Ghostwriter (28 page)

Their same endless drone about the same endless things.

They’re in the living room, just down the narrow hall.

He grips the handles of the hedge clippers. They feel steady in his hands. For a moment he stops and listens to the voices.
He closes his eyes, and his body shudders.

Then he moves with a purpose and a mission.

The clippers remain steady, poised to work for him.

Ghosts Can’t Hurt

Hell is a place without hope, one day after another after another with absolutely no ounce of hope left.

Dennis thought this as he made coffee. Another October morning, another crack of sunlight in the clouds, another drop in the
temperature. No sign of Cillian. Hank was alive and well, sleeping on the couch in the entertainment room. After climbing
out of the Fox River and walking off the nightmarish set of events, Dennis found Hank resting in his car. The big guy was
passed out and thankfully didn’t ask Dennis how he got in the river.

I don’t know how I got there myself. If it was Hank or Cillian or if I simply jumped in myself.

One thing Dennis knew for sure: he had ended up in the Fox River. When he woke up this morning after sleeping very little,
he checked the clothes on the bathroom tile—still damp.

Like a story with no end. Just repeating over and over again.

And that was why he was thinking about hell as he heard the drips and waited for the hot caffeine to put his thoughts in order.
Each day was turning into the same: some unexpected scare, some unseen force, some unknown spirit battling him.

Ghosts Can’t Hurt

There has to be a point to this.

But does evil have a point? Dennis was beginning to wonder if the point was his death. He assumed ghosts couldn’t hurt you,
just like Hank said.

Has Cillian hurt you or have you simply hurt yourself?

He didn’t know. He certainly didn’t know if there was a point, except maybe his growing madness. Was Cillian truly haunting
him? Without point or purpose, simply to get back at the living for hurting him in some way?

Hell is Groundhog Day meets The Blair Witch Project.

Awaking to see the same things again, not knowing what was out there, and eventually realizing you’d end up in the basement
of an abandoned house in the middle of the woods, shrieking and terrified and suddenly blacking out.

Only to have it happen all over again the next day.

Now there was a story idea. He could hear it now, the idiots in Hollywood brainstorming their pitches. “Yeah, how about this
one? This guy is stuck in the same day over and over again, but instead of it being funny it’s scary, like Saw, except he
never dies!”

Come to think of it, they had probably already made a movie like that.

The coffee was taking forever. Dennis looked across his lawn to the hole, the mock grave. It reminded him that he needed to
return Ward’s phone calls to make sure his friend was okay and didn’t think he was crazy.

Seeing the pile of dirt next to the hole was like looking at a snapshot from his book Fearless. He just wondered why it hadn’t
been apparent to him right away.

The girl on the bridge… the zombies in Home Depot… the grave in the backyard… the push off the bridge.

These were all scenes from his books.

Hank losing his mind that one night. There’s another. It could have come right out
of Marooned.

Dennis sipped coffee as he walked over to the door onto the deck.

How could I not have known? Why wasn’t it more obvious to me?

An author’s books were like his children, as the cliché went, and the memories associated with them grew harder to recall
the more of them he had. Sometimes readers would ask about a character he didn’t recognize and they’d be shocked. “You don’t
remember? You’re the author!”

You’re the author, Dennis. The man in control. The man holding the keys to your fictitious universe. Yet you don’t have control
of anything anymore, do you?

He recalled a time when he was speaking at a writer’s conference and someone asked him bluntly to answer yes or no: was he
a controlling person. And without thinking he said yes because he realized he did like to have control, and this showed itself
in his writing. He had never been a big fan of Hollywood (even if he had enjoyed a couple of the movies they made out of his
books) simply because there were a hundred people to satisfy and work with. When you wrote a book it was just you. Eventually
you dealt with an editor and a publisher, but when you were creating the story it was just you and you had all the control
in the world.

I can raise the dead and kill my enemies and block out the sun, but in real life I am mortal and flawed and forgetful.

A terrifying thought filled him.

How many of my books’ scenes are left to live out? What stories have not yet “happened”?

Dennis was afraid of the answer.

“Anybody home?” a voice called.

Dennis headed inside from the deck to get Hank some coffee.

“What do you remember about last night?”

“A bad burrito.”

Dennis wasn’t in the mood to laugh and didn’t even feign it.

Hank remained stretched out on the couch, sipping coffee and eating a blueberry muffin he’d found in the kitchen.

“Hank, I need to know.”

“What? I don’t know, to be honest. I don’t remember much after the restaurant.”

“You remember the guy?”

“What? The creepy guy who looked like a pedophile? Yeah, how can I forget?”

“You remember what he said?”

Hank chewed with his mouth open, the spinning of his brain seeming to make him mute for a moment. Then he shook his head.
“Was I that drunk?” he asked.

“No.”

“I remember meeting him. But that’s it. I guess—maybe I had more yesterday than I thought.”

“He put something in our drinks.”

“Oh yeah? Probably the date rape drug.”

“I’m being serious.”

“I feel awful. I haven’t felt this awful since I went to New Orleans and woke up several days later wondering where I was.”

“You don’t remember anything about—anything of what he said?”

As Hank shook his head, Dennis considered reminding his friend.

But was Bailey real? Or was that made up? Was all of it made up? Just like going to the bridge and seeing Hank there and being
pushed off by him.

“Do you remember where you went?”

His friend stretched and cursed. “I’m tellin’ you, man, it’s black. Gone. Bye-bye. I don’t remember anything.”

“But you saw the guy.”

“Yeah. But I’ll tell you this, that wasn’t any ghost.”

“How do you know?”

Hank shook his head. “That guy should be selling Girl Scout cookies. Well, actually, no, he shouldn’t. He’s a punk. He’s one
of your crazy fans who somehow feels warm and fuzzy when he’s around you.”

“He keeps threatening me.”

“Then tell the cops.”

“I’ve told Ryan.”

“No, I mean tell someone real. Ryan is a boy with a badge. He’s not going to do anything.”

Tell him you’re scared more than you’ve ever been before and that you don’t know what to do or where to go. Tell him.

But instead Dennis said nothing, sipping coffee and waiting for the next horrific thing to knock at his door.

He’d always said that one day he was going to reread his books. But deep down the task seemed tedious. And even worse, he
feared he would get through the books and be bored and unimpressed.

Dennis wasn’t bored or unimpressed as he knelt on the carpet in his office and paged through his novels. He needed to know
what to expect. To have some idea of what might be coming.

There was his first horror novel, which he remembered quite well, the bold title of
Breathe
calling out to him. He followed in order of publication:
Echoes,
his haunted house story;
Marooned,
his stranded group that meets an alien entity story;
Sorrow,
the serial killer tale; then
Run Like Hell,
about a man demon possessed. He flipped through
Fearless,
which he couldn’t remember much of.

And right there in the middle of the book, he found it.

The scene.

A few minutes turned into half an hour as Dennis found himself reading his own prose in a new way.

The scene involved his main character digging a hole in the back of his yard because of feeling “called” to do so. The hole
eventually served as a grave for a crazy character killed by the main character.

As he read, picturing Cillian digging the hole, he wondered if Cillian was taunting him with this, mimicking a scene from
one of his books.

Dennis came across something that gave him goose bumps. He swallowed and reread it. Thomas, the main character, spoke to the
man he was about to kill.
“I’d say it’s big enough for a man your size, wouldn’t you?”
These were the exact words Cillian had used.

He’s mocking you. He’s playing with your mind. Don’t you get it?

But why?

So what if Cillian picked a scene from one of his books and reenacted it?

During the course of an hour, Dennis compiled his notes:

Girl on the bridge—Breathe

Whatever I saw in Home Depot—Scarecrow

Being haunted in my house—Echoes

Hank flipping out on me—Marooned

Guy digging a grave in backyard—Fearless

Being pushed off bridge—Run Like Hell

Dennis studied the list.

He’d included six books.

Yet he had nine scattered on the floor in front of him.

There was Sorrow, his first serial killer novel. Then Us and Them, his fantasy thriller that had taken a critical beating.
And The Thin Ice, another serial killer novel.

Two novels about serial killers and a fantasy left.

Then he thought of the novel he hadn’t included.

Empty Spaces.

The book Cillian wrote.

He thought back to that book, to typing it onto his computer. He knew
Empty Spaces
too well, even if it wasn’t his own.

Dennis remembered the ending.

And a sickening terror filled him.

He rushed out of the room toward the phone.

Something needed to be done.

He had to protect Audrey.

He called her cell and got nothing.

For the next half hour, he proceeded to call Audrey’s roommate, campus security, the local police, and some guy who lived
in her dorm. Relief filled him as the phone in his hand rang.

“What are you doing, Dad?” Audrey’s breathless voice called out.

It sounded like she was jogging.

“Where are you?” Dennis asked.

“Where are you? The insane asylum?”

“It sounds loud wherever you are.”

“I just got three calls—all from people saying my father is freaking out.”

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Are you okay?”

“Audrey, there are things—look, even if I tried to tell you everything, I wouldn’t be able to. But some things have happened,
and I’m really worried.”

“I actually had some sheriff call me up. Dad, what’s going on?”

How could he tell her? How could he even begin to tell her?

“You just—this guy who’s been harassing me. He’s dangerous, Audrey. And I’m afraid—I’m not sure what he might do. All I know
is that I’m coming out to Biola. I need to make sure—”

“Dad. You can’t.”

“I can’t what?”

“You can’t come out here. Not now.”

“It doesn’t matter if it’s not a good time. This is serious, Audrey. I’m not going crazy. I’m scared.”

“See—this is why. I’m smart. You know that?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Dad—well, I was going to surprise you, but oh well.” Audrey laughed.

How can she be laughing? There’s nothing to laugh about. “What?”

“I knew you were—I knew things were not going well. I’ve been worried about you. And see—you’re proving me right. I did the
right thing.”

“What’d you do?”

“I’m at O’Hare.”

For a second he thought he had misheard her.

“What?”

“Yeah.”

“Stop laughing. What are you talking about?”

“I was able to get out of a couple of my classes, so I booked an earlier flight. I just got in.”

“You’re here—now?”

It was both a glorious and terrifying thought.

“Yeah.”

“How are you getting home?”

“Mitch is picking me up.”

“Oh, he is, huh?”

Mitch was Audrey’s quasi-boyfriend during her senior year. They went to different colleges and played things off as being
“cool” even though it was obvious they both really liked each other.

“You’re not playing a prank on your father?”

“No. But I was going to show up on your doorstep in the middle of the night.”

“I wouldn’t do that. Not now.”

She laughed, but she didn’t know he wasn’t kidding.

The panic that filled Dennis grew into something more.

A deep, heavy dread.

They talked plans even as Dennis wondered if his phone was bugged or if ghosts could listen in on conversations or if Cillian
was in the closet.

“We’re going to grab a bite to eat on the way, hope you don’t mind.”

“Just get here quickly, okay? And next time tell your father.”

“I assumed you’d be happy.”

“I’m ecstatic. Just…” He wanted to tell her to beware of guys with axes and who looked pale as the dead. “Have fun. I’ll see
you soon.” He hung up and sat back in his chair, thinking, wondering, fearing he was being watched.

Everything changed now that Audrey was coming home. He couldn’t tell her the full truth. No way. But he needed to protect
her. To shield her from whatever might be after her.

Ghosts can’t hurt and can’t kill. They can only haunt. He kept telling himself this over and over, even as the e-mail popped
onto his screen.

Dennis already knew who it was from. He didn’t need to check.