May 7, 2025

Jack’s Muse
By James Rumpel

Click here to listen to this story on the Kaidankai Podcast.



​Jack followed his new landlady up the stairs.

“The only way to the top floor apartment is by the outside stairs and I’m way too old to shovel the snow off them in the winter. That’s going to have to be your responsibility.” Mrs. Ackley wasn’t exaggerating about her age. She was deathly thin and frail-looking. Her skin hung loosely from every exposed part of her body, except for her face. There it scrunched together forming wrinkles and lines that ran in every possible direction like a roadmap for a major city designed by a deranged civil engineer. Jack had already decided that he was going to use Mrs. Ackley as the model for a zombie in his next horror story.

“Rent’s due the first of every month and you can just slide the check under my door,” continued the old woman. “I don’t put up with any loud music or parties. I’ve had kids kicked out or arrested before, and I’ll do it again.”

“That won’t be a problem, Ma’am,” replied Jack. Ackley’s attitude and tough rules did not deter his desire to take the apartment. He wasn’t looking to get out of the dorms in order to be a party animal; he looked forward to the peace and quiet of having his own place.

“Well, you seem like a nice enough boy,” said Mrs. Ackley. “You said you’re a sophomore at the college.”

“Yes, Ma’am. I’m an English major with an emphasis on creative writing so I like things quiet.”

“That’s nice. We had an English major rent that place about twenty years ago. My husband was still alive back then. I can’t remember her name though.”

“If it was twenty years ago, I’m pretty sure I don’t know her,” said Jack with a shrug.
“I suppose not.” The old woman handed Jack a key. “Just make sure you don’t make too much noise when you move your stuff in.”

                                                                       ***

Jack sat at the makeshift desk in the middle of his study/living room/bedroom. His laptop was on an old card table. The legs of the table sat at odd angles, none of them truly perpendicular to the floor, partly due to the poor condition of the table and partly because the floor was nowhere close to being level.  The weight of Jack’s computer and notebooks would have been too much for the rickety table if it wasn’t for the four cement blocks stacked beneath it for support.

Leaning back in his second-hand desk chair, Jack took a deep breath and glanced at his phone. It was already twenty minutes past midnight. It seemed like he had just sat down to work on his story but it was four hours since he started.

He scrolled back to the beginning and read his handiwork. By the time he was halfway through the story, a large smile was forcing its way onto his lips. This was good. If this story didn’t impress Dr. Haroldson, his Creative Writing 2 professor, nothing would. He couldn’t wait to show it to his critique group at tomorrow’s meeting. They were going to love it.

                                                                          ***
Jen Nelson was the last of the other three members of the critique group to finish reading Jack’s story. When she looked up from her laptop, Jack immediately blurted out, “So, what do you think?”

Arvi Patel was the first to reply. “I really liked it. I mean it’s really good. Definitely better than anything you wrote last semester.”

Jen nodded. “I agree. You don’t usually go into as much detail in your descriptions. It worked very well.”

Jack grinned. “Thank you. This one just came together nicely.”

Mark Ducklow, the final member of the group and Jack’s only true friend, chimed in. “I like how you tied everything together at the end. How did you ever think to have the little boy be the one who found the key?”

“To be honest,” said Jack, humbly, “the story just, sort of, wrote itself. Once I got on a roll, everything just came to me. Do you think Doc Haroldson will like it?”

“He should,” replied Arvi. After a brief pause, she added, “But that doesn’t mean he will. We all know how tough he is.”

“Yeah,” added Mark. “I don’t think he’s liked anything in the twenty-five years he’s been a professor.”

“I know he hasn’t liked anything I’ve written. I was lucky to get a C last term. Sometimes I’d like to take his prized pen and stick it up his ass.”

Arvi grinned. “Now, there’s the usual eloquence we’ve come to expect from you.”

Jack broke into a wide, toothy grin. People always said he had an infectious smile though he hadn’t had much opportunity to show it lately.

Jen looked around as if expecting Professor Haroldson to jump out from behind the bookshelf. Once her unnecessary concern was abated, she spoke in a loud whisper. “I heard he got into some kind of trouble when he was a younger and that he’s been extra hard on students ever since.

“That might explain why he’s the way he is,” said Arvi.

Mark laughed. “No, I think he’s just a dick.”

                                                                          ***
A week later, Jack sat in Dr. Arnold Haroldson’s office, secretly agreeing with Mark’s assessment. The professor may have, at one time, been a handsome man, but now, in his mid-fifties, his appearance was going through some sort of reverse metamorphosis. With his receding hairline and expanding waistline, Dr. Haroldson was beginning to look more like a larva than a butterfly.

“While this is your best work yet, Mr. Tomlin, it is still not great. It has some potential and I think with a lot of editing you could get to worthy of an A, but as it is right now, the best I can give you is a B-.” While he spoke, Haroldson, picked up a golden pen that was sitting on a mahogany display stand and began twirling it between his fingers, much like a drummer playing with his drumsticks.

“So, can I do a rewrite? If you give me a little direction as to what you are looking for, I think I can make improvements.”

The professor spun his pen around a couple more times and then returned it to its usual resting place. “No, I think you should concentrate your efforts on the next assignment. I’ve seen your work for two classes now and I am quite certain you are going to struggle with writing a romance. Your time will be better spent trying to come up with something that is, at the very least, not garbage.”

Jack wanted to ask why the professor hated him. Instead, he simply stood up and thanked Dr. Haroldson for his time.

                                                                          ***
It only took Jack a day to compose his story for the romance assignment. The words came so easily that he wondered if he might inadvertently be plagiarizing a story he had read previously. However, the grammar software he used did not find any previously published stories that came close to matching his tale.

Unable to wait for the next critique group get-together, he e-mailed the story to Jen and Arvi. The girls would be able to tell him if his writing was as good as he thought it was.

Within twenty minutes he got a call from Arvi.

“Did you actually write this?” she asked.

“Yes,” replied Jack, a little hurt by his classmate’s lack of faith. “I sat down and just started typing out my idea and this is what I ended up with.”

“I’m sorry,” apologized Arvi, “I didn’t mean to insult you. It’s very good. I was just a little surprised at how well you were able to portray the heroine’s feelings. Most guys couldn’t pull that off. You must have found your muse.”

“Thanks . . . I think,” said Jack.

When Jen e-mailed him back a couple of hours later, her sentiments were almost the same as Arvi’s though she also commented on Jack’s style of jumping from one character’s thoughts to another’s in rapid succession. She said she hadn’t read anything like that before but liked the effect.

                                                                          ***
“C,” said Professor Haroldson, a scowl on his face.

Jack stared at this teacher, indignant. “May I ask why? This is a very good story.”

“Too good,” replied Haroldson, returning Jack’s stare. He grabbed his golden pen and pointed it at Jack, accusingly. “I don’t think you wrote this. I can’t prove it . . . yet. But I’m going to do a little research. There’s something familiar about this piece. I think I’ve read something very much like it before. I can’t give you an F without proof, but until I am convinced that you didn’t steal this, you’re getting a C.”

“That’s unfair. I wrote this by myself. I would never copy someone else’s work.” He did not attempt to hide his anger.

Haroldson let out a long sigh. “Prove to me that you can come up with something as unique and well-written on the humor assignment and maybe I’ll reconsider.”

                                                                          ***
Jack stood in his bathroom, looking at the open linen cabinet. What had he come in here for? He was so furious at Haroldson that he wasn’t even thinking straight.  It was only after another thirty seconds that he realized he was holding all three of his bath towels. Why had he taken them off the shelf? When he reached up to return the towels to their normal storage place, he noticed something off about the back wall of the cabinet. One of the boards was crooked; like a slightly ajar door.

The cabinet, like most everything in the apartment, was old and decrepit but Jack had never noticed this board before. He set the towels aside and removed the piece of wood. To his surprise, there was a small alcove behind the cabinet. He reached inside and pulled out a small wooden box.

Inside, he found about a dozen pieces of paper. A quick inspection showed them to be mostly letters addressed to someone named Maggie Lennox.

Returning to his desk, Jack began reading the letters. The first couple were from Maggie’s parents talking about the family news or asking her how school was going. The third, however, was much more interesting.

“Maggie,

I greatly enjoyed helping you with your assignment last night. You are incredibly talented. I think with some extra help you can be an amazing writer. You could be the next great storyteller. See me after class tomorrow and we can set up a time to get together and work on your next story.
Professor Haroldson”

Jack set the paper aside, his heart beating against the wall of his chest. Who is Maggie Lennox?

He found another correspondence from Professor Haroldson.

“Maggie,
I hope I am not being too forward but I have to come out and say what I think we both know. We have something more than a teacher/student relationship. We are soul mates. What started as a genuine appreciation for your writing talent has blossomed into something much more personal and undeniable. Please, if you feel the same way, meet me in my office tomorrow night at ten. I will have something special waiting for you.
Arnie”

The next couple of letters were unrelated, but the one after that was, once again, from Professor Haroldson.

“Maggie,
We have to talk about last night. Do not say anything to anyone about what happened until we have had a chance to talk.
Professor Haroldson”

Jack dug through the rest of the pile until he found one last letter.

“Miss Lennox,
After your refusal, you leave me no choice. I will be going to the Dean and telling him about how you tried to seduce me to get a better grade. Don’t even think about attempting to come forward with any other version of what happened. No one will believe your word against mine. I am a respected university faculty member. You are nothing more than a desperate student.
I will give you one last chance to prove that you are not going to say anything. Please, come visit me. Maybe we can put this ugly situation behind us.
Professor Haroldson”

Search as he may, Jack found nothing more.

                                                                          ***
It took nearly ten minutes for Mrs. Ackley to open the door.

“I said you can just slide your checks under the door,” she said before Jack could speak.

“It’s not that,” said Jack. “I have a question for you.”

“No, I’m not going to replace the carpet.”

Jack shook his head. “No. Listen. Who is Maggie Lennox? Did she live in the third-floor apartment?”

The elderly woman paused, looking straight through Jack. Eventually, she tilted her head to one side and said, “I think she was the girl that hung herself.”

“Someone killed themselves in my apartment?”

“It was twenty years ago.”

“What happened? Why’d she do it?”

Again, the old woman paused, deep in thought. “I don’t think they ever figured out why. If I remember correctly, there wasn’t a note or anything.”

                                                                          ***
Mark paged through the letters. He set them down and let out a long whistle.

“Is this all real?” he asked.

“Yes,” answered Jack. “I even went to the library and found the report of the death from the local paper.” He set a photocopied picture in front of Mark.

The photo that had run in the paper appeared to be Maggie’s senior picture from her high school yearbook. She was pretty but far from stunning. She had dark hair, probably brunette, but it was hard to tell from the black and white picture. Most of her face was obscured by the oversized, wide rimmed glasses she wore. One thing that was not covered by her glasses was her mouth. The edges of her lips were turned up slightly in a smile.

“Wow. What are you going to do? You probably should go to the Dean or the police.”
“I know I should,” replied Jack. “But will that do anything besides make Haroldson hate me even more? I mean, I’m sure there’s a statute of limitations or something. Plus, nothing in the letters ever says that Haroldson did anything.”

“Not in so many words. But, it’s pretty obvious.”

“I don’t know. Going public with this could make things tough on me. I think I’m going to wait until my next review with him. He said he would reconsider my grade if I did well on the humor story.

“I don’t know,” said Mark, shaking his head.

“Maybe, everything will work out and I won’t have to do anything with the letters.”
“You’re forgetting one very important thing. Haroldson’s a dick.” Mark opened Jack’s small refrigerator and pulled out a can of beer. He paused for a second, looking at the bottom shelf. “Why do you have a hammer in your refrigerator?” he finally asked.

Jack shook his head. “I don’t know. I’m so worked up about this Haroldson thing that I’ve been absentmindedly leaving stuff all over the place.”

                                                                          ***
“I think you misunderstood the assignment,” announced Dr. Haroldson as he set Jack’s most recent story aside. “You were asked to write humorous prose. There’s nothing funny in this piece.”

“It’s dark humor,” pleaded Jack. “You have to look past the deaths and focus on the underlying irony.”

“I don’t know, Mr. Tomlin. I don’t think you have what it takes to be a writer. Maybe you should reconsider your emphasis or, maybe even, your major. The world needs teachers or greeting card composers just as badly as it needs authors.”

Jack started to reply to his professor’s assault but the words didn’t come to him. The only sound he made was a quick snort as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small stack of papers and threw them on Haroldson’s desk.

The professor grabbed the top note and looked at it. He froze, his face flashing from one emotion to another. Confusion was quickly replaced with shock. Sadness followed, only to be usurped by anger. Finally, the kaleidoscope of expressions stopped on stoic emptiness. When he spoke, his words were measured and passionless. “Where’d you get these?”

“Does it matter?” replied Jack. “Those are just copies. I have the originals. If I take those to the dean, you could be in a lot of trouble.”

“You’re not going to do that,” said Haroldson, the color returning to his face. “There’s nothing in these letters that incriminates me in any way. Everything that happened back then is just the way I said in the letters. That girl tried to seduce me, nothing more.”

“I’m not so sure that everyone would believe that,” said Jack, surprised at his own bravado. “You might have gotten away with that kind of defense twenty years ago but not in this day and age.”

Professor Haroldson didn’t move for nearly a minute. Eventually, he grabbed the gold pen from his desk and pointed it at Jack.

When he spoke, his air of authority returned. “Here’s what’s going to happen. You are going to finish the semester. You have one more story to write, the horror assignment. After that, you will get a B+ for the class. You will never take another of my offerings. You will give me the original letters and never speak to anyone about them. Do we have a deal?”

Jack wanted to tell Haroldson to go to hell. It was too late. The professor had to pay for what he had done to Maggie. It would be the right thing to do even though it would be difficult.

“We have a deal,” is all he said.

                                                                          ***
Jack sat down to write the story for his final assignment. Once he was finished, he would turn it in and never have to worry about Haroldson ever again.

He opened his laptop and was about to begin typing when he noticed something out of the corner of his eye. When and why had he put a butcher knife on his desk? He had to finish this whole ugly affair before he went completely mad.

                                                                          ***
Jack looked at his computer screen, confused and disoriented. He remembered sitting down to begin the rough draft sometime around midafternoon. Now, it was completely dark. The ghostly glow coming from his computer monitor was the only light in the room.

He began reading the story in front of him. It was a tale of hate and revenge. Despair dripped from every sentence and anger from every word. When he got to the final section, he found himself nearly gagging at the graphic description of the murder. How could he have ever written something this pornographically violent? This couldn’t be his work.

He grabbed the mouse and scrolled upward to capture the entire text. As he reached for the delete button he froze. Why were there deep crimson spots on his keyboard?

Jack stood up, pushing himself away from the table. As he did so, something fell to the ground, shimmering in the glow of his laptop’s screen. He looked down and staggered back slightly. Lying at his feet was the knife he had found on his desk when he began writing the story. Even in the dim light, Jack could tell the blade was stained with blood.

Jack stood and walked, slowly, as if in a trance, to his bathroom. He opened the linen cabinet door and removed three towels from the middle shelf. Pushing aside the board that covered the hidden alcove, Jack grabbed the wooden box hidden within.

He opened the box and gaped at the contents. Sitting on top of a small pile of papers was a gold pen, broken and covered with blood. After a moment, he quietly closed the box and returned it to its hiding place, a sly, toothless smile on his face.
​
                                                                 💀💀💀

James Rumpel is a retired high school math teacher who has greatly enjoyed spending some of his free time turning a few of the odd ideas circling his brain into stories. He lives in Wisconsin with his wonderful wife, Mary.