Enid: A Ghost Story

‘This is why your books aren’t selling!’, barked Andrew Hill, publisher to the successful Romantic novelist Christopher Price, as he pointed to his desk,‘No-one wants to read about the soppy exploits of love, lost love, or unrequited love anymore’.
Framed in the centre of the publisher’s desk between the two men and the subject of their conversation was a book. A thick book. The gold cover shone out like the brightest flower in the garden, so every bee would be drawn to it. The scarlet letters of the title and the author’s name sat upon the gold like autumn leaves. This book was brand new and yet as old as time, ‘Dracula’ by Bram Stoker.
‘But Andrew’, interrupted the author, ‘my books have an audience, and a respected audience at that, they have given us a fine reputation – and a lot of money. Can we not just re-print one with a prettier cover?’
‘Not again, no’
‘But what about...’
‘No, you can’t do that either’
As Christopher pined over the dismissal of his brilliant idea of replacing the lead character of one of his earlier books with the ghost of that character, Andrew sat down at his desk casually. He leant forward, forcing Christopher to lean back – Christopher had noted to himself how many times Andrew’s flaky beard had littered his clothes.
‘People want death, Chris’, he spat, ‘People want their blood to run cold; they want their comfortable houses to become bubbling laboratories. And they’ll pay for it – as we’ve witnessed over the last decade!’, with this last point Andrew displayed great zeal. ‘You’re out of style, and if you don’t think of something fast we’ll both be dead – you can create death so we can cheat it! Take a few weeks away and maybe something will happen. Go to that little cottage you’re always on about and cook up a scare’. And with that Andrew picked up his spectacles with his pink, chubby fingers and with one fluid movement he pinched them on to the end of his nose and bid Christopher a good-bye. Christopher stood up and the tails of his jacket fell sadly on to his thighs. He replaced his black top hat and black cape and retrieved his cane from the stand, and opened the office door. As he pulled the creaking door behind him, he was contemplating on how he could make his publisher – and friend – change his mind. Christopher turned back into the office and saw how Andrew was slumped over his desk – completely absorbed in his lunch – like a lion on a carcass. Christopher left, silently.