Melody of a Secret Garden
Secret Window Fan Fiction
By Scarlett Burns

Disclaimer: The original story "Secret Window, Secret Garden" is copyright Stephen King. The movie screenplay, "Secret Window", is owned by David Koep. I don't own "Secret Window" or any of it's recognizable characters. I'm just playing, and no profit is being made off this fan fiction.

A big thank you to my wonderful beta, Stella, for looking this over for me and offering her great con-crit and time.

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.

'That's the way it should be.'

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.

'Because it's a secret window.'

'The secret window that was, at one time, going to overlook your lover's secret garden.'

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.