Shivers for Christmas by Richard Dalby

Motte Fouque, the unfortunately little-known tales of the lamented Fitz-James O’Brien, the weird tales of writers of all tongues have been thoroughly sifted by me in the course of my reading, and I say to you now that in the whole of my life I never read one story, one paragraph, one line, that could approach in vivid delineation, in weirdness of conception, in anything, in any quality which goes to make up the truly great story, that story which came into my hands as I have told you. I read it once and was amazed. I read it a second time and was—tempted. It was mine. The writer himself had authorized me to treat it as if it were my own; had voluntarily sacrificed his own claim to its authorship that he might relieve me of my very pressing embarrassment. Not only this; he had almost intimated that in putting my name to his work I should be doing him a favour. Why not do so, then, I asked myself; and immediately my better self rejected the idea as impossible. How could I put out as my own another man’s work and retain my self-respect? I resolved on another and better course—to send you the story in lieu of my own with a full statement of the circumstances under which it had come into my possession—when, suddenly, that demon rose up out of the floor at my side, this time more evil of aspect than before, more commanding in its manner. With a groan I shrank back into the cushions of my chair, and by passing my hands over my eyes tried to obliterate forever the offending sight; but it was useless. The uncanny thing approached me, and as truly as I write sat upon the edge of my couch, where for the first time it addressed me.
    â€˜Fool!’ it said, ‘how can you hesitate? Here is your position: you have made a contract which must be filled; you are already behind, and in a hopeless mental state. Even granting that between this and tomorrow morning you could put together the necessary number of words to fill the space allotted to you, what kind of a thing do you think that story would make? It would be a mere raving like that other precious effort of August. The public, if by some odd chance it ever reached them, would think your mind was utterly gone; your reputation would go with that verdict. On the other hand, if you do not have the story ready by tomorrow, your hold on the Idler will be destroyed. They have their announcements printed, and your name and portrait appear among those of the prominent contributors. Do you suppose the editor and publisher will look leniently upon your failure ?’
    â€˜Considering my past record, yes,’ I replied. ‘I have never yet broken a promise to them.’
    â€˜Which is precisely the reason why they will be severe with you. You, who have been regarded as one of the few men who can do almost any kind of literary work at will—you, of whom it is said that your ‘brains are on tap’—will they be lenient with you ? Bah! Can’t you see that the very fact of your invariable readiness heretofore is going to make your present unreadiness a thing incomprehensible?’
    â€˜Then what shall I do?’ I asked. ‘If I can’t, I can’t, that is all.’
    â€˜You can. There is the story in your hands. Think what it will do for you. It is one of the immortal stories—’
    â€˜You have read it, then?’ I asked.
    â€˜Haven’t you?’
    â€˜Yes— but—’
    â€˜It is the same,’ it said, with a leer and a contemptuous shrug. ‘You and I are inseparable. Aren’t you glad?’ it added, with a laugh that grated on every fibre of my being. I was too overwhelmed to reply, and it resumed: ‘It is one of the immortal stories. We agree to that. Published over your name, your name will live. The stuff you write yourself will give you present glory; but when you have been dead ten years people won’t remember your name even—unless I get control of you, and in that case