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It's not just that it would sound ridiculous. It's that it would also sound like a publicity stunt. A way to sell more copies of his as-yet unwritten new book. And given that the book is completely unwritten, and that Nate definitely doesn't want to talk to anyone, he tries to ignore the problem. Nate is a practical person – most horror writers are – and he doesn't believe in any of the crap he writes. But he's good at it, or he was, before he lost Sam, and then Maggie, and he retreated out here to the middle of nowhere to find the words. And now there's banging in the walls.
Not angsty, tortured, 'let me out' banging. There are no taps dripping blood or eerie howls. Just very angry thuds. Like something being thrown across a room, but every time Nate goes upstairs, there's nothing there. No one.
One night, he sits in the middle of the room where the noise has stopped and says, "You're not helping, you know. As far as clichés go, this one is overdone."
He doesn't know what he's expecting. The silence in the room feels significant, but nothing follows after it. Nate stands up and leaves.
A minute later, in the kitchen, a knife slides across the chopping board by itself. It stops.
Nate says, "Better. But still not a plot, I'm afraid."
The knife embeds itself, point down, into the board.
"Yes," Nate says. "You go and have a think about it."
He does the clichéd thing. No one died in this house. There have been no mysterious disappearances or car-crashes or suspected-murderers hiding away. It's just a quiet house in the middle of quiet countryside. The only unquiet thing is the spare bedroom.
Nate sleeps and when he wakes up his character has a name. He sits up and says, "Eliot," and all the windows shake. "Damn it." He says, "That's a little bit creepy, I hope you know."
He walks downstairs to make coffee and the machine is already on. If it is meant to be an apology for whispering in his ear while he slept, nothing is said about it. Nate takes the coffee to his desk. "If you want me to listen, talk." Nothing.
He writes three chapters while his coffee gets cold, is refilled, and gets cold again. Nate sends them to his agent, who has been emailing him with increasing urgency for the past four months.
He goes for a drive to clear his head, and brings back takeout. When he opens the door, the television is flickering anxiously. He smiles. "Did you miss me, or is there a game on?" They find the channel through the expedient method of Nate tapping through them one by one until the light bulb stops flashing at him.
Eliot – because it must be Eliot – reacts to the game dramatically, or things react around him. The radio turns on and the curtains shift on their rails. It can't be entirely conscious. Nate pushes aside his plate and starts to write again. Nothing seems particularly perturbed by his lack of attention. He falls asleep.
In the morning, there is still nothing more than 'Eliot' and poorly contained frustration. He tries again. He says, "My son died. I don't really- anymore. But I was going to be a priest. I can probably try for an exorcism if it would make you feel better." Something thumps against the other side of the wall. A no, then.
When he's making breakfast he sees something in the reflection in the window, pale in the poor dawn light. It's there and gone again; Nate nods at the place where it used to be.
His agent calls. "Nate, is this-? This is funny. I mean, it's pissed off and it's scary but there's- there's a really dark comedy under here somewhere."
"Yeah," Nate says, "that's what I was thinking." He had already tried writing about death, and had more nightmares, and had no words. This is about what happens afterwards. He promises her two more chapters and hangs up.
He goes to sit outside. There are fields stretching out, and it's very quiet. "You don't want to talk," he says. "All right." He sets the pages from yesterday beside him on the steps. "You can read, if you'd like. I'm going to write the next part. Tell me when I get it wrong." After a moment, the page turns, and then another. Nate begins to write.