Changeling: Who {Fanfiction}

Narrated time-capsule 'claim' of a writer's (gov't-inherited) haunted-house 'sightings' releasing from him a 'Changeling' consciousness for Earthling-distance.

A fanfiction to an under-rated and very disturbing (Canadian) horror-film of great eeriness/superstition, The Changeling (George C. Scott), which I hope you'll like, 

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My wife's dead (damn). We'd been in the Poconos for my writer's desk 'examination' when she was killed by a foolish speeding passerby-truck in the East Coast (American Homeland) snow, and I lost my soul-mate. What could I do? I'm writing my own story, for a backyard-buried time-capsule for future-world archaeologists to find, to make sense of our 21st-Century Earthling 'culture' of incomplete-distances readings for lifestyle 'drawn' dialysis confidence for superstitions/arts (wow).

I loved my wife. I lost my wife. I decided to leave our house (New England) and dart to a newly-inherited property in the East Coast (American Homeland) for a new writer's project, for which I'd generate some sentimental-tale about a widower who finds some 'discovery' in loss for Selfie-bound inspiration, but once-more, my writer's desk 'examination' was destroyed, but this time, it was by a Changeling. A Changeling is a small child 'substituted' by the ghost-spirit of a faerie. I found myself become a more...dyslexic writer (for social media hype).

I awoke one morning and heard attic-sounds and discovered a small tub, filled with water, with the apparition of a small boy inside, in this newly-inherited American property! Some time later, I found a music-box in the very-same attic, and I swore I did not see it during my first visit to the haunted attic, and when I turned the tune-lever, it began playing my fave-piano Mozart song (Eine kleine Nachtmusik).

REAL ESTATE AGENT: A small boy was believed to have been (possibly) murdered here!

ME: You claim the culprit, the boy's father, is now a deceased/adoptive dad of a Senator?

REAL ESTATE AGENT: We presented the 'theory' to the Senator (John Campbell)!

ME: He didn't believe you...

REAL ESTATE AGENT: It's just a theory, for American Homeland lore (really), good-friend!

ME: Well, what if I find this 'tragic-child' ghost haunting my inherited property, friend?

REAL ESTATE AGENT: We know of a theory that the boy was in wheelchair; you'd see it!

ME: So I can plan on a ghost-wheelchair rolling-by (inside)?

REAL ESTATE AGENT: Perchance, since you're a writer...it'll make for house-art(s)?

ME: Good (thanx!).

So, I had settled into my inherited house, to transcend the American Tragedy of the loss of my wife (Poconos) and began to work on writing when my real estate agent's reported/claimed 'theory' of haunting started to come-alive for my consciousness. You can understand my natural superstition, however eerie, that I was merely hallucinating sadness because I became a mourning-man, but as I sat trying to write post-sighting in that awful attic, I couldn't help but think I was coming-undone (for commentary).

PRIEST: You think you've seen the ghost of a murdered small boy in wheelchair?

ME: Drowned in a tub, which I 'saw' in the haunted-house attic, my inherited property!

PRIEST: You inherited this special house/property because of relations to government?

ME: Precisely correct, and I got myself a writer's-desk set to unwind/forget (everything).

PRIEST: You got yourself a bouncy-ball to idle-away the depression time, my son?

ME: Father, I thought I inherited this house to develop the 'gift' of language(s).

I saw it. I saw the apparition of the boy in this haunted-house, playing with me. I told a priest after this horrifying 'encounter' of multiple bouncy-balls by the stairs of the house after I (myself) had gotten a bouncy-ball to help me write, forget, and forget about that (dark) attic-vision, and even that music-box was now a Changeling-vision from the Abyss.

DIARY: A Changeling is a faerie-swap with a child's-spirit, and it's ruining my consciousness.

When I went to the library to do local library-microfiche (newspaper) research about the small-boy who'd been haunting me, I realized I found some social-media/traffic/transit culture 'imprint' for a translating link between the loss of my wife (Poconos) and this new East Coast haunted-house 'art-image' for the silence-dialysis of what comprises the definition of the unknown after-life (wow).

BOY: Are you my daddy?
ME: You're the ghost...of the tub-drowned boy...now a Changeling, haunting my spirit(s)!

BOY: Are you my daddy?

ME: My boy, I'll honor the cemetery in which your death (corpse) was buried in the past.

BOY: Good for your soul (farewell).

I made 'toast' of my micro-miracle 'escape' from my haunted-house with a 21st-Century world-exchange 'reflection' culinary-treat soft/zesty (Indian) luchi-bread thanksgiving-diner plate chat(s) to recount the conception that the small-boy (in wheelchair!) was somehow my 'Changeling-angel' who'd help me (somehow) transcend the hospitality-reading horror that life-bound tragedy (Poconos) is maybe...inescapable. 

PUBLISHER: Congrats on your new writer's view(s), hon.

ME: I might take some escape-hours to re-read The Shining (Stephen King), friend!

PUBLISHER: You'd consider adopting a child...a boy (perchance)?

ME: Why's that (whom)?

PUBLISHER: Every memory comes for a 'time' in the lines-of-dreariness, Mr. Writer (fine?).

ME: I doubt it (thanx).

"Doing well is the result of doing good. That's what capitalism is all about" (Ralph Waldo Emerson). 

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"Money is everything" (Ecclesiastes)