Evan’s fingers rested gently on his keyboard. He willed them to move, to begin tapping away at the next chapter of what he hoped would become his first masterpiece. If he could just get his fingers to start moving, maybe his brain would wake up and start churning out the words.

“There was,” he began typing. He stopped and let the cursor on his monitor blink a dozen times before backspacing the two words. “Rain splattered,” he began again, staring not at the screen but at the raindrops pitter-pattering gently on the window behind it. He stopped again and had his pinky hovering over the backspace key once more, resisting the urge to return to that blank canvas yet again.

Creeeak

Evan turned his head halfway, almost afraid to actually look behind him. “Hello?” he half yelled softer than he had intended it to. Not for the first time he wished that he had brought his best friend and faithful companion Emmet with him. He had come out here to focus, though, and the dog was a constant distraction–no matter how good he was at letting Evan know about unexpected visitors.

Leaving the two words and a blinking cursor behind, he pushed away from his desk and walked toward the door of the room that had become his temporary office. It was a decent sized cabin for the price he’d paid, even if it was a little overkill for a weekend writing retreat for one. He would have settled for more spartan accommodations, but at fifty dollars a night who could resist a second story balcony with a hot tub in the mountains?

The room he had chosen to be his office was nestled in one corner of the second story with his bedroom and attached hot tub balcony in the other. As he reached the doorway he realized the sound of the gentle rain outside was louder than it should be. His heart thumped hard in his chest as he leaned over the railing of the second story landing and saw that the front door was ajar.

“Hello?” he repeated, hoping the landlord had forgotten something important and came by to get it; or perhaps that they had forgotten that someone had booked the place for the weekend. He checked his phone and didn’t see any missed calls or surprise text messages as he descended the stairs. “If you’re here to rob me I’m afraid I don’t have anything particularly valuable,” he said with a little more whimper than humor, “I’m just a writer after all.”

The only response was the continued sound of soft rainfall outside. He firmly pushed the front door shut again and tugged on the handle to make sure that it latched properly this time. “Must have been the wind,” he said with a sigh. He also locked the deadbolt just to be sure. He also went ahead and did a quick check of all the downstairs rooms and doors before heading back to the desk and the mostly blank document waiting for him there.

He wasn’t worried, of course, but he needed as few distractions as possible. “Now,” he said out loud to himself, “where was I? Ah yes, ‘Rain Splattered’.”

The two words sat just where he had left them next to the ever blinking cursor. He placed his hands back on the keyboard, rolling his fingers over the home row as he considered those two words just long enough for inspiration to finally strike.

Evan began typing slowly at first, but after only a couple slowly pecked words, the new chapter began spilling out of him almost faster than his fingers could keep up. Maybe this retreat out into the mountains had been a good idea after all. If he could finish these last ten chapters this weekend he’d be done with his first draft before the end of summer break and before students and grades threatened his precious writing time once more.

CLICK

The sound was loud. It cut clearly through the gentle din of the rain that had begun to pick up outside over the last hour of focused writing, ripping Evan right out of the flow he had fallen into. For a moment he felt dazed as his mind was ripped from his fantasy world and back into reality. The noise had come from downstairs, and it had sounded exactly like a deadbolt sliding open.

Evan could feel the hairs on his arms raising. He got up from the desk as quietly as he could and, without even thinking about it, walked on the balls of his feet toward the stairs in the hall. He eased down the steps, wincing on each one that squeaked, squealed, or creaked.

He glanced first at the lock on the front door. He had seen from from the top of the landing that it hadn’t somehow come open again, and after confirming up close that the deadbolt was still engaged, he turned his attention toward the back door. He could see it through the kitchen, also still closed, and while it was hard to tell from here for certain, it still appeared to be locked.

Evan relaxed a little and sunk back onto his heels. He became aware how loud his heart was beating and that he had been breathing out of his mouth for the last couple minutes. Something just shifted, he thought with an internal chuckle at how silly he was being. He tried to rub away a headache that had started to press on his temple to the rhythm of his now slowing heart rate. As he did so, he padded to the back door, letting his bare feet noisily slap the wood flooring as a protest against his unease. It actually seemed to calm him down to make noise with such reckless abandon.

After physically checking the deadbolt on the back door and returning to the front to double check it as well–just in case–he returned to the kitchen, hoping some herbal tea would set him at ease and help with his now dry mouth.

The listing had included an electric kettle and a selection of complimentary teas. Coffee was also complimentary, but he would save that for the early mountain morning when he hoped to be enjoying some writing on the balcony in sixty-degree weather. He filled the kettle and set it to boiling before checking the pantry for tea. As promised he found a couple dozen varieties to choose from.

Evan settled on a nice smelling chamomile and closed the pantry, but instead of turning back toward the kitchen to find a mug, his gaze lingered on the door set in the wall between the pantry and the living room. He hadn’t paid it much attention earlier when he arrived and did his first walk through, but this time he noticed something. It had a deadbolt on it.

The tension that had slowly melted away moments before rushed back into Evan’s shoulders as he eased toward the door. He had guessed that it went down into the basement–a place off limits to guests–and he had even checked it after the front door blew open earlier. It had been locked as far as he could tell; he had even given it a tug since the handle turned freely. The deadbolt required a key to unlock from this side, so he had assumed that it was locked. There wasn’t enough of a gap to see if this was still the case, so he reached out to touch the door knob.

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

Evan pulled his hand back from the knob just as he made contact with it and swore loudly. He shook his hand like he’d just been shocked as he swore a few more times for good measure, both at the kettle and at himself for being startled so easily.

Ignoring the shrill machine, chamomile tea tin still in hand, Evan reached for the knob again and turned it. The door swung open easily to reveal a set of stairs leading down into a dark basement. “Hello?” he called down. There was no response. “Look,” he continued, “I don’t mean to be a spoilsport, but this really isn’t very funny.” When he didn’t get a response he added, “and the basement’s off limits anyways!”

That had sounded funnier in his head, but it still managed to cut the tension a little. The storm outside answered with the first gentle boom of far off thunder.

He closed the door and shook his head. The basement door been securely locked earlier, he was sure of it. Then again, maybe the door just stuck before, he thought, surely that’s it. He walked back to where the kettle was keeping the water warm and fished a mug out of the cabinet above it.

Evan scooped tea into the infuser he had found next to the kettle and placed it in the mug. He poured the boiling water over it and stared while he waited for it to steep, but his mind was stuck on the basement door. He rolled his fingers on the counter a few times just like he had on his keyboard upstairs. He found himself walking back over to the door and then he was in front of it once more.

He hesitated for just a second, but then he opened it again with a swiftness and bravado that only false courage brings. False courage that was clearly fading fast as he fumbled with the light switch on the wall just inside. The light flicked on immediately and, to Evan’s surprise, the basement below was now well lit by bright white LED lights. None of them flickered or stuttered like cheap fluorescents usually do, and there was no hum of ballasts.

From here there didn’t seem to be anything remarkable about the basement at all. It wasn’t completely built out, but it wasn’t covered in cobwebs or filled with junk that he could see. It actually looked like it was probably regularly cleaned. There was even a railing on the staircase. The whole thing had a very clean, tidy look to it.

Evan looked back at his steaming cup of tea, wanting with every fiber of his being to just be okay with closing the door and going back upstairs, but he had to be sure that no one was lurking down there playing pranks on him. It wasn’t that he seriously thought that anyone was down there, but he knew his mind wouldn’t let him have peace until he made sure. He tread gently down the stairs and before he knew it he was standing on cool painted concrete.

The rest of the basement that he hadn’t been able to see from the top of the stairs matched what he had seen earlier perfectly: clean and tidy. There was some storage down here straight ahead where everything was organized in bins on shelves. On the wall to his left was a workbench and a pegboard containing a variety of basic tools. On his right he found a matching washer and dryer pair next to an old fridge.

Evan understood why this area would be off limits with the storage and tools, and he felt a little bad invading this space in violation of the listing’s clear instructions. Still, he had to be sure. He headed toward the workbench and glanced at the back wall to find a modern gas-powered boiler next to some large kerosene tanks that had been abandoned a long time ago. He gave a little knock to confirm the tanks were empty and heard a hollow ting echo in response.

Thoroughly convinced that his mind and the stress of finishing this book must be getting the best of him, he rounded the corner, ducked under the stairs, and headed toward the fridge to finish the loop. He would head back upstairs and the owner would never know he had been down here. It was certainly the nicest basement he’d been in, and he felt silly for expecting something out of a horror film.

“Help. Me.” The words were muffled, desperate, and somehow Evan knew they were coming from the old refrigerator.

Just tired, Evan thought as he took a careful step toward the fridge; just stress about this damn book, he told himself as he took another step; just losing my goddamn mind in a cabin in the mountains, he thought as he grabbed the handle and yanked the door open, his heartbeat deafening to his own ears.

Had it not been for the large glass jug stoppered with a cork, the fridge would have been completely normal. There were several loose beer bottles and a random assortment of other beverages scattered on the shelves; a jar of pickles sat in one of the back corners; and some condiments and ice cream toppings that were probably out of date filled the shelves in the door. Somehow the jug and its dark contents were not what felt out of place.

The jug itself was a basic clear jug with a circular carrying ring molded right onto the neck. Evan had seen apple juice sold by the gallon in the very same type of jug. It appeared at first glance to have condensation webbed about it, but upon closer inspection he could see that the glass was etched. The contents were even more perplexing.

Evan wasn’t sure what to make of it. It looked like someone had bottled up darkness. It didn’t fill the jug and settle to the bottom like a liquid would. It looked more like a floating ball of black gas, blacker than anything Evan had seen, and it seems to emanate darkness as it pulsated and swirled.

Whatever the thing inside the jug was, Evan knew that it was what had spoken from within the fridge when it spoke again.

“Please,” it said still a little muffled by the glass, “help me.” The voice was a deep rolling bass that could be mistaken for a rumbling of thunder from the building storm outside. It wasn’t pleading, but it was insistent.

Evan said nothing.

“You have to help me,” it rumbled, though Evan wasn’t sure how it was speaking since he couldn’t see anything resembling mouth moving. “Please,” it added.

The fear from earlier was gone. Evan’s fight or flight lizard brain shut down and in its place Evan’s writer brain took over. He felt confused and curious and excited all at once. “What are you?” He asked.

The voice was calm and soothing. It reminded him of a still lake covered in morning fog. “I am a prisoner,” it said, “I am being held against my will.”

It wasn’t what Evan was looking for, but it was an answer. He took a closer look at the etchings that covered the jug and noticed that they were all impossibly small symbols and runes that made up an esoteric web of intersecting lines and circles. Even the cork had some of the same symbols painted on it.

He found himself reaching for the cork, but stopped as soon as he realized what he was doing. It almost felt like his hand had been acting of its own volition. He pulled his hand back and slipped it into a pocket. “Why should I set you free?” He asked, trying to appear and sound casual. “How do I know that you weren’t imprisoned for a good reason?”

The void creature inside the jug did not respond right away and Evan assumed it must be thinking. He imagined the gears turning inside that black mass like the gears in a toddler’s mind turn while they try to figure out how to get a favorable response from an adult.

“I’m not even sure what you are,” Evan said, “I’m not even sure that you’re real… Maybe I’ve just finally lost it.”

“I am very real,” it said, “and you are not crazy.”

Evan barked a laugh, “Ha! Clever, but of course that’s exactly what a hallucination would say.” He thought for a moment before saying matter of fact, “That tea must have been laced with magic mushrooms or something. That would explain everything.”

“But you didn’t drink any of the tea,” the void creature said.

Evan knew the creature was correct. “Even if you are right,” he said, “how would you even know that?”

“The same way that I knew you were here in the cabin,” it said simply. “The same way that I was able to open the front door, and to unlock the door leading down here to the basement.” Evan raised his eyebrows at the jug, so it added, “my reach goes beyond the physical form which is trapped here in this bottle.”

“Why don’t you let yourself out, then?” Evan asked with a smirk. It seemed simple enough.

“I cannot manipulate the bottle,” it said, “it has wards on it that prevent me from pushing it off the shelf or removing the cork.”

“Wards like… magic seals?” Evan realized then that his fear had left him and that fact was beginning to make him uneasy.

“Something like that,” it said, “not the parlor trick kind, but the real kind that most people don’t believe in anymore.

“Why are you in the fridge?” Evan asked.

“The cold weakens me,” it replied.

“Really?” Evan asked, “that’s it? I guess that makes sense.”

Both of them were silent for a few seconds.

“Will you help me?” It asked.

“I guess that depends,” Evan said, actually considering it despite all the reasons he shouldn’t, “what do you plan to do if I free you?”

“Return to the mountain,” it said. “I am a woodland sprite.”

“So you’re not some elder being locked in an eternal prison because they were going to destroy the world?”

It didn’t laugh. Instead it just said, “No.”

“Well I guess a fridge in some cabin makes a strange place for eternal prison," Evan conceded. “So why were you imprisoned then?”

“I am a spirit of the mountain forest,” it told him, “I was imprisoned here a long time ago for my wisdom. It was not uncommon once upon a time for sprites to barter their wisdom, but some men have nothing worth trading and instead choose slavery.”

Evan nodded, “so who imprisoned you?”

“A man who no longer lives.”

“You didn’t…” Evan leaned back ever so slightly away from the jug.

“Kill him?" the sprite said, “No. I did not kill him. He died of old age. Retribution is not in my nature, as patience has the same outcome for such short lived creatures.”

“Why didn’t he let you go?” Evan asked.

“He forgot about me,” the sprite told him. “I think that he did not care what became of me.”

“What about the guy who owns the place now?” Evan asked, “is it like his grandson or something? Why not ask him?”

“He did not seem to hear me, nor did he seem to see me.”

“But I can see and hear you,” Evan said. Then he pointed at the jar and exclaimed, “Unless I am going crazy!”

“Perhaps your mind is more willing to accept the unexpected,” it suggested.

“I am a writer,” Evan admitted with a shrug.

More silence passed between them. Evan broke it, “you said you were captured for wisdom,” Evan said, “what kind of wisdom?”

“The nature of things,” it said, “of weather, of the forest, of the questions of existence… My captor asked of me many things.”

“And did you give him answers?” Evan asked.

“None that were ultimately satisfying,” the sprite responded, “though in the moment he often thought they were. Most were half truths. Some made him very angry.”

“Maybe if you had been more cooperative he would have let you out before he died,” Evan suggested.

“Perhaps,” the sprite said, “and perhaps not. Had he bartered for wisdom instead of enslaving me for it he might have gotten more satisfying answers.”

“Fair enough,” Evan replied. “Do you have a name?”

“Not a human name,” the sprite said. “My captor called me ’the dwarf in the flask’, but I am not fond of that name. Dwarves and sprites are not the same.”

“Well, I’m Evan,” Evan said. Then he asked, “would it be okay if I gave you a name?”

“If you would like to,” the sprite said.

“How does Umbra sound?”

There was a pause. “This is acceptable,” it said.

“Well, Umbra,” Evan said, “I have a proposal for you.”

“A proposal?”

“Yeah,” Evan said with a smirk, “I’d like to barter. You have a problem; I have a problem; I think we can help each other.”

“What are the terms?” Umbra asked.

“I’ll set you free,” Evan said, “if you’ll help me finish writing my book first.”

“This is acceptable,” Umbra said.

“Also you have to promise not to destroy the world!” Evan added quickly.

Evan wasn’t sure whether the sprite was capable of humor or not, but he thought Umbra smirked. “You are very concerned about the destruction of your world. Perhaps I should be worried about you misusing my wisdom.”

Evan shrugged, “I guess you’ll have to trust me. I promise if you promise.”

“Be warned,” Umbra said, any hint of humor gone from its tone, “if you break a solemn vow made with a forest sprite, you will die.”

“What happens if you break your end of the bargain?” Evan asked.

“Then I will die,” Umbra said.

Evan whistled, “that’s a serious vow.”

“Indeed.”

“Well I plan to make good on my end,” Evan said, “so how do we do this?”

Umbra sounded almost musical as he chanted, “I vow to give you wisdom, and to not destroy the world, in exchange for my freedom, so long as you vow to release me when my debt is paid.”

He wasn’t sure where the words came from, but he knew exactly how to state the counter vow: “I vow to release you when your debt is paid, so long as you vow to give me wisdom, and to not destroy the world."

“So it shall be,” the two of them said in unison.

Evan was expecting to feel a chill down his spine or a spring in his step, but nothing seemed to have changed. “Well then,” he said, “I guess we better get to it.” He reached into the fridge and hooked the jug with the first finger of one hand, and he grabbed two of the beers with his other.

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This short story was inspired by a prompt in Season 1, Episode 16 of the Writing Excuses Podcast.

“Write a story about a writer getting their writing interrupted in an unexpected way.”

Check out their excellent podcast at https://writingexcuses.com/

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