Hi! Ok, here's chapter two. Just a word about the rating; basically, although Secret Window was only 12 in England, it felt like a 15. The nearest American equivalent seems to be PG-13. I don't intend to include anything graphic, but just on the safe side....

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People claimed Mort Rainey's house was haunted. But then many years ago, people claimed the world was flat. Those people, unlike the first set, were wrong.

Something was living in the house. It wasn't Mort Rainey. It wasn't John Shooter either.

No, the person who slept in the darkest, deepest corner was certainly not a successful author, nor was it an apparently slow-witted hick.

By day it slept, in a place no one who believed the rumours dared go look. But not everyone in Lake Tashmore was afraid of ghosts. They ventured no nearer than the others; there were worse rumours than ghosts. Rumours of the author, lurking with a stormy pair of eyes behind every door; rumours of a man in a black hat, drawling incessantly in the shadows; rumours of something worse than that.

Sheriff Newsome hadn't scratched the surface, disturbed the dust or uncovered anything, let alone anything useful. No one ever would if they came by day, or evening. Midnight, now that was a good time. Witching hour, and all the rest of the hocus-pocus.

Ten-thirty was a good time.

The creature awoke then. It clutched at straggly blond hair; beat it's grimy hands into its eyes, trying to blind itself against the images in its head. It followed old familiar paths, through the old familiar house, into new and terrifying realms of imagination.

It wasn't Mort Rainey, or John Shooter; it was both.

The first few weeks had been fine. John Shooter was calm, collected; he had a clinical view of everything. He'd stayed on top, filed the paperwork, written some chapters, and acted polite when the police came round.

And then Mort Rainey found himself waking up on the sofa, surrounded by piles of neat, word-processed paper. Everything was clean, precise and orderly. He threw a spindly, ugly-decorative chair at the wall, hoisted a chair leg and set to work.

The paper made a swish noise as it ripped. The glass clattered with a noise like a waterfall. Throwing open the cupboard doors, their hinges groaning in mechanical agony, Mort threw the pans at the walls, through the windows, and at the doors. Smearing every surface with sauce and any other condiments, he scrawled "Shooter" everywhere. He viewed his creation.

NO! You're proving them right! You're crazy! Shooter doesn't exist!

"Yes he does!"

Yes, he does!

No he DOESN'T!

"No, no he doesn't Mort, you're crazy! You're mad!"

"Yes! I do exist! I'm here, see? I'm here, when you get angry, I help you! Didn't you feel calm, organised, happy when I was in control?"

No! You scare me! Leave me the HELL ALONE!!!

No!

Yes!

By this time, he'd reached the stairs. Leaning against the rail, he clutched at his head, drowning in an ocean only he could sense.

I'm Morton Rainey. I'm a horror novelist. I'm not a murderer

"I'm John Shooter. I'm a horror novelist. I am a murderer."

Mort collapsed next to the banisters, burying his face into his hands. He was a good person. He loved his dog, his wife...to death. You killed them, Mr Rainey.

"No!" The tears were finding a weak spot now. Thick, heavy drops slid down onto his cheeks and soaked his hands. "I didn't want to! You made me! YOU MADE ME!"

The empty house said nothing.