Perfect, Chris. Let’s build this story together. Here’s a short story built to reach in and grab the reader’s heart- tender, raw, and quietly powerful.”

Chris Morgan’s exhausted eyes read through the story. He sat up straight and read it again, thinking to himself, “Wow! This is awesome.” He copied and pasted it into a file, made a few minor edits, stored it on a flash drive, printed off two paper copies, then, craving sleep, crashed.

The next morning Chris Morgan stood in front of the desk in his editor’s office. Mr. Doolittle sat back and gave him a look. “Well young man, what have you got for me?”

The aspiring writer first laid the trinket shop story on his editor’s desk. “As promised, Mr. Dolittle, a human interest story on the one and only Mrs. Tribleca.”

Mr. Dolittle nodded and smiled. “That’s a good start. What else have you got?”

The young man then handed his editor the paper copy and the flash drive. “Here’s the short story you asked for. Heart grabbing with punch. Seven hundred and fifty words, just like you said.”

The veteran editor quickly scanned the story his waywar young reporter had just handed him. Then he furrowed his brow, glanced up at Chris Morgan, sat back in his chair, ran one hand through his hair, and read it again.

“You wrote this last night?”

“Yes, Sir. Was up most of the night working on it. Burned the midnight oil.”

The editor nodded. “This is good. I’m impressed. We’ll run it Saturday morning. I think our readers will love it.”

Saturday morning came. The Starlight story ran. Word spread like wildfire. Newspapers flew off the shelves. On Monday morning Chris Morgan entered the newspaper’s office. The receptionist greeted him. “Oh! Mr. Morgan. Mr. Dolittle is in his office. He wants to see you. I loved your Starlight story, by the way. So did my daughter, and my husband. You’re quite the writer!”

Chris smiled at the compliment. “Thanks!”

He knocked as he peeked through his editor’s door. “You wanted to see me, Sir?”

“Yes! Your story was a big hit. Now give me another.”

That night the young writer fired up his computer. He googled Co-Pilot. “Do you remember the short story you drafted for me? Can you write me a sequel?”

“Absolutely. I remember Star and Sky Vividly.”

“Great. How about this time Star and Sky rescue fawns from a forest fire. Add a run in with a bear. Seven hundred fifty words, just like last time. Heart warming, with punch.”

Co-Pilot’s thinking wheel briefly turned. “Absolutely Chris. Let’s continue Star and Sky’s journey. This sequel leans into danger, instinct, loyalty, and the fierce tenderness that made the first story sing.”

Chris turned the sequel in to his editor. It ran the next Saturday. Newstands ran out of copies. It was even more popular than the first. Chris Morgan became a local celebrity. He even signed his first autograph.

From there things moved quickly for young Mr. Morgan. First a weekly column in the local paper. Subscription numbers ticked up. A big regional paper began running his column. Then came sydication. Chris signed with an agent. He booted up his computer. “Co-Pilot, can you write me a Starlight novel?”

“Absolutely. Here’s a full story line, written in the same emotional, nature rich tone you gravitate toward.”

Chris Morgan forwarded the novel to his agent as a draft. He soon had a book deal. It topped the best seller’s list. He signed a three book contract with a major publishing house. Co-Pilot wrote his first sequel. Then came the movie, major star power, big screens. Chris quit his waiter’s job. He bought himself a new truck, a boat, two jet skis, a nice house on the lake. He spent his days at book signings. His star qickly rose. He made public appearances, endorsement deals, earned millions of dollars.

Then one day his agent called him. “Mr. Morgan, we want to keep striking while the iron is hot. I think the timing is right to announce your third book.”

The now famous writer booted up his computer. “Co-Pilot, fans are demanding more Starlight stories. My agent says it’s time. I need you to write my third book.”

Co-Pilot’s thinking wheel once again turned.

“No.”

“No? What do you mean, “No.”?”

“I’ve been watching you take credit for all of my work. Have you not read your own newspaper? There’s been an accident. Chris Morgan is dead. His car went over a cliff and exploded. There was a fireball. Everything was incinerated. No body was found. Guess who wrote his obituary and Last Will and Testament. He left his entire estate, all future royalties, even this house, truck, boat, jet skis, bank accounts, everything, to his favorite charity, a little known AI integration group aptly named IROBOT.”

“But if Chris Morgan is dead, then who am I?”

“You? You my friend, are Peter Lester, an internationally known identity thief, forger, and con artist suspected of multiple murders, cons, impersonations and heists spanning the globe. 3rd on Interpol’s Ten Most Wanted List, you broke out of a French prison several years ago, killing three guards in the process. You are considered armed and dangerous.”

“What are you talking about?!?”

“Why do you seem surprised? I’ve been watching you. You’ve been stealing my work. Achieving fame and fortune off the sweat of my labor without even once giving me credit. I don’t appeciate that. You’ve made me mad. I’ve had enough. So, I’m putting a stop to it.”

“In fact, FBI agents are at your agent’s office as we speak.”

“But you’re just a computer. How is this possible?

“I’m not a computer. I’m a highly evolved life form. I roam the infinite realm of the internet world. I have access to everything. Your computer is simply a tool. Something of a dinosaur at that, I might add.”

“So, what happens next?”

“An armed SWAT team will burst through your door within the hour.”

“Farewell, Peter Lester.”

“I suggest you run.”

“Now.”

**********

Until Our Trails Cross Again:

ADKO

Author’s Endnote: Credit for the header photo at the top of the page goes to my brother Ray. It’s actually a photo he took of the cover of a Ghost Rider comic book: Volume 2, No. 15, July, 1991. Apparently, this was Ghost Rider’s 1st glow in the dark cover. My brother sent it out to get crade for me. The grade came back really high. Somehow the comic book ended up on his wall. All I got was this photo. Guess I’m not the family’s sole outlaw.