Visitation

A shape hovers behind my chair as sore and weary fingers click across the old keyboard and words appear on the screen. Its reflection stares back at me, a blurred form barely there in the brilliant blue-white of the monitor, contrasting blindingly in the dim office. The fan whirs overhead, rustling paper on the desk before me, the blades wobbling audibly as they cut through air.

I feel its hands on my shoulders, and they squeeze, push forward, urge more words to flow from digits already well-tapped for the night. But I cannot stop now, almost in spite of the clock to my left as it ticks away the seconds, the minutes, the hours drifting in a whisper beside me that's both soothing and haunting. 

The click of the keyboard moves in rhythm to the creature's caresses on my spine and I straighten just for a moment, body creaking and popping in protest. Hands leave the keyboard to stretch as well, to rub at bleary, bloodshot eyes, as if pressing the very sleep out of them in favor of the waking world. 

It pushes forward again and I lean to continue.

I'm a slave to it, a host.  

It's left before, and though the freedom is a glimmer of hope, I secretly wish away the days in despair until it comes creeping back, slinking up behind me and filling my mind with undocumented horrors that must be put to page. 

Until my end of days, I'll never be free from this demon. This angel. This spirit that haunts me and helps me and hinders me. 

This ghost, called Inspiration.