Where Stars Won't Shine

by Patrick Lacey

  Where Stares Won’t Shine copyright © 2019 by Patrick Lacey. All rights reserved.

  Grindhouse Press

  PO BOX 521

  Dayton, Ohio 45401

  Grindhouse Press logo and all related artwork copyright © 2019 by Brandon Duncan. All rights reserved.

  Cover design copyright Scott Cole © 2019. All rights reserved.

  Grindhouse Press #044

  ISBN-10: 1-941918-36-0

  ISBN-13: 978-1-941918-36-4

  This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including mechanical, electric, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher or author.

  This book is about trauma. If you’re dealing with your demons, you’re not alone. Your scars are beautiful and so is your persistence. Keep on keeping on.

  Other Titles By Patrick Lacey

  We Came Back

  Dream Woods

  Sleep Paralysis

  Practitioners

  Bone Saw

  A Debt To Be Paid

  The following is a rejected introduction to Charles Williamson’s true crime book Birth of a Monster.

  EDITOR’S NOTE: There’s some interesting imagery here but it’s too personal. Perhaps rework into more factual information or remove altogether. We want to remind people that this is true. It’s not a horror novel.

  If you’ve never heard of Marlowe, Massachusetts, consider yourself lucky. The trees are bare for most of the year, as if winter never truly goes away. The clouds are thick like smog and they rarely let the sun through. Everything is cold. You shiver from the moment you cross the town line until the moment you finally pass through.

  There’s no reason to visit such a place. A place that is, for lack of a better term, a ghost town. There was a time when Marlowe flourished. At the turn of the century, the mill buildings were fully operational and still open for business. Now, you’d be hard pressed to find a single store with its lights on past four o’clock in the afternoon. That’s not to say the town is abandoned. There are those brave souls who chose to stay after the Marlowe Massacre. Take Betty Packer, for example. A woman old enough to remember the first televisions, yet speaks and jokes like someone a third her age. She’s been local for nearly eighty years, living in the same house as her parents and grandparents before her.

  “It’s my home,” she says each time I ask the question that’s on everyone’s mind.

  Why stay in a town that’s rotting from the inside out? Why remain in such a place when there are reminders everywhere you look of a man so vile, so ruthless, he’s become more of a legend than a killer?

  And that’s the question I’ve tried to answer with this book. Perhaps I have or perhaps all I’ve done is pose more questions. Maybe some questions don’t have answers.

  I can only speculate where the infamous killer of over one hundred innocent people went. In my defense, neither the police nor the detectives who dealt with him can tell you for certain. He was simply there in his cell one night and gone the next morning.

  But I can tell you everything leading up to his disappearance. I can tell you about the victims and the families. I can tell you about the trail of bloodshed Tucker Ashton left over much of the country. I can tell you about his childhood and home life, both of which molded him into the monster he became. And that’s a term I’ll use frequently: monster. You can call him a human if you’d like but you haven’t sat across a table and stared into his eyes. You haven’t heard him speak of disemboweling little girls like he was recalling a fond memory. You haven’t seen his smile when he studies photos of his crime scenes. I hope you never do but if, for some reason, you find yourself in such a position, you’ll understand my choice of words.

  ONE

  THE PHONE RANG. He let it go to voicemail.

  “Charles, it’s Frank. I know it’s early but you never sleep anyway. I just sent you a review that’s going to make you salivate. It’s Publishers Weekly. They said you’re the next Harold Schechter, that you’ve done for Tucker what he did for just about every other serial killer. This is big. Do me a favor, will you? Don’t be so bashful. Read the review and give me a call back. You’ve written a damned good book, a special book. It’s time to share it with the world.”

  The message did not end there. Frank Neville, Charles’ agent, went on about how they’d be selling a million copies easily. People ate this sort of thing up. There’d been a lull in true crime these last few years, but publishing was cyclical and they’d hit the proverbial sweet spot.

  Frank’s voice slowly changed, became more distorted. There was nothing wrong with the answering machine. It was a new model, purchased just last month, and the messages usually sounded crystal clear. Charles Williamson didn’t own a cell phone. He was a man born years too late, didn’t like to be bothered if he could avoid it. After a few moments, the distortion grew to a crescendo. The voice no longer belonged to Frank.

  “… and the blood will run like rain, drowning everyone and everything. It will cover the earth until there is nothing but red. And it’s all thanks to you, Charles. You made me what I am, after all. You made me a legend. Or a monster if you prefer.”

  Charles had been hearing the voice more and more, ever since the publisher had set a date for the book, that date being today. He unplugged the answering machine, wrapped the cord around the unit, and tossed it across the room. It shattered against the mantle, several plastic shards spilling to the floor.

  The message did not stop.

  He was able to block it out for a time, though he knew the relief would not last long. It never did.

  It was a strange day for Charles Williamson. He’d waited all his life for this. He ought to be happy. Birth of a Monster had taken several years of research and had nearly driven him insane on more than one occasion.

  You are insane, he thought as he drained the rest of his coffee, which was mostly whiskey.

  Or had his inner monologue been the other voice, the one that belonged to a serial killer? He couldn’t be certain. Some days, they were one in the same.

  Now that the book was finally hitting shelves, happiness was no longer in his vocabulary. Not after what he’d seen and witnessed. All the research and hours spent huddled over a computer screen were for nothing. He was pushing forty and very much alone. His last relationship had ended nearly five years ago and his social life had waned to the occasional dinner with acquaintances. He’d dedicated his life to a madman and he had nothing to show for it aside from a sizeable advance and a house that was much too big for one man.

  “But you’re not alone,” the voice said. “You’ll never be alone again. You have me, Charles. And I have such plans for you. Charles and Tucker. Tucker and Charles. It has a wonderful ring to it, no?”

  Charles didn’t answer. His mind was elsewhere. He tried his best to focus on the task at hand. The chair was wobbly, the legs uneven. He’d meant to fix it but it hardly mattered now.

  He stood up, one foot first testing the creaking wood, then the other. For a moment, he thought he’d lose his balance but the chair evened out.

  He grabbed onto the rope, made certain it was tight enough. It felt rough and thick in his hands. He’d purchased it from a fishing supplies store. The man eyed him suspiciously when he checked out. It was the only item in his basket.

  The voice laughed. “Do you really think hanging yourself is a good idea? I mean, how do you know what’s on the other side? How do you know it won’t be me waiting for you?”

&nb
sp; “Shut up.” It was the first time he’d spoken in the last day. His voice was raspy and he sounded like a scared child.

  “I’m not sure how many more times I have to say this. Let me spell it out for you as simply as possible. I. Am. In. Charge. Where you go, I go. Suicide is not a permanent solution because your problem is not temporary. You are me. You’re Tucker Ashton.”

  He shook his head. “No, I’m not. I’m nothing like you.”

  “You’re a terrible liar.”

  “I’ll never be like you.”

  “Keep telling yourself that.”

  Tears tickled his cheeks. He didn’t want to die. That was the worst part about it. He just wanted to leave this nightmare behind and live a somewhat normal life: marriage, kids, a steady job. It was a simple fantasy but he knew it wasn’t an option anymore. He’d dug his own hole and he could no longer see the surface. There was only darkness down here. Pure, suffocating darkness.

  “That’s an analogy I can get behind. I think I’ve rubbed off on you.”

  Charles opened his mouth to respond but it was useless. He wasn’t sure what he believed but he prayed he wouldn’t see Tucker’s horrid face when his neck snapped. He hoped he could close his eyes for good without hearing sobbing mothers and studying lifeless bodies. He hoped wherever he was going was better than this.

  He tightened the noose around his neck, hung from the banister above, and kicked away the chair from beneath his feet.

  In the moments before he finally died, when the lack of blood flow played tricks with his failing brain, he thought he saw the front door creak open as if from a breeze. He thought he saw a figure standing there: tall and impossibly skinny, a skeleton with just enough skin to qualify as a human.

  No, not a human.

  A monster.

  TWO

  IVY LONGWOOD DID not scream when she saw the blood. It was not the first time after all, nor would it be the last. She’d seen it once in reality several years back and now, over the last few months, it appeared nearly everywhere she went. Which made her day-to-day duties somewhat difficult.

  Driving became impossible. She would see a wounded man, flesh gouged and bleeding into the street. Her hands would clutch the wheel and she’d swerve into oncoming traffic only to find, moments later, the man was a crossing guard or a postal worker, something much more benign than a victim of murder.

  And then there was her job. She’d taught tenth grade English at a small, private school just north of Portland, Oregon. The kids were good, rowdy but much better than those at public school. A few weeks ago, while writing notes on the board for Fiddler on the Roof, she’d heard a sound behind her, something like sucking and biting.

  She spun around, certain Tommy and Melinda were making out again. This would be their final warning. She would follow through with her threat of separating them. But the kids were busy writing notes, Tommy and Melinda among them, neither set of lips locked with the other.

  The sound came from behind the desks, near the back of the room, where a body lay on the floor. Most of its flesh had been torn way, exposing what lay beneath. She saw bone and muscle and organs. And blood, of course. Always so much blood.

  Huddled over the body was a figure, its skin pale and ghostly. It went on eating for a few moments, chewing on something that looked like a spleen, before it sensed her watching. It dropped its meal and turned its head.

  And smiled before it stood up and pounced toward her.

  Moments later, the principal stood in the doorway, her face contorted with worry and revulsion.

  Ivy hadn’t realized she was screaming.

  In the back of the classroom the body and the figure were gone. And by the end of the school day, she was kindly asked to take an extended leave of absence. Which later became permanent.

  Now, as Ivy’s sister Mariah paced her kitchen and spoke much too fast, Ivy once again tried to ignore the blood. It covered the floor, red puddles seeping into the hardwood. There were footprints all along it. Mariah’s shoes were ruined with dark stains, though she didn’t seem to notice.

  Of course she doesn’t notice. Because it’s not real. None of this is real.

  “Are you even listening?” Mariah said.

  Ivy shook her head and sipped her coffee, pretending to enjoy the bitterness. Her sister brewed it strong and thick like mud. No amount of cream and sugar could make it drinkable. “Of course I’m listening.”

  “Then tell me what I just said. Any of it.” Mariah looked much like their mother in that moment and, Ivy supposed, had been forced to play the part as of late. She had no children yet but she treated Ivy like one. And with good reason.

  “Probably something about how my behavior is what you’d call unhealthy and that even though my therapist isn’t helping I should try another one. And another. Until I find one that can cure me. Oh, and you must have mentioned Marlowe, right?”

  Mariah sighed and began to wash the dishes. It was her way of keeping her shit together. The water came out red. “Something along those lines. I wish you’d listen to me more. I’m your sister. I’m your family.”

  “I know,” Ivy said. “I’m sorry.” It was the truth, though she would not change her mind about getting on that plane tomorrow morning.

  “Why now?” Mariah said, scrubbing at some phantom stain on her silverware. “Why, years later, do you feel the need to go to that … cesspool?”

  “I’ve heard it’s nice this time of year.”

  “Be serious for a minute, will you?”

  It was Ivy’s turn to sigh. “What do you want me to say? I don’t know why. It’s just something I need to do. I bet if I told my shrink, he’d approve of the trip.”

  “If you told your shrink,” Mariah said, “he’d probably cuff you to the chair and send you to someplace with padded rooms.”

  Ivy smiled. There was nothing funny about the joke, at least not on the surface, but she was exhausted. She laughed. Mariah followed.

  “You really don’t think this is a bad idea?” Mariah said. She lifted a glass and dried it with a rag.

  Ivy shrugged. “What’s the worst that could happen? It’s pretty much a ghost town. There’s hardly anybody living there. I’ll walk around, face some demons, and come back with a clear head. I promise.”

  “Cross your heart?”

  “And hope to die.” She winced at the last part.

  “Why didn’t you go earlier?” Mariah said. She finally finished cleaning and sat down across the table. “You know, when Scott …” She didn’t finish the sentence. There was always an ellipsis when she mentioned Scott’s name.

  Ivy shook her head. “I don’t know. I just didn’t feel the need until recently.”

  Until you started seeing dead people and monsters, you mean.

  In the corner of the kitchen, one of the cabinets had been left open. Flies buzzed in delight above the severed fingers that sat next to a jar of peanut butter.

  “You see it right now, don’t you?” Mariah followed her line of sight.

  “See what?”

  “The blood.”

  “No,” Ivy lied. “I’m just tired is all.” Before her sister could ask any more questions, she stood, drained her coffee in the sink, and hugged Mariah. “It’s just a trip to get some closure. There’s nothing more to it than that.”

  “I hope so.”

  From the corner of her eye, she saw one of the severed fingers plop onto the floor.

  The flies followed.

  That night, she didn’t bother trying to sleep. It had become a lost cause.

  Ivy could hear her sister snoring through the paper-thin walls. It kept her up most nights, in addition to the dreams and the visions, but she had no room to complain. It wasn’t her house. Mariah had been nice enough to let Ivy move in while she got her shit together. She’d only planned on staying for a few months at most.

  That had been two years ago.

  Right after Scott …

  There it was again. That damned ell
ipsis. She wondered if she’d ever be able to say or think his name without the thought dragging into obscurity. She didn’t want to forget him. That was impossible. But it would be nice to put a period at the end of his sentence.

  She wiped a stray tear from her eyes. In all the time she’d spent with Mariah, Ivy had never cried in front of her. It was tough to wear such a mask. She saved her sobbing for the night, when the darkness hid her eyes. She covered her mouth to keep from making too much noise. The paper-thin walls worked both ways.

  She turned over and positioned herself as if spooning, though the other side of the bed was empty. She touched the sheet. It was frigid, always so damned cold.

  That’s because no one sleeps there anymore.

  It was the same bed from her apartment with Scott. Much of the other furniture now lay in a storage unit. Even though the queen-sized mattress was much too big for the guest room, she’d insisted. Though she’d never admitted it to Mariah or even her therapist, the sheets had not been washed since the night Scott died. His side was still slightly indented, even after all this time. She didn’t dare lie there, lest the slight dip vanish. Her side was yellowed with sweat and time and many tears. She knew it wasn’t healthy to hold on like this. That’s why she was going to Marlowe.

  That and the fact she’d been called there.

  That’s what all this was: the blood, the death, the pale figure—all of it. Something was pulling her toward the town where Tucker Ashton had once lived. The place where he’d killed hundreds after his road trip from hell.

  But before heading back to his hometown, he’d made one last stop just north of Portland, Oregon. Down the street from a small, private school where a young couple had met and fallen in love.

  Ivy had been running late that night. She’d grabbed dinner and drinks with the girls, told Scott not to wait up.