Twenty-four years ago, while doing grad work in L.A., he had gotten a young undergraduate pregnant. They had dated less than a year while he finished his M.F.A. They had talked about marriage, but when a teaching post presented itself, he broke off the relationship and moved back to the East Coast. He gave Jessica some money to get an abortion, but she had refused. He left no forwarding address and never heard from her again, uncertain what had happened to her or her baby. Yes, he felt guilty. But he was also young, selfish and scared. And he couldn’t turn down the job because it paid well and would allow him the time to write his first novel, which became an instant bestseller.

As he lay in bed staring into the black, it all came back to him. But did he really want to be shacked up for the next ten or twelve months slogging through that old muck?

But one hundred thousand dollars?

Two hours later he was still rolling around his mattress.

Maybe it was his inherent paranoia crossed with his writer’s imagination, but suddenly he wondered if this Lauren Grant was really an innocent little rich kid who just wanted her name on a book.

He got out of bed and went to his laptop where he Googled Lauren J. Grant. A common enough name, but not a single hit came up. He tried other search engines and databases, and nothing. She had no Web site. No entry in Facebook, MySpace or any blog site. She had never registered a book or movie review anywhere under her name. Nothing. In the vast digital universe where most people had left evidence of their existence, she did not exist. It was as if she were a ghost.

The next day, feeling like roadkill from the lack of sleep, he went to the registrar’s office and got a clerk to give him copies of Lauren J. Grant’s application. While grades were confidential, their application forms were not. She was from Philadelphia. Her parents were Susan and John Grant—she was a real estate agent, he the owner of a trucking firm. Lauren was an only child. She had graduated from Prescott High School. All looked legitimate.

But that evening, back home at his laptop, anxiety was setting bats loose in his chest. The more he tried to work on the synopsis, the more distracted he became. What if she were some kind of writer stalker—a delusional nutcake, like the assistant who murdered that singer, Selena?

Or worse, the crazed groupie who shot John Lennon dead after getting his autograph?

Or worse still, his own Annie Wilkes, like in that story Misery?

It’s your ol’fertile imagination getting the best of you, he told himself. Nonetheless, he went back online and found a Web site for Prescott High School. But probably because of the fear of pedophiles, students were not identified by name. However, using different search engines he located a site for the publisher of the school’s yearbooks and ordered one for the year she had graduated. He then checked the online Yellow Pages and, with relief, he found an address for her parents that matched what she had written on the application. Your imagination was always much richer than your real life, he told himself and went to bed.

Over the next several days he threw himself into the synopsis. By the end of the next week, he had the story line filled out and an ending that satisfied him. So, he e-mailed Lauren a copy, humming for that twenty-grand advance.

Within the hour she called him. “Geoffrey, it’s good but the ending is not there yet. You’re letting him off too easily.”

He didn’t mind the presumptuous use of his first name as much as her sudden authority: this little twit wasn’t satisfied with his synopsis. He resented that almost as much as he resented his need for her money. “Twentysomething years have passed,” he said. “Do ghosts hold grudges that long?”

“In this story they do.”

“Well, frankly, I think the ghost bit is silly. I told you I don’t write ghost stories. I don’t even read them. And I don’t believe in them. They’re cheesy gimmicks.”

There was a long, uncomfortable silence filled only with the hush of the open phone line. “So what do you recommend?” she finally said.

“That it’s the grown daughter who seeks him out.”

“And then what?”

“There are some tense moments, but in the end they reconcile. He realizes how callous and irresponsible he had been, but he’s a grown man now and has reformed and wants to bond with his long-lost daughter.” He knew how trite that sounded, but it was the best he was willing to offer.

But she didn’t approve. “I like the idea of the grown daughter replacing the ghost as an agent of justice,” she said. “But it’s got to be intense. I want his guilt and fear to be palpable. And I don’t want forgiveness.”

Suddenly she was all business and holding hostage his twenty thousand for an ending that was making him uncomfortable.

“And it has to be a surprise,” she continued. “A surprise ending and a Grand Guignol.”

“I’ll see what I come up with.”

“Okay,” she said. “But I want blood.”

The rat stirred in his gut again. “But why such harsh justice?”

“Because blood debts must be paid.”

And the rat took a nip.

For another six days he worked on the synopsis, grabbing a few writing hours between classes. But that Friday classes were cancelled because of a freak snowstorm, producing lightning and thunder. Global warming, the radio said. So he took advantage of the day off and wrote without interruption. By early evening he had exhausted himself and downed a few glasses of Scotch to relax. He thought about going to bed early and getting up around four the next morning to continue working.

That’s when the FedEx delivery man came by with a package. It was the Prescott High School yearbook. He tore through the portrait pages. Yes, there was a Lauren Grant, with a few school clubs and activities listed. But no portrait photo. Nor was she in group shots. Maybe she was sick and missed the photo sessions.

At the moment, he really didn’t care. His head was soupy from exhaustion and alcohol, so he went to bed, satisfied that he had an ending that made sense—one that should satisfy her. She wanted the guy’s death, so he gave him a weak heart. In the middle of the night he thinks he sees a ghost and dies of fright. Contrived, yes. And if she didn’t like it, fuck it! It was the best he could come up with. So he e-mailed it to her and went to bed, thinking, I don’t have blood on my hands. Jessica could be alive and well today. I just didn’t want to deal with her or the baby. I was just a kid. No way I should pay for that. Nor for cheating on Maggie.

To rout the rabble in his head, he downed two sleeping pills and slipped into a dreamless oblivion.

It was a little after midnight when his phone rang. Through the furriness of his brain he heard the answering machine go on in the other room and a muffled female voice leave a message he couldn’t make out. After several minutes of lying in the dark, he got up, went to the next room and hit the play button.

“Hi, Geoff, it’s Lauren. I received your new ending and, frankly, it doesn’t work. I’m really sorry, but it’s still too weak. However, I think I’ve got the ending we’ve been looking for. Sorry about the hour, but I’m leaving first thing in the morning for the holidays and I want to share it with you in person. So, I’ll be right over.”

She clicked off, and when he tried to retrieve her number to call back, the message read Unavailable. She had called from an unlisted number. Jesus! It was past midnight. And why the hell didn’t she just e-mail it?

Suddenly his mind was a fugue. What if she wasn’t coming over simply to share her idea?

But another voice cut in: Get a grip, man. You’re letting your booze-and-Xanax-primed imagination get the best of you. That and the freak storm.

But what if she was an imposter who knew about Jessica and was out to get him? The best possible retribution.