Element Three. The Ghost of HFR

She silently removed her outer garments to the tune of much groaning and creaking from sources undeniably other than herself. Every now and then a great wail would pierce through the oaken floor beneath her striped-stockinged feet, and she scrambled to ensconce herself safely within her massive chair, deep inside the glow of her mighty computer screen. Her savior, her relief, her protection from everything ... she opened a word processing program and sat, listening both to the cacophony about her and the beating of her own heart, but refusing to admit to either.

A distinct syllable rang outside her door, and she clutched her mouse tightly in her sweaty palm. It returned again and again, louder and more miserable each time, as though the maker of the noise was leaning in and practically dousing the door with floods of tears. "Ugh," it came, crystal clear and right behind her left shoulder.

Marcia jumped in her padded seat helplessly, resisting the urge to do anything required to escape, be it knocking her beloved printer to the floor or indeed burning a hole through the side of her room. She wasn't a coward. She didn't care! "Ugh," said the voice again, and Marcia brandished her mouse like a sword, turning to face her tormentor.

"UGH!" squelched the voice, and Marcia shrieked as she recognized the visage from the doorknocker. She tried (with much enthusiasm) to climb over the back of the chair, but the being spun the chair and blocked her path, and she found herself nose to nose with what appeared to be a ghost.

"You did this to me," the phantom said. "It's all your fault. And tonight, you shall discover it all. You shall see everything, and your wretchedly slow mind will soon come to grips with vaunted reality! I am here to warn you, M. L. Writer, that your education is at hand!"

There was something about the ghost's evangelical delivery of his speech that struck a chord within Marcia. But it was the wrong chord, for the right one had, as of this moment, always been asleep. It was the sleepy heartstring that the shade was aiming for, and it was the one he missed by a mile. Marcia began laughing her hearty, high-pitched laugh, and the ghost began sobbing. The cause was hopeless.

"Who are you?" giggled Marcia madly, poking the spirit in the chest and then proceeding to spear him with her nails, finding his inability to be injured quite humorous. He had no chains to rattle nor any boxes of money to throw at her, and moreover with the luminous tears he shed he seemed quite ... harmless. She stuck her hand through his head and drew it out again, unable to believe that she had been so frightened of such a pathetic soul.

"Stop that," he said, trying forlornly to keep her from playing tricks with his transparency. "I am the Ghost of the Hapless Fanfiction Reader. And," he continued as he attempted to return to his earlier, more dramatic and ominous mode of talk, "you will pay, girl, you will know the price of this pain you cause!"

There was an extended pause.

He had lost Marcia totally. Forget about being on the same page, she wasn't on the same chapter. Then again ... between looking at him blankly and piercing his non-existent heart with a pencil, she wasn't even on the same book. He had a sudden, intense desire to slap her. Or maybe tranquilize her. Either one. Preferably with one of those big darts made for elephants.

Slowly, he drew back. With a ministerial-type of a ponderous weight to his actions, he stood and stalked out of the room, stiff-legged, hackles on the back of his neck upright. He didn't care, he kept on telling himself. He ... didn't ... care. She wasn't worth it, anyhow.