I've been a freelance writer for about five years now, with most of my jobs being ghostwriting
college papers and 50 Shades of Grey ripoffs (that's where the real ghostwriting money
is, but that's a whole separate nosleep story).
While a big chunk of my work these days comes from previous connections with publishers
and local students (Tampa, FL), I often get work proposals on various freelancer websites.
This particular request came in in July of last year: "Write a biography.
$35,000".
Right off the bat it seemed sketchy.
The price was just too good to be true, and well above my pay grade, even for such a complicated
task.
Plus, whoever sent it had no profile picture and no previous engagements on the site, surely
a scam artist.
But curiosity got the best of me and I clicked on it anyway.
I guess a part of me secretly hoped this was legit.
The proposal itself was from one Mary Smith, who was writing me on behalf of her boss,
John Taylor.
Mr. Taylor, she said, had had a rich life, and now that he was retired he wanted to share
his memories of it with the world.
She also said he was impressed with my portfolio and believed I was the perfect man for the
job (with my portfolio being what it is, I could only imagine what sort of memories the
man wanted to share).
As Mr. Taylor was rather fragile in his old age and not at all tech-savvy, they would
require me to come out to Tampa Palms to conduct interviews and take notes.
Some quick googling revealed that Tampa Palms was a rather nice neighborhood, and that John
Taylor was a real person living there, which could still mean the scammers were using his
good name, or had chosen it at random, or any number of things.
But the next few sentences got me even more curious: Mary Smith said if I agreed before
the end of the day, they'd pay me a $5000 advance, which was a serious claim, since
all payments are protected by the website, and the money would go directly to my PayPal
account.
The rest of the details she would give me after I accepted the proposal.
I could no longer contain the excitement.
This was still too good to be true, and I was sure it was a scam, but I thought I'd
have fun with it.
Surely if I clicked "accept proposal" Mary Smith, whoever she was, would blink, right?
So I clicked it.
I didn't expect anything to happen right away, and it didn't.
Nor did anything happen for the next few hours, so at about 10:45pm I decided the scammer
had moved on.
Surprisingly, just half an hour later I received a notification on my phone: "milestone created".
I opened the email and saw Mary Smith had created a payment of $5000, and while I was
trying to process it, I got another notification that said the payment had been released.
Another email popped up, this one from PayPal, saying it would take 1-3 days to process it.
Still, I couldn't believe it � this was real!
A little later I received a message from Mary, saying both she and Mr. Taylor were happy
I agreed to help, and that they'd be waiting for me the following week.
I said I might need a few days to wrap up my previous job and get ready for the new
one, but in reality I needed the time to make sure this was in fact not a scam.
Mary said she understood and left a contact number with a 813 code.
I spent the next couple of days doing looking into Mr. Taylor, but found nothing out of
the ordinary � he was 79 or 80 years old, from a wealthy enough family.
There was a newspaper article about a car accident he was in back in 1991, but nothing
else that drew attention.
By all means, John Taylor didn't seem to be a guy worth writing a biography about, but
what the hell?
As long as he was willing to pay.
The following Thursday I got an email from PayPal � I had become five grand richer.
There was a momentary temptation to block Mary and "disappear", but I quickly brushed
it aside.
The job was real, and that meant there was $30000 waiting for me in a couple of months
(and here my dad thought I'd be a starving writer!).
Once I could think straight again I went online and messaged Mary, saying I'd received the
advance and was available when they would have me.
To my surprise, Mary offered to meet not at the Taylor residence (I had googled the address),
but at an Olive Garden nearby.
While it struck me as a bit odd, I reasoned there was something she wanted to tell me
about her boss, or just make sure I was serious about the job.
A test, in other words.
The following day, I made myself to look professional, dressing up and packing a nice kit of a notebook,
a recorder, etc.
I hoped I'd look presentable to the old man.
I hopped into my old Accord (ghostwriting dough!) and drove, and about twenty minutes
later I made a right turn and parked.
I assumed Mary was already waiting for me, but I decided to call her just to make sure.
The 813 number answered with long beeps, and then went to voicemail.
Two more calls had the same results.
I went in then, and gave the place a look.
There were several women, but none of them looked like they were waiting for anyone,
and when I stared directly at them, only looked away.
I took a table and ordered coffee, making calls every five minutes or so.
No answer.
Getting a feeling I'd been stood up, I paid and left Olive Garden.
In retrospect, I should've just driven back home and forgotten about the whole thing,
maybe even returned the five grand!
But being a responsible person, I tried to call Mary a few more times, and then decided
to drive to Mr. Taylor's house, so that if anything, I'd have tried my best.
Tampa Palms is a nice planned community � perfect suburban houses with two-car garages, kids
on bikes and so on, but driving deeper into it, I found more expensive homes behind tall
gates and nicely cut trees.
I felt like I was in the farthest corner of the neighborhood, as there were no cars on
the road, and all I could see around were trees and iron gates with houses behind them.
One of those houses had to belong to Mr. Taylor.
Sure enough, a moment later the GPS told me I'd reached my destination.
I stopped in front of the gate and got out to buzz in, but it began opening right away,
forcing me to jump back behind the wheel.
I drove up a fine paved road, as the gate closed behind me.
It felt like I'd been transported into another world, quiet and secluded, the way I always
imagined the Hamptons back when I lived in New York.
But the house itself didn't live up to my expectations.
Even though it was huge, it wasn't exactly a palace.
I'd say it was twice as big as the houses I saw in the "regular" part of the neighborhood.
It had columns and some marble, which gave it a somewhat more expensive look, but I had
a feeling it was a deception.
There were two cars in front of the house � a bright red Mondeo, which had to belong
to Mary, and am enormous GMC van, which had to have a wheelchair lift.
I parked next to it and got out, taking my time, expecting Mary to come out to meet me,
but all in vain.
Determined, I walked up the steps and rang the bell.
A minute or so later I herd three different locks go off, and then the door opened.
"Afternoon, Mr. Warner," an old voice croaked from the dim hallway.
I got chills, but stepped in confidently.
The hall was unusually dark for this time of the day, but that didn't scare me.
What did, however, was the old man in front of me.
A shell of a man, to be honest.
John Taylor was the size of a kid, and a starved kid, at that.
His small eyes were set deep in his skull, which was practically visible through his
pale skin, and what few hairs he had on his head reminded me of spiderwebs.
His left hand was gripped around an IV stand (the plastic bag dripping), a tube going into
his arm.
He looked little like the photographs of him I had seen online.
When he offered me his hand to shake, it felt like shaking hands with a skeleton.
His skin was cold and papery.
I put on a smile, doing my best to hide my unease.
Mr. Taylor offered a smile of his own, and he didn't seem to mind me much at all.
"Lock the door, will ya?
That woman, I swear..."
He left me to deal with the numerous locks, as he shuffled across the hallway, the wheels
of his IV stand making awful noise.
I considered bolting then and there, but for some reason I simply locked the door and followed
the old man into what turned out to be the kitchen.
There was a weird stench throughout the house, the smell of an old person who was about to
die, and immediately I felt guilty about the thought, and about taking the money from the
poor guy in the first place.
But then again, it's not like he'd be needing it for long...
"A beer, Mr. Warner?"
I watched him shuffle to the fridge.
"I'm good, thank you."
When he got himself a can, I joined him at the dinner table, and said, "What happened
to Mary?
My called didn't reach her."
He looked up at me, as if trying to remember the name, and then said, "Oh, Mary, yes.
She's around, don't worry.
Good thing you found me."
After a pause he changed the subject: "I trust you find your payment satisfactory?"
I couldn't hold back a smile.
"Very much so, Mr. Taylor!
And thanks for that advance, it'll help a lot!
I wish all clients paid upfront without�"
He cut me off, raising his hand slightly.
"Please, call me John.
I know I look old, but I'm young at heart."
He sipped his beer, and I gave him a small nod, not sure what to say or do next.
I didn't want to push him into an interview until he felt comfortable enough.
I looked out the window at the backyard, which was a wide space covered with yellowing grass
and fenced by trees.
After a few minutes of silence, John said, to no one in particular, "She's a nurse, Mary.
Not an assistant, a nurse.
I'm old, you see, I need people to look after me.
I hope she turns up soon."
He gave me a wink.
I swallowed.
I think I knew what he meant by that, and I could only hope I wouldn't be stuck there
fulfilling Mary's role.
Getting impatient, I took the notebook and the recorder out of my bag and put them on
the table.
John seemingly ignored it, but put his beer down.
I took it as a signal to proceed.
"So, um, whenever you feel like it, John, I'm ready.
It's useful to go chronologically, but feel free to start wherever you like."
He was quiet again for a long minute, then said, "You know who she reminds me of, Mary?
Of sweet old Barb."
I only then hit the rec button, so I asked, "Your wife?"
"My...
Oh, no.
I've never been married."
I scribbled 'married?' in my notebook, because I clearly remembered that newspaper article
about John's accident referring to him as a widower.
"Barb was my nanny when I was a lad, back in 1949.
In Colorado, this was.
She was good to us kids.
Always a smile on her young face.
She must've been twenty or so."
He trailed off.
"You were close?
I mean�"
"I know what you mean.
Yes.
She was like a mother to me."
And then he added: "She went missing in 1952, when I was 13."
There was yet another long pause.
"Did they ever find her?"
I asked, putting down her name.
"I don't think so.
I don't think they were looking hard enough."
There was something about the way he said that last bit that made me wince.
It was as if he was... proud?
As if it was a riddle "they" didn't find the answer to, and he was the riddler.
To change the subject, I said, "So, you spent your childhood in Colorado."
"I didn't say that, did I?
We spent a few years there.
Until Barb went missing."
"Oh."
Again that tone, as if discussing a personal victory, rather than a tragedy.
"Do you want to tell me more about Barb?"
I tried.
I didn't know yet how personal he would allow me to go.
But he hadn't heard the question.
I looked up at him, and saw he was listening intently, his eyes looking through me.
Then he turned his head towards the hallway.
"Did you hear that?" he said.
I shook my head, fearing that the old man's mind was playing tricks on him.
Now I was listening along with him, and I thought I heard steps somewhere deep within
the house.
John stood up suddenly, starting me, the floor screeching under him.
"You need to leave, Mr. Warner."
I sat still for a moment, not sure what was going on.
Meanwhile, John grabbed the IV stand and began towards the hallway.
"We shall continue the interview some other day."
Panicking, I grabbed the notebook and put it away.
"If it's Mary, maybe she could help us�"
"No, I don't think she can.
You need to go."
He was making his way towards the front door, and already reaching out for the top lock.
"And don't you worry about Mary, Mr. Warner."
By the time I made it to the door, it was already wide open, daylight getting inside
and giving the place an eerie look.
I noticed a layer of dust on the floor, disturbed only by our recent activity, but before I
could even think of anything to say, I found myself outside, with the door shut.
I stood and listened for a moment, and it seemed to me John's steps were more energetic
now that he'd kicked me out.
They quickly disappeared inside the house, and I was left with silence.
Only when I got to my car did I realize my heart was racing.
There was something off about this house and about its owner, something I couldn't put
my finger on.
For the time being, I was happy to get the hell out of there and prayed they wouldn't
contact me again.
But they did...
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