Disclaimer: Don't own the plot, characters, or anyone involved with the story/movie, Secret Window.

AN: I know this is odd, but I decided to write a fanfic based on the sexy Mort Rainey. This story is mostly PG-13, but there will be several rated (R) chapters containing sexual content. I want very much to have sexual scenes, but since NC-17 has been banned, the ones posted here will be rated (R). The rated (R) sections will be marked, so if you don't like it, don't read it. Any and all feedback is much appreciated. Enjoy!

Chapter 1: Writer's Block and Reflections:

Tashmore Lake, NY: Third Person/Mort's POV:

Mort stared at the screen of his laptop, watching the icon blink on a blank Word page. He hadn't had a decent plotline since that shithead, Shooter, had left his body; now he regretted having lost the murderous side of his psyche. Sure, Shooter had been a murdering maniac, but he had been good for some much-needed inspiration. In fact, Shooter's rewrite of his first story, Secret Window, Secret Garden, had sold millions of copies, outdoing the first release and bringing more public demand for Mort's stories! Now, with that part of his mind gone, Mort was out of ideas, and his agent was seriously ticked off that he hadn't produced any stories.

Sighing, Mort took off his thick-rimmed glasses and rubbed his eyes, mentally exhausted. Things hadn't been the same since he (or rather, Shooter) had killed Ted and Amy, either. Five months after that unpleasant event, Shooter had taken complete control of Mort's body, locking Mort in a dark prison within his own mind. However, Mort's alter-ego had eventually wearied of sharing it with his "weak side." He had also gotten annoyed at constantly being called "Mr. Rainey" whenever he had gone into town, or any other place where people recognized him as the famous author, Mort Rainey. Finally, after seven months of living in Mort's shoes, Shooter had given up and fled, tired of having to deal with real-life problems like paying bills, fixing up the house and gardens, and dealing with Mort's fans and agent. From what Mort could figure out, having to deal with real life responsibilities had changed Shooter's mind about having a body, so he'd decided to let Mort have it.

Putting his glasses back on, Mort remembered that great moment of rebirth. One minute he had been locked up in a dark, sightless prison in his mind, and the next, he had his body back. Seven months after being completely locked in his mind, Mort had woken up at his desk, his laptop in front of him, and a message typed out on the screen.

Dear Mr. Rainey,

It appears that the lifestyle of a secluded writer doesn't agree with a Southern farmer like me. Although we both share the same body and mind, I can't seem to fit into the pathetically boring lifestyle that you had, and can't create a life of my own when people think of me as you. I don't like having other people greet me as someone else and have your agent tell me my writing is much too different from what it "used to be." Plus, it's really hard to kill off so many annoying people; there are just too damn many of them, and dealing with people in a civil manner just isn't me. When I had been temporarily given control of your body to your dirty work, I thought that it would be grand to have a body of my own forever. But really living your sad lifestyle was not what I had in mind. Instead, I'm returning your body to you and leaving. You don't need me anymore, but if you ever do, I'll be there.

Luck to ya,

John Shooter

PS: I took the liberty of moving the bodies of your ex-wife and her boy-toy from the backyard to somewhere else, where no one will ever find them. I thought that it might make you feel better. Enjoy your new freedom and the corn in the backyard, too.

That had been one of the happiest moments of Mort's life. He had his body back, as well as his cabin, his car, and his life, but there was still the matter of the four people Shooter had murdered. However, Shooter had hidden Ted and Amy's remains, and the other two bodies were in the river, probably a hundred miles downstream and buried in mud by now. That had made him feel better, but not entirely. Still, Mort had destroyed all of the corn plants and searched for the bodies in the backyard, but couldn't find them, even after a week of digging for them. Shooter had been right when he said he'd hidden Ted and Amy, but Mort didn't know where his psychotic half had buried them. Even though he didn't like having to do it, Mort knew he'd just have to accept Shooter's word that Ted and Amy were safely hidden away somewhere.

"And here I am, a year after the whole incident with Shooter and the four murders, in full control of my life," he murmured, putting his feet up on the desk and leaning back. He should be content, but he wasn't. His inspiration was gone, and everyone he held dear had all been killed by the maniac side of his mind. Plus, the whole town of Tashmore Lake had expelled him from town, permanently, because he scared them out of their wits.

In other words, he was lonely.

Sighing, Mort turned his eyes towards the ceiling, trying to think of a way out of this pathetically lonely existence. He was saved from that unpleasant task by the sound of the phone ringing downstairs. Springing out of his chair, Mort raced to answer it, needing human contact.

"Hello?" he said, trying to smooth his hair rumpled hair as he spoke.

"Hi, Mort?" a familiar feminine voice asked.

Mort winced. It was his agent. 'Probably calling to ask why I haven't written anything good yet.'

"Mort, it's Tammy," she said, sounding unusually excited. "I just received a call from your publishing company, and they want you to go on a tour of the country! Isn't that great? They think they can sell more copies of your story that way. What do you think?"

Mort was in shock. A book tour? He'd never done one of those before. "Uh, that sounds great, Tammy," he said, rubbing his neck. "When do we start, and how long will this tour be?"

"The tour starts next week and is about three to four weeks," Tammy replied. "Can you handle that?"

"Sure, sure," Mort said, still rubbing his neck. "See you next week, Tammy."

He hung up the phone before collapsing on his couch. A book tour, for his story? It was unbelievable! This had never happened to him before, but now it couldn't have come at a better time! He'd get to meet his fans (particularly those who were women), and he'd get out of the house for a while!

Smiling, Mort got up to go change; he had some clothes shopping to do!

Meanwhile, West Coast, USA:

I banged my head against my bedroom wall repeatedly, trying to create enough physical pain so that my emotional and psychological wounds could be ignored. When I became thoroughly dizzy, I stopped and combed my naturally red highlighted, dark-brown hair with out of my chocolate-brown eyes, blinking a few times to get the room to stop spinning.

"Why do I have to be such a loser?" I muttered to myself, rubbing my forehead. Here I am, 22-years-old, fresh out of college, and unemployed. I was short, slightly overweight, and I'd never had a boyfriend. I also had no money, a huge student loan to pay off, and (what my mother called) a useless degree.

In other words, I was a loser and a disappointment to the family name.

Turning around, I headed towards my waterbed and collapsed on it. My bedroom was the only place I could escape to, the one place my mother's evil presence could not be felt. This was my haven from real life. The intense gazes of unicorn, fairy, and dragon posters stared down at me, giving the room a magical, peaceful, and comforting aura that I so often needed. Flower-scented candles (not lit, for fear of fire) were scattered around my shelves and filled the room with their scents, making me drowsy. I would have drifted off to sleep had it not been for the screaming coming from downstairs.

"Four years of college, and she still can't find a job!" my mother shrieked, her voice penetrating the walls of my room.

"She's only been out of school a few weeks, for God's sakes!" my father replied, his voice loud, but not louder than Mom's. He must be trying to calm her down. I snorted; good luck with that one.

"Still, she should be working right now, not sitting around the house, eating and sleeping all day and playing on the computer!" God, my mom has a loud voice.

"It takes time to find work, Kat, it doesn't just happen overnight!" Dad said, still not meeting Mom's volume level. "It takes months to find work, not days! And she's been on the computer to try to find work, not playing around!"

Pulling my headphones out from my desk drawer, I quickly popped Evanescence into my CD player and listened as Amy Lee's voice filled my head. It's amazing how her voice and lyrics echoes my pain. Her clear voice crying out reflected how my soul screamed with pain whenever my mother yelled at me for being too stupid, fat, lazy, or a major shame to the family. Sighing, I stared up at my white ceiling and let my mind drift.

I must have dozed off because the next thing I knew, I was opening my eyes to a dark room. My bedroom door was cracked open (even though I knew I'd closed it), and my brother, Michael, had his head poked in my room; it must have been important because he knows coming into my room while I'm having "me time" is hazardous to his health. I paused my CD so I could hear what he had to say.

"Hey, Amber?" he said, eyes darting around my room. Since he's a teenage boy, I think the unicorns, winged horses, dragons, wizards, and Elves staring down from my walls freaked him out.

"What is it now?" I asked, pulling off my headset.

"There's a phone call for you." He held up the cordless phone.

"Thanks, babe," I said. I quickly stopped my music and signaled for him to bring me the phone. Once it was safely in my possession, he quickly turned and fled for the haven of his own room, the shouts still coming from downstairs explaining why. Sighing, I shut the door before turning my attention to the phone.

"Hello?" I said, secretly hoping that it was a possible employer calling about one of my resumes.

"Hey!" a chipper voice greeted me.

"Kari!" I squealed, extremely happy to hear my best friend's voice.

"What's up? Your folks screaming bloody murder again?"

"Yeah, I think the neighbors might call the cops one day; maybe they'll take my mom to the nuthouse where she belongs!" I said, only half-joking.

Seriously, I hoped they would take her away and lock her up like the wacko she really was. Her friends and co-workers would never believe that the sweet and happy person they knew and worked with could cause so much harm to her children, especially when she worked in a day-care and took such good care of other people's kids. There were only four people who knew her for the tremendous bitch she really was: me, Mike, my dad, and Kari, who I told everything to.

Shoving those thoughts aside, I turned my attention back to the phone. "So what's up?" I asked.

"Well, a lot, actually," she said, avoiding the question when she should have been rattling off news from her job.

'Uh, oh, that usually means she wants something,' I thought, bracing myself.

"You see, Amber, I need you to come to this thing with me next month," she said, trying to sound calm.

I raised my eyebrow even though I knew she couldn't see it. "What thing?" I asked, letting suspicion tinge my voice.

"Well, this author is coming to town next month, and my sister wants me to get his autograph for her since she has to work, and since her husband has to take care of the kids and my mom's visiting my grandma for that whole week, that leaves only me," Kari babbled into the phone.

I sighed into the phone. "Okay, so you want me to go with you to a bookstore, and stand in a huge line for God-knows-how-long just so you can pick up an autograph for your sister?"

"Exactly!" she exclaimed in her extremely chipper voice. "Wanna go?"

Sighing again, I decided a trip out of the house would be good for my sanity. "Sure, why not?" I replied, shrugging. "I've got nothing better to do."

"Great!" Kari exclaimed.

"So what's this guy's name, anyway?" I asked, looking out my window and trying to ignore the arguments still coming from downstairs.

"Mort Rainey," came the reply.

AN: I know it's short, but please review and tell me what you think! It'll get better, I promise!