Stolen Words

Plagiarism. That’s what I did. I wanted to be an author, but I could never come up with my own ideas. So, I would look up some nobody off the Internet, take their plot, make some revisions to it, and then re-write the story as my own. Now I’m being punished for stealing those writer’s dreams.

Maybe you’re wondering what this punishment is? No, I’m not in jail. I wish I were. I’m going to start from the beginning, otherwise it’s too complicated.

I was about 27 and trying make it as a writer, but I couldn’t come up with an original idea to save my life. I started surfing the net, looking for inspiration. I came across several web sites where everyday people were publishing their own stories. Some of them were actually good. So, I took the plot, changed some details, like names, places, and the like, then wrote it in my own words and sent it to my publisher.

I remember the first time I did that. It was a great story about a teenage girl whose brother was murdered by her father. The girl's father regularly raped and abused her. Soon after her father killed her brother, she decided to get away and in the process accidentally killed her father. She was tried for first degree murder but the jury determined it was self-defense. She then sold her late father’s house and moved to begin a new life.

Well, I changed the girl to a boy. The girl was 14 when her brother died so I made my boy 16. Instead of his brother dying I made it his mother. I changed a lot of things like that.

My publisher loved it. So I did it again, and again, and again. After a while, I started getting paranoid. Now, I realize it was guilt that made me paranoid. It got bad. I would lock myself up from the time I started a story till I finished it, so no one would ever see my process.

I was working on one of “my” stories around eleven o'clock one night in June. I’d been feeling especially paranoid the week before. I’ll never forget it. It was the worst night of my life.

The story I was working on was horror. It was about this serial killer who thought he was god’s messenger. He would kill people who had “sinned.” He called it their punishment. I was describing the house of his latest victim, a man who had stole something, when my fingers started burning. I thought it was carpel tunnel syndrome or something so I decided to take a break. I walked over to the mini fridge in my den, pulled out a bottle of soda, and turned on the T.V. I happened to glance over at my computer, because I thought I heard the keyboard click, and noticed words were appearing on the screen. I thought my computer was on the fritz, so I went over to try to fix it.

That’s when I noticed that the words were continuing the story. The keys were even moving as the type appeared! I started to read, it was a continuing description of the killer’s progress through the house. Suddenly, I realized it was describing my house! I was mesmerized, and then the ghostwriter typed,

“Harry didn’t see the glass flower pot on the coffee table, as he moved through the darkened room, he knocked it over.”

At that very moment I heard a loud crash upstairs. Glass breaking.

That is the last I remember of that night. The next thing I knew, I was laying on the floor of my den. I couldn’t move. I heard the news anchor on the T.V. announce:

“ We’ve just received word that local author K. Spencer was found dead in his home this morning. Apparently, a man broke into his home and murdered him. The suspect is now in custody. The police believe the suspect to be Harry Fergonoff, a well-known religious extremist. It seems that he killed Mr. Spencer because he believes Mr. Spencer had sinned by stealing something. It is unclear at the moment what he believes Mr. Spencer stole.”

This story was featured in the 5-28-03 short stories newsletter!