The old typewriter had a mind of its own, Grandpa warned me.
“Stay away from that boy. Damn thing’s haunted, can’t get rid of it. I have thrown that sucker away, burnt it, buried it deep, back ‘hind the house. I even took a 12 pound sledge to it; busted it up in a thousand pieces.” He cocked his head and squinted.
“Mighta hurt it that time; it was back the next day though, a bit tweaked. You can see the platen ain’t quite straight anymore. I’m afraid I mighta just pissed it off with the hammer and I’ve left it alone ever since.”
“When I was a young man I took a job at the paper. That was my typewriter. Ever time I’d roll in a sheet of paper it would start typin’ on its own – spooky, like a player piano. It always wrote the same thing. It typed:”
“It was a dark and stormy night”