Melody of a Secret Garden
Secret Window Fan Fiction
Rated: K+

Summary: Mort Rainey feels more like himself again, but past deeds are not as easily forgotten as he might wish.

Chapter 1 – A Writer’s Mind

The sound of cornstalks rubbing up against each other as they danced in the cool autumn wind resounded in the night like a haunting melody. A cool breeze swept up off the nearby lake, drifting through the field of cornstalks and in through one of the nearby cabin’s small windows. The only sound accompanying the night’s melody was that of fingers striking keys on a small laptop computer. The light from the laptop’s monitor was the only source of illumination in the tiny second story room that the disheveled man before the laptop used as an office. As a matter of fact, the monitor was the only source of light in the entire cabin.

However, the man hunched over the laptop, typing furiously, was oblivious to this minute fact. At this moment, with his muse flowing freely, it didn’t matter that he was alone in a dark, empty cabin far from any prying eyes or town visitors. He suspected no one would dare to come near his cabin anyway; they all thought him crazy. A washed up writer who’d spent far too many sleepless nights trying to come up with his next great novel, and who had eaten far too many dinners consisting only of corn, Doritos and a can of Mountain Dew.

A man who finally snapped when his personal life continued to get worse and his career stood in jeopardy. A once famous writer who used to be great until he lost his wife, his child, and his mind.

Although this depressing realization did cause him sorrow at times, it didn’t right now. He didn’t even notice the chill of the night air as it came in through his open window, making the room far too cold for someone to be comfortable, even in a faithful worn bathrobe like the one that currently adorned his lean frame.

Nothing mattered.

Nothing existed.

Nothing but the laptop in front of him and the story it was holding.

No, as Mort Rainey pounded out his new novella, he watched the words appear on what was once a blank white screen, the same blank white screen that had taunted him for so long. He couldn’t have been happier. Mort supposed that he was only really happy when he was writing. It allowed his mind freedom. If his mind wasn’t able to free itself through a new story… well, then bad things could happen. What, he wasn’t sure, but he knew it to be the case nonetheless. He’d never fully understand it all, but it was probably better that way.

When he got the inspiration to write, it was important to act on the impulse immediately or he’d risk losing the idea, the thought, the feeling. So it didn’t matter that when he’d gotten the urge to write tonight, he was already lying on the couch fully intending to root himself there until late morning. It was something he was used to, at least before his writer’s block. His muse always came to him at night.

Mort’s hands halted over the keys of the keyboard suddenly.

It happened just like that; the inspiration had gone.

‘Damn,’ Mort thought to himself as he reached for his can of Mountain Dew, now room temperature from being ignored for so long while his muse had taken him. Refreshing himself with a large gulp he returned the can to its place on the desk and removed his glasses, rubbing his eyes tiredly.

Mort stared intently at the screen, but the words were blurred and he couldn’t make them out. Truth be known, he actually wanted to know what he’d just written. He didn’t remember really, but it was always this way when he wrote one of his finer works. He honestly didn’t remember writing some of his bestsellers, for nothing good came out of his mind, but when his mind was off, that was when his real creativity would come. Where it came from, he’d never know.

Mort put his glasses back on, suddenly feeling tired.

"Wow, 51 pages. I’m on fire," he muttered, not realizing he’d said it out loud. Glancing at the digital clock in the lower right hand corner of the screen his eyebrows rose as he noticed the time… 3:30 am. He’d been at it for four hours.

Looking back at the last page he’d typed, he read the final paragraph and smiled to himself, satisfied with what he’d penned. "No more crappy writing," Mort said to himself, nodding once. "Right."

Yawning Mort ran a hand through his bedraggled hair. It needed a cut, highlights, and quite frankly a good wash, but it would have to wait. Deciding to read what he’d written some other time, Mort hit the save button and shut down his laptop.

A gust of cold night wind circled him, and it was only then that he realized the little window was open.

"When did I open that?" he asked himself, as he stood and stretched his tired muscles before shuffling over to the offending window in the now pitch-dark cabin. One month ago, right after he’d had his braces put on, he’d decided to move the dresser away from the window. It was silly to have hidden it so, and he couldn’t understand why he’d done it in the first place.

As he knelt in front of the window, beginning to close it, an image of Amy flew into his mind unbidden and unwelcome, causing him to shut the window a little more firmly than was necessary. The bang of wood against wood cut through the solitary cabin like a knife but couldn’t jar Mort from his thoughts.

Mort felt anger, guilt and sadness all rolled into one. Yet he felt less anger than he had a month ago. He found it easier to be happy than before, even if the mood was fleeting.

‘What exactly did happen a month ago?’ he wondered, not for the first time.

Still kneeling, Mort stared silently out the window into his field of corn below. But it held more than corn; it held memories, some lost and some remembered. Memories and secrets amidst the swaying stalks of corn, and it seemed fitting as the night embraced it. Its melody still audible to Mort Rainey even with the window securely latched.

Chapter 2 – Nighttime Melodies

Mort stood there, admiring his garden.

Within his garden there was one single spot, a small section in the center of his swaying stalks of corn, which pulled his eyes toward it like a magnet.

There seemed to be nothing special about the little spot his gaze was always so attracted to. It looked like any other section of his garden. Yet Mort knew the appearance was deceptive… still, he had no idea why he knew that. He sighed heavily, frustrated and tired.

Starting towards bed Mort muttered a rather unconvincing, "I don’t smoke," to himself, before heading off to retire for the night.

~*~

Mort stared at the swaying stalks of corn, as if in a trance, his feet chilled by the cool damp earth beneath them. The wind whispered through the stalks as Mort stood outside his lakeside cabin. He listened to the wind-swept melody as if it alone held all the secrets of the universe.

Mort Rainey closed his eyes and listened.

Just listened.

Not moving.

Not breathing.

Just listening.

The melody from the night caressing his garden seemed to speak to him now. Perhaps he had better listen. Slowly Mort started to walk towards his garden, reopening his eyes, seeing it as if for the first time.

His robe blew back gently in the breeze as his feet sank slightly in the damp earth. The tattered item of clothing was little protection against the night’s breeze… but it really didn’t matter to Morton Rainey.

As Mort listened to the tuneless melody the wind was able to produce with the help of his garden, he felt drawn towards it, and more importantly he felt that he needed to acknowledge that he had heard it. And so as he began to heed its voice, it did not seem unusual to him to answer it back. Stopping at the garden’s edge, Mort once again closed his eyes and began to hum along with the garden’s melody.

Mort’s tuneless humming followed the wind’s lead, only barely audible above the nighttime sounds.

If someone were to see him now, outside his cabin at four in the morning, dressed in his robe, hair a rumpled mess, with closed eyes behind bookworm glasses, humming softly to a tuneless melody that undoubtedly only he could hear, they would have surely thought him mad.

Mort’s humming only halted for a moment as the voice echoed in his mind, but he quickly forgot it. Stepping within the garden his hands gently ran across the leafy stalks, toying with them as he made his way deeper within the garden, his humming becoming so soft that it seemed to be instantly swept off his lips by the cool night breeze.

"Secrets," Mort breathed, as the thoughts entered his mind. He whispered to his beloved garden then, not fearfully but inquisitively, like a small child who wanted to learn everything of the world. "What secrets are you hiding from me?"

Mort started slightly at hearing His voice. "I wasn’t talking to you."

Mort turned around suddenly, attempting to escape from his own taunting voice. His glasses slid down a little on his nose from the sudden motion and he quickly moved to fix them.

"You’re crazy. I don’t need to listen to you."

"Him who?" Mort asked, bewildered, as he stood surrounded by the tall cornstalks and the darkness of the night.

"This was all a trick! An elaborate ploy to lead me to this very spot, to taunt me," Mort said angrily to the darkness around him, suddenly nervous. He spun himself around again sharply; the enchantment he’d felt earlier at his garden quickly departed. But as he stopped he abruptly took a sharp step backwards in surprise, his back pressing up against one of his beloved stalks, and suddenly they didn’t seem so wonderful, suddenly they seemed like his prison.

He was surrounded by these makeshift prison bars, unable to escape what he saw directly in front of him.

The mirror image of himself.

Mort stood staring intently at the mirror image of himself. Yet this version had a cocky air, a confidence and knowledge that he felt he himself did not possess. He looked at his mirror image with a mixture of fear and déjà vu. It all seemed so eerily familiar.

‘I feel like I’m suffering from both amnesia and déjà vu…’ Mort thought to himself before finishing the thought out loud. "I feel as if I’ve forgotten this before."

His other self chuckled and took a step closer to him.

Mort opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out, and he abruptly shut it, only to snap it open again as he roughly popped his jaw in one quick circular motion.

"I’m not hiding anything," Mort replied forcefully, and he surprised himself with the sureness that his own voice held, because really he wasn’t sure at all. He had forgotten something, and the scary thing was he had no idea what.

"You’re not me."

Mort said nothing in reply, as his mirror self stared at him expectantly. Memories attempted to break through his consciousness, memories he was sure he’d rather not recall. Mort shifted his gaze to the cool, soft ground below his bare feet.

"I’m not crazy… I’m not," he whispered to himself, and it came out almost as a plea.

‘But why can’t I remember all those things?’

Wind swept through the stalks around him, the leaves rustling in its wake, and they no longer held the melody they had before. Mort involuntarily shuddered as he stared at the patch of earth he stood atop. It was the same spot his eyes had been attracted to when he was looking out his window… his secret window… earlier in the evening.

Mort thought abruptly, the realization of his bizarre actions striking him all at once.

"What’s happened to me?" He spoke quietly, asking his other self, or perhaps just himself, still looking at the ground below.

"I wasn’t always like this. What happened? What have I done? What have I become?" he continued to ask softly, finally looking up after being answered with nothing but silence, only to find himself truly alone. The other one had gone.

Mort sighed and rubbed his stiff jaw. He was exhausted now; having already been on his way to bed before he had found his way outside, Mort felt the sudden urge to crash on the couch.

As he walked out of his garden and back to the cabin, he stopped only once, to briefly glance back at the spot he’d just vacated. It stood there, silently now, as if to say ‘I’ll always be here to remind you’.

Mort had the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach that his beautiful, melodic, secret garden wasn’t lying.

The End?