Ghostwriter (11 page)
Like something dead.
He paused for a minute, forcing himself to take a deep, stinging sniff. It wasn’t something dead, but someone dead. This was
what the dead smelled like, and it was worse than he’d imagined. His eyes watered, and his stomach lurched.
Bob’s boots shuffled across the floor. Finally a small gas lamp flicked on, the unsteady flame illuminating the open space
around them.
Cillian could see an old tractor rusting away in its last resting spot in the center of the barn. Stalls that once housed
cattle or horses now sat unused, untouched. Hay still remained on the fl oor.
The big guy stared at him for a second. Thinking. Perhaps wondering whether to trust him, or perhaps wondering whether to
kill him.
Cillian had doubted that Bob actually did what he claimed to do. But he didn’t doubt it anymore.
It wasn’t just the deep, undeniable stench. It was everything. This farm in the middle of nowhere and the way Bob looked at
him with that blank stare. The feeling filled the barn the same way the smell did. It was thick, throbbing, and very real.
This was what Cillian had wanted to see, to taste, to touch: pure, unmitigated terror.
The big guy shuffled through the barn, leading Cillian past open stalls. Shadows scattered and shifted. At one point Cillian
thought he saw something that looked like a hand. Something that looked like a skeleton.
Close to the last stall, the smell still putrid, Bob held up the gas lamp. He waved it, urging Cillian toward the enclosed
space.
Cillian approached slowly, with hesitation and fear. The fear crawled all over him. It felt electric and fantastic.
The first thing he saw was a bruised, pink ankle sticking out of the dark muck.
Then he looked farther and saw who it belonged to.
And upon seeing the open mouth and ripped cheek, then taking in the motionless face that looked up at him with shrieking eyes,
he knew one thing.
Nothing would ever be the same again.
—Do you believe in ghosts?
—No.
—But you write about them.
—I know. But I make things up.
—I believe in them.
—You do, huh? And why’s that?
—Just because. Because I know they’re real.
—You once believed in Santa Claus.
—But that’s because you both told me he was real. I’m older now.
—You’re twelve.
—So?
—I guess that’s old enough to believe in ghosts.
—It’s easy to believe. It’s a lot easier than not believing.
Dennis jerked up, twisting his neck and wincing in pain. He had been asleep in his office chair, the iMac in front of him
sleeping as well, the lone lamp on his desk the only sign of life around. As he rubbed the back of his neck to get rid of
some of the ache, he adjusted to the light. It was two thirty.
He hadn’t been able to write or create in such a long time. Sitting in a chair and facing the computer didn’t spark anything.
It always just resulted in him playing a game or e-mailing or wandering around on the Web or falling asleep.
He looked at a picture of Audrey in grade school and remembered what he had been dreaming about. Sometimes he dreamed memories.
It seemed like lately that had been happening a lot. And this one was from a memory of when Audrey wanted to read his books
and he’d told her she was too young. She thought twelve was old enough to read her father’s works, thus resulting in a conversation
about things for children versus things for adults. And out of that came the conversation about ghosts.
Audrey believed in ghosts because her mother believed in them.
A lot changed after the miscarriage, especially for Lucy. And one of those things was her faith.
Dennis shut off the office light and headed toward his bedroom. The wood floor creaked as usual. But tonight the groans seemed
louder, the darkness more foreboding. He was used to wandering the house in the darkness, by himself, without a care. But
tonight he couldn’t help thinking someone else was in the house.
The rustle of wind sounded outside. He entered his bedroom, greeted by silence, emptiness. He thought about the book he couldn’t
write, the bills he couldn’t pay, the house in Colorado he couldn’t sell. He had thought about selling this house, but Audrey
wouldn’t stand for it. Yet the place sometimes felt like a cold, dark tomb to him. A shrine to a dead woman.
An image of the girl jumping off the bridge filled his mind. He could see the embers beneath the bridge, glowing in the darkness
of his imagination, just like they had years ago when he wrote that scene.
Then he thought about Cillian and about Samantha who warned him about all of this.
“You’ve done something, and you need to be careful.”
He could see her lifeless eyes and her bruised arms. He splashed water on his face, unable to get rid of the image.
“This man wants to hurt you. And it’s all because.… Plain and simple, the book cannot come out. It can’t be released. Ever.”
Dennis stared at himself in the large mirror.
Now what?
And why did Cillian assault a young woman simply to warn Dennis?
If he would do something like that just to make a point, what would he do to Dennis?
The thoughts made his head hurt. The guilt of taking the manuscript along with the threats and the hallucinations and the
stress over his finances…
Perhaps this was what happened when pent-up sadness and loss finally got to you.
You start losing your mind.
But he knew his mind was fine. The creative juices weren’t there, sure, but perhaps the upcoming meeting with his agent would
help. Or maybe he’d take a vacation and get away.
Maybe you’ll find another manuscript just sitting in the closet waiting for you to plagiarize, waiting for you to steal.
This voice was different, sounding a lot like Cillian Reed.
He shook his head and gave himself a look of disgust and disappointment before shutting off his thoughts along with the lights
and climbing into bed.
Dennis had always been good at burying things. But the grave was overflowing, and he could no longer keep everything inside
it.
Just as he was starting to relax into sleep the phone blared, and he jerked in the darkness to find it. The cordless was somewhere.…
It was loud, louder than usual, but he couldn’t find it.
It kept ringing.
Finally he found it in the armchair in the corner, a chair that was more for decoration and for holding clothes than it was
for sitting on.
The chair, another ghost of the past.
He clicked on the receiver.
It was Cillian.
“Would you like to play a game?”
Dennis paused, standing up, gripping the phone. “What do you want?”
Laughter heckled him.
“It’s a good day to die.”
“Listen, you little creep,” Dennis started, “your threats don’t mean a thing to me. Why don’t you try to come around here
again?”
“No tears please. It’s a waste of good suffering.”
“What?”
The laughter continued.
“Don’t watch many horror movies, do you, Dennis? You write about them, but you’re not a fan of them. You don’t believe in
them. You don’t live them. But that can all change. I know.”
“What’s going to change is you coming down here and getting the life beaten out of you.”
“Whatever you do, don’t fall asleep.”
“Don’t what?”
“Surely you know where that’s from.”
“Where what’s from?”
“That quote. ‘Whatever you do, don’t fall asleep.’ ”
“This isn’t a game, buddy.”
“Nightmare on Elm Street. Now could you come up with something that good? I used to like your fiction, Dennis. I really did.
But something happened.”
“If you keep harassing me, I’m going to call the police.”
“You got bored, Dennis. You got uninspired.”
“I swear,” Dennis yelled, “I’ll call the cops.”
“Didn’t you already? Or is that young deputy just a good friend who gives you writing tips for nothing more than a handshake
and a pat on the back?”
“Are you watching me?” Dennis said. “Are you actually watching me now?”
There was silence.
“’Cause if you are, you’d better run if I find you.”
“Want to see something really scary?”
“This isn’t a joke, kid.”
“We all go a little mad sometimes. Haven’t you?”
“I’m not kidding. You don’t want to do this, buddy.”
Cillian chuckled, then paused for a second. “Dennis, I have one question for you.”
“I’m not scared of your threats. Nobody’s going to believe that I stole anything from you.”
“Dennis?”
He remained silent for a moment. Finally the voice spoke very clearly, very softly.
“ ‘Have you checked the children?’ ”
He knew that movie line, and it wasn’t funny.
Dennis started to rail on the cordless, but he was talking to dead air. Looking at the phone, he thought for a second. It
was a threat, sure, but this time it was different.
This time the guy was talking about his daughter.
And he wasn’t taking the chance that the guy was just joking around. Not with Audrey.
“Audrey?”
The voice on the other end was muffled.
His heart raced.
“Audrey, are you okay?”
“Dad?”
“Yeah.”
“Dad, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I’m just checking on you. I’m sorry—look, I’ll explain. Just tell me you’re okay.”
“I’m fine.”
“I know I’m calling—”
“It’s quarter after one. And that’s here. It’s like three in the morning where you are. What are you doing?”
“I don’t want to alarm you—”
“Well, you are alarming me. Are you okay?” Audrey asked, now fully awake, her voice anxious.
“Yes. Just—you need to know. I’ve recently been having some problems with a crazed fan.”
“Another one? Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yes, I’m fine. And tomorrow I’m going to talk to the police, okay? It just—this one—he’s a first. He’s not just kinda crazy.
He’s dangerous.”
“Did he hurt you?”
“No, no—I’m fine. Everything’s fine, honey. Just—you never know. Nowadays you have to be careful. You never know what someone’s
capable of. And I just want you to be careful, okay? Just be a little more careful than usual. Let your friends know. It’s
not like—I seriously doubt this guy is going to do anything more than call and e-mail, but you never know.”
“Has he done anything else?”
Dennis thought of the dead goose. That little bit of information could be edited. Audrey, the animal lover, didn’t need to
hear about that. She might never step foot on their deck again.
“I just wanted to make sure you knew—to make sure that if you see or hear anything unusual you’ll be careful. Okay? And let
me know about it.”
“Okay, sure. But are you being careful?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. Everything’s fine. I’m just—you just watch out, okay? Just in case. Promise me you’ll be careful.”
“I will. You too.”
Dennis shut off the phone and lay on the bed, expecting to hear the phone ring again. But it didn’t.
He remained awake for a long time, staring into the darkness, waiting to hear something, wondering what would happen next.
Cillian watched them through the bedroom window. The happy family with their happy smiles and their happy lives and their
happy happiness. He wanted to cram their happiness down their throats and make them choke on it.
The bedroom smelled putrid. It was dimly lit, messy like the rest of the house, with boxes and bags and garbage and nastiness
everywhere. The smell was so bad it had been difficult walking through the front door. The big guy’s parents weren’t around,
or if they were he hadn’t seen them. All he wanted when he walked in was to go upstairs and spy on the neighbors like he was
doing now.
The bestselling author, his pretty wife, and hot daughter.
The invasion of privacy, the secrecy, the spying made Cillian feel a little better. Just a little.
How dare he be ignored?
Bob shuffled into the room holding a beer, offering him one.
“No,” he said, staring out through binoculars.
It was midafternoon and the family had gone inside. For half an hour, Cillian hadn’t seen anything.
“Want me to kill them?”
He stared at the big guy and realized he wasn’t kidding. “No. Look at me. Nothing happens to them. You don’t do anything to
them, got it?”
Bob just nodded.
He was sick, this guy. Interesting and fascinating in a sick, twisted sort of way. But utterly stupid. He didn’t want Bob
interfering.
He had big plans. He wanted to make Dennis Shore’s life a little more… interesting.
Bob couldn’t help. He didn’t understand how to be subtle.
“You need a little taste,” Bob said to him.
“A taste of what?”
The big guy rummaged in the corner of the room, pulling out a shirt and a pair of pants, then a few bags, a bed sheet.
“Look at this,” Bob said, holding up what looked like a set of sharp prongs.
“What’s that?”
“It’s one of my—one of my toys.”
“What’s it for?”
“Hurting.” Bob laughed in a way that a mentally disabled person might. “It’s called the heretic’s fork. Used in medieval times
for torture. You put this part under someone’s chin, then the other on his chest, tying this around his neck so he can’t move.
You don’t penetrate any vital points, so it prolongs the pain.”
Cillian examined the instrument, then the guy holding it.
This was why Bob intrigued him. And why it was good hanging out with him. This could go well in the newest book he was writing.
It was about a psychotic killer.
He looked at the big guy.
A psychotic killer who didn’t have any feeling, any remorse, any gauge of good and evil.
The good—if there had been any—had left him a long time ago and had been replaced with grime and stink and filth, just like
the house his parents lived in.