The keyboard stared at Peter impassively. He stared back, willing it to miraculously start the next best -seller for him. He knew, of course that it was impossible and the more Peter stared at the keys the further away his next masterpiece seemed to get. His last book, The Last Journey had been a huge success, and the one before that, Tales of Dark Dreaming had achieved moderate to good sales too. Now his publisher told him that all he had to do was consolidate his position as a horror author by penning another hit.

Penning. It was a funny word, Peter thought. No doubt eminently suitable back in the days before personal technology reared its sometimes ugly head, but hardly applicable now. It was amusing to Peter that there were still people in the publishing industry who referred to writing in such arcane terms (his publisher being one of them). Punching computer keys until 3am when your fingers were numb and your eyes hurt from too many hours staring at the screen hardly matched up to that romantic phrase. Peter thought distractedly that perhaps it was time to get a new publisher - one who was a little more up with the times.

With a deep sigh Peter switched off his computer screen and ran a bony hand through his thinning hair which hung down his back in a sandy shower. For the fifth night in a row he'd been unable to write, his mind a blank, his fingers stiff and useless, poised above the ever present keyboard. He'd tried all kinds of tricks - meditation, relaxing baths, even exercise but to no avail. He was well and truly blocked.

"Old lady inspiration has had enough of my working nights and drinking too much and has packed up the kids and gone home to mother," Peter murmured ruefully to no-one in particular, and smiled. Dawn had just began to slip its fingers through the shutters on the window of his upstairs studio, signalling that it was time for Peter to try to get some sleep. He lay down, slipped off his shoes and waited for sleep to overtake his racing mind. After an hour of laying awake, he turned and irritably picked up the book he was reading. Perhaps that would settle his mind and help him sleep, he thought.

Several hours later, Peter was jolted from his sleep to discover he'd dozed off with the book in his hand. Smiling to himself he put the book down and went to turn over, when he heard a sound. It seemed to be a light tapping noise, and it came from the corner where his computer sat, its monitor dark. He rolled over and sat up, straining to hear the noise. Nothing. He was about to lay down again when the noise came again, louder and more regular this time. He stood up and moved cautiously over to his computer, moving his head this way and that to try to identify the source of the noise. As he bent over the keyboard, movement caught his eye and he jumped back. Peter rubbed his eyes, and looked again. The keys on the keyboard were going up and down in rhythmical sequence, and he watched, fascinated, as the keys spelled out words. He always left his computer on, but turned the monitor off each day. Tentatively he reached forward and pushed the monitor power switch. The screen leapt to life, revealing a page of typing. Sitting down at the keyboard, Peter began to read.

WRITER'S BLOCK the title read. BY PETER TOLLER. Peter had to read quickly to keep up with the speed of the keyboard's tapping. As he read, Peter became more and more excited. It was good! Whatever this thing was that was happening, whatever strange demonic event or dream he was involved in, the writing was good. It occurred to him that perhaps it was a dream, and he read on, trying to memorise as much of it as he could in order to jot it down when he awoke. This was it! The answer to his block.

The keyboard kept up its clatter for almost four hours, while Peter alternately drank tea, read the new paragraphs, and leapt about the room in confused, almost manic joy. It didn't really occur to him that his computer typing by itself was all that strange. Whatever works, he told himself, whatever works. Eventually he became exhausted, and went to sleep.

That evening Peter woke to discover that the computer had printed out the day's work. He eagerly grabbed the manuscript and read through it again. So it wasn't a dream. But what was he going to tell people? On one hand, he wanted to tell the world about this bizarre and miraculous event, but on the other he'd broken the writers block and didn't want to lose it by revealing the truth about the work's authorship. He came to an abrupt decision. Whatever happened, his secret would have to stay such. In any event, surely the computer would eventually stop and allow him to continue what it had so helpfully started? His publisher was thrilled to be receiving the chapters, and was keen to see the work finished.

But that was not to be. Days went by, and Peter tried repeatedly to use his computer, but to no avail. Every time he started to type, the keyboard would erase his work and replace it with its own. He found this funny at first, but became increasingly frustrated and angry as the days went by. When was he going to be able to use his computer again? He could buy another, but what if it did the same thing? He was determined to finish the book on his own. Enough was enough. Peter had stormed downstairs to read the paper after a particularly frustrating encounter with what he now termed his 'evil machine'. He opened the technology pages and began reading advertisements for personal computers. It took him several moments to notice that something was wrong. Something was missing. He cocked an ear towards the stairs up to his studio. Silence. The computer had stopped its incessant tapping. Cautiously, Peter approached the machine. The cursor blinked expectantly at the end of a sentence.

Gingerly, Peter extended one hand and tapped the space bar, and the cursor moved obediently to the right. He waited for the inevitable backspace, but nothing happened. Had the computer finished?

"OK. Let's see if you'll let me drive for a change," he muttered as he sat down before the keyboard. Quickly skimming over what the machine had already written, Peter began. He started slowly, but was soon back in the swing of it. The words seemed to fly from his mind through his fingers to the screen, and he began to whistle to himself cheerfully. He had finished the last of seven paragraphs when suddenly all his work vanished. In its place appeared four words. THAT'S NOT GOOD ENOUGH the screen blared in inch high letters. Peter stared at the screen dumbfounded for a second, then tried to start typing again. To his horror, the computer was back to its old tricks, deleting his work and replacing it with its own. Peter kicked the chair back and stood up, furious.

"Not good enough???? You stupid bloody machine! Give me my novel! It's mine!" he screamed, searching for something to throw at the screen.

NO IT'S NOT, the screen replied. IT'S OURS. Peter was speechless with rage. This wasn't how it was supposed to happen! It was supposed to be his tool, not the other way around. Overcome with rage, he rushed forward, grabbed the keyboard and raised it above his head, ready to smash it down on the monitor. A noise above his head made his stop, and he looked up, confused. Suddenly white hot pain shot down his arms and he tried to drop the keyboard. Horrified, Peter looked down at his hands. The ends of his fingers were caught between the keys, which were jumping up and down so hard that it seemed they would pop off altogether. But they stayed on, their sharp edges grinding the soft flesh of Peter's fingers between them. He screamed and thrashed wildly, trying to release his fingers, but could not. Soon all he could do was lay on the floor, screaming as the keyboard ran out of flesh on his fingers and began on his hands. He stared up at the computer screen, screaming for the machine to let him go.

The keyboard continued to tap furiously away, the words filling the screen, oblivious to Peter's cries as it finished with his hands, moving on inexorably up his arms. Finally he let out a guttural sob, and passed thankfully into unconsciousness. The screen's only reply was to start the final chapter of the novel with the very keystrokes that would soon end the author's life.