Late one dreary, blustery October evening, I sat at my desk in Portland State Vanguard’s office typing away on my laptop. Deep in the depths of the Smith Memorial Student Union, tucked away in a gloomy corner of the sub-basement, Vanguard’s office is an unsettling place to be late at night—especially when you’re alone. Or in my case, when you think you’re alone.
My deadline was early the following day, and I was struggling with a crippling bout of writer’s block. I had been typing and deleting my words over and over for what felt like hours, and I was still at only 400 words of what was supposed to be a 1,500-word article. My eyelids were drooping, my mind was starting to swim, and strangely the shadows around the office were changing shape. Watching the shadows grow larger and darker around me, I decided I had officially reached my limit.
I figured the hours I spent squinting at my laptop screen had finally taken their toll on me, and I shut my laptop and began to pack my things to head home and resume my struggle from the comfort of my bed. Despite my exhaustion, I noticed I was beginning to feel on edge. “I drank too much coffee,” I thought to myself. “It’s time for me to go.”
Then, just as I was ready to leave, I heard it.
Tip tap. Tip tap. Crrrrrick.
I froze. “Okay, my mind is playing tricks on me,” I whispered, attempting to stave off my growing terror. I scrambled to collect the rest of my belongings, not wanting to be in that creepy, shadowy office for a moment longer.
I had my hand on the door, ready to exit, when I heard it again.
Tip tap. Tip tap. Crrrrrick.
Just as that dreadful sound entered my ears yet again, I got a whiff of something perplexing—cigarette smoke. By that point, I had to admit that I was terrified. I’d watched a lot of horror movies and had always joked that I wanted something supernatural to happen to me, but this was simply too much.
Frantic, I went to turn the door knob to rush out of there, only to find it completely stuck. I tried to open the door, but it wouldn’t budge. I was trapped.
Resigned to my fate, I sank to the ground, sat in a tense silence and waited.
Yet, nothing happened. Minutes of silence drifted by, and I was starting to feel like it had all been a stress-induced hallucination.
Feeling silly at my earlier panic, I stood up to try the door again when everything darkened. In the pitch-black darkness of the basement, I froze once more. There it was again—accompanied by the inexplicable reek of cigarette smoke—that strange, horrible sound.
Tip tap. Tip tap. Crrrrrick.
Just then, I got the horrible feeling that someone, or something, was right behind me. Slowly, I turned around, only to be met with a sight that defied all laws of logic.
A mere few feet away from me, at a desk I could have sworn was not there earlier, was a young woman dressed in drab, vintage clothes and chain-smoking cigarettes. Illuminated by an eerie light that didn’t appear to have a source, the woman typed furiously away at a typewriter, which explained the horrid sound I had been hearing.
Tip tap. Tip tap. Crrrrrick.
Frozen in shock, I stared in awe as she typed and typed, lighting up cigarettes and smoking like a chimney. I wondered whether she could see me when, suddenly, her head snapped up, and her eyes met mine.
For a few moments, we held each other’s gaze.
“Who are you?” I asked the ghostly writer.
She studied me closely, then broke into a knowing smile. “My name is Tammy, but most people call me Typing Tammy,” she replied.
“Yeah, I kinda see why,” I said, thinking back to the furious typing noises that had started this whole thing. “But what are you doing here? Are you a ghost?”
“Well, you could say I’m sort of a ghost, but mostly, I’m a warning,” Tammy said. “I only appear when someone is working too hard.”
“Okay…is that what this is, then? Are you telling me I need to stop working?” I responded. “I mean, I would love to, but I’m not even halfway done with my story yet.”
“Oh I understand the feeling,” Tammy said. “You see, I was once a student here, back in the 1950s. I would stay up all night, typing and typing, driving everyone around me crazy with the noise of my typewriter. I don’t want to go into the gory details, but people got really annoyed with my constant typing and, well, they put a stop to it. Now I’m stuck here, haunting the Portland State campus to remind students to take a break.”
“Wow,” I responded, not exactly sure how to respond to that. “I mean, yeah, I guess this was kind of a wake-up call for me. I have been losing a lot of sleep lately…”
“Good. You should go home and rest,” Tammy said. “Unless you want another visit from me.”
“No offense, but I definitely don’t,” I said. “You’re kind of terrifying.”
“That’s what I like to hear. Now, be sure to pass the message along to other students. If they stay up too late working, they’ll be sure to get a visit from Typing Tammy.”
Well, fellow students, take this as your official warning: ditch the all-nighters and close your laptops. You deserve a break, and if you push yourself too hard… Typing Tammy will come for you. Beware!
