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"We passed a restaurant by the bay that looked promising. Seafood, I believe."
"By the bay? It'll be twice as expensive."
"There are two of us, Arthur." John only sounded mildly reproachful as he pulled another volume off the shelf and added it to the stack under Arthur's arm. "You can enjoy the meal, and I'll enjoy the view."
"Alright, fair enough." Arthur wasn't in the mood to fight. The case that had brought them to Baltimore was as mundane as they came, and moving slowly to boot, but there were worse places to spend a week or two living on expenses. They were both inclined to treat it as a bit of a working holiday.
For once, the wider universe even seemed inclined to give them a break. The weather had been gorgeous ever since they arrived, they had a clean, comfortable hotel room waiting for them, and the archival staff at the city library had been nothing but helpful. Just that morning, the duty librarian had noticed their volumes upon volumes of handwritten notes and offered them use of a typewriter from the back room. "It's a clunky old thing, but it might save you some effort," she'd said. Given that the other options were Arthur's blind scrawl or John's ongoing fumbling attempts to learn to write in English, they were both very grateful.
They returned to the desk they'd taken for the day and got themselves situated: stack of books on their right for Arthur to turn the pages, typewriter at their left with John's hand resting on the keys. No sooner had they settled than Arthur heard the rapid tap-tap-tap of typing, and smiled. He hadn't even opened the first book yet.
"Having fun, John?"
"No." John's voice had taken on that deep, slow tone that only happened when he couldn't believe what he was seeing. Arthur felt the hair on the back of his neck rise as the clacking of the typewriter continued. "Arthur, that's not me typing. Something - something else is moving my hand."
"What the fuck?" Arthur jerked his left arm backwards, and the typewriter fell silent as John's hand left it.
"Are - John, are you alright?"
"I think so. I can't feel anything. You?"
"Nothing. Hang on." Arthur dug in his pocket and found an old receipt and a stub of pencil. "Try writing something by hand."
John wrote slowly, tense and waiting for the possessive force to return. It sounded a lot more like his usual awkward chicken-scratch than the fluent speed of the typing.
"Nothing. Whatever it is, it's in the typewriter, not us."
"Good. There's no more room at this inn." Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose. How long had it been since the last paranormal nonsense? A month, maybe? He supposed they were overdue."Go on then, what does it say?"
John pulled the paper out of the machine to read it. He didn't have any control of the muscles around their eyes, but sometimes Arthur could swear he could feel him trying to raise their eyebrows.
"Who the hell is 'Edgar'?"
"What?"
"Edgar Allan Poe?"
"... you've never heard of him? Poe was one of the great American writers of the last century. Tales of the Grotesque and Arabesque? The Fall of the House of Usher?"
"No."
"The Raven? Seriously, John, how have you not heard of The Raven?"
"I don't know, Arthur." John sounded irritated. "You know I don't have any control over what I pick up from you and what I don't."
"Well, we'll have to see if we can borrow a volume or two. I think you'd like him. Why do you ask?"
"Because apparently, his ghost is haunting this typewriter."
Arthur just barely resisted the urge to lay his forehead flat on the desk. John grumbled at him as he closed their eyes and massaged their temple.
"John. Remind me why we're here again."
"... we're on a case."
"What case?"
"An inheritance dispute? We've spent the last two days tracking down property records. It's been incredibly dull."
"Quite. Does it have anything to do with, say, ghosts? Spectres? Wraiths? Hauntings or revenants of any kind?"
"Not yet."
"Not yet. So why in the name of fuck -" Arthur caught himself just at the edge of shouting and continued in a low, irritated snarl. "Why the fuck are we suddenly dealing with a - a sentient typewriter?"
"These things do have a habit of finding us." John sounded more curious than annoyed. Arthur supposed this seemed perfectly natural to him. “He says he wants to write something.”
“It, John, not he. When was the last time something claiming to be a human ghost actually turned out to be what it said it was?”
“Greetings, my good sir! I am terribly sorry to distract you from your work – being as I’m sure it is of the utmost importance to the world of the future – but I find myself in rather a unique predicament and would beg of you just a moment of your time to ease it. Imagine – if you are an imaginative sort – my confusion and surprise upon departing this world to meet my maker and finding myself instead inhabiting this curious contraption! I would say that my unexpected postmortem condition rather horrified me – I am sure it did at first – but I find I’ve rather become accustomed to it. A century of boredom – is it a century yet? It certainly feels like it – will do that to a man in any circumstance, I’m sure…”
“Alright, alright, that… certainly sounds like Poe. Good grief. Well… what does he want?”
“He says he’s bored. He wants our help to write something.”
One day, Arthur was sure he would tire of acting out of impulse and curiosity and actually learn to do the sensible thing in these situations. Today, faced with the choice between hours of dull research and the possibility of channelling an as-yet-unread work from Edgar Allan Poe himself, was not that day. He passed a fresh piece of paper to John to feed into the typewriter.
“Why the hell not?”
Edgar had been telling the truth: it really was only a moment of their time. John’s hand moved faster than ought to have been physically possible, slamming the carriage back and forth with such speed that Arthur worried for the mechanism. He could almost feel the heat coming off of its gears as John reached the end of a single page and stopped suddenly.
“I think that’s it.” He sounded completely baffled.
“Really? Try giving him another sheet.”
They did; nothing happened. John tapped out a couple of words himself. Nothing seized on them.
“It looks like… a song?”
“A song? He was a poet, not a lyricist.”
“It’s definitely a song, Arthur. It has a chorus, and a bridge. He did say he was bored - perhaps he wanted to try something new?”
“Well… is it any good?”
“You tell me,” John teased, and began to read it. Singing didn’t exactly come naturally to John; he found most human songs gratingly simple, while at the same time having far too many rules of form for his taste. Even so, he found himself picking up the pitch and rhythm of this one easily. It was simple even by human standards, but… satisfying, somehow. He noticed Arthur’s fingers tapping along as he passed the first chorus, their head nodding slightly to the beat.
“It’s catchy. Not what I’d have expected, but hell - it’s good. Better than my old stuff. That’s going to be in my head for the rest of the day.”
“Hm. Mine too.” Arthur chuckled, and helped John fold the paper carefully and tuck it into their notebook. “It seemed as though he wanted people to hear it. What do you think? I don’t know how this works - we could make a recording…?”
“Oh no, I’m not getting into that again.”
“It’s a good song, Arthur. It could make us rich!”
“John. I said no.” Arthur felt John coiling in irritation in the back of his mind, but to his credit, he let it go. Arthur took a deep breath, steering himself around the dangerous conversational territory, and realised that he was still tapping out the rhythm. Damn it, it was good. It would be a shame to waste it.
“We’ll sell it, that’s what. Someone else can take it on. Anyone with half an ear for music should be able to get a hit out of it.”
“Sell a song? That’s something you can do?”
“Of course. It’s called ghostwriting.” Arthur laughed, the absurdity of the whole encounter striking him afresh. “Seems appropriate, doesn’t it?”
A month later, back in their own apartment, a letter came through from the agent they’d sent Edgar’s song to.
“They sold it,” John reported, skimming it, “and would be very pleased to work with you again in the future, Arthur, if you’re so inclined.”
“No fear.” Arthur fished the second piece of paper out of the envelope: a cheque. “Come on then, what’s our cut?”
“...Thirty-three cents.”
“You’re joking? Bloody hell, that’s worse than it was in my day.”
“Do people do this as a full-time job? It hardly seems worth it.”
“You’re telling me.” Arthur pulled their current stack of case files towards them and settled back into his chair with a sigh. “Back to work, John. Edgar can’t pay rent for us.”