Where Stars Won't Shine

by Patrick Lacey

  She reached the front door and gagged when the scent hit her nostrils. The dead thing from earlier still lay in the same spot. Whatever it had been in life was now a bloated, decaying mess. Hundreds more flies buzzed over the carcass, feasting.

  Ivy turned her head and vomited into the bushes, all of them bare, as if fall had come months early. Her throat burned. She hadn’t eaten since the plane. The only things in her stomach were the beer and rum. She wiped her mouth and heard footsteps.

  “Did you say you drove here?” It was Ethan. Amy wasn’t hanging off his shoulder but she was in his arms. He carried her like a bride on her wedding night.

  Some wedding, Ivy thought as she pointed across the street to the PT Cruiser.

  Ethan nodded and jogged. She followed suit. For a panicked moment she was certain she’d forgotten the keys back in her room, but she felt her pockets and detected their shape. She’d always kept a key on her. Just in case. Mariah said it was paranoia, that Ivy didn’t trust anyone or anything after Scott …

  But her paranoia proved useful as she reached the car and unlocked the doors.

  Ethan tossed Amy into the backseat. She was still out cold, murmuring something in her sleep. Ivy hoped her dream wasn’t any worse than this. She started the car and backed out of the space.

  Tucker and Zeke had not followed them but the door to Hotel Marlowe was not empty. A shape stood out front. Ivy squinted and saw the girl from the front desk. Annabelle waved and smiled like she was wishing them a happy rest of their vacation.

  The girl unwrapped her scarf, revealing the wound in question from earlier, though there was no longer any question. With both hands, she lifted her head from its resting spot. It came loose with ease and she held it out like a gift. Her detached face blew them a kiss. The severed spine wriggled on its own accord, the movement like that of a worm or slug.

  “Let’s get the fuck out of this town,” Ethan said from the passenger seat.

  “That’s the smartest thing you’ve said all night.” Ivy pushed the pedal as far as it would go. The car skidded for a moment before straightening out and taking off toward the rural road she’d traveled hours earlier. In the rearview, Main Street and Annabelle faded. For some odd reason, though, Ivy felt like they were being followed. “Do you see anything back there?”

  Ethan turned around, shook his head. “Nothing.”

  “Do you think we lost them?”

  He shrugged, tried to catch his breath. “How should I know? They don’t seem to be playing by the rules of reality.”

  “Fair point.”

  They drove in silence for minutes that felt more like hours.

  “How much longer?” she finally said.

  “It should be just up ahead. You’ll see a convenience store.”

  She nodded. “I know the place.”

  The trees cleared in the distance. The back of the graffitied sign came into view, then the store. She saw someone stepping out of its entrance. The bearded man from earlier who’d been embarrassed by his bubble blowing skills. She’d never been happier to see someone. She’d pull over, tell him to call the cops, and offer to buy him all the gum in the world.

  “Stop!” Ethan said.

  She slammed the brakes. The car screeched, throwing sparks onto the road.

  Up ahead, a yard or so before the welcome sign, stood a gouge in the earth. It had not been there earlier. Now, though, it looked like an earthquake had rumbled through Marlowe. She was certain the car would skid into the hole. She closed her eyes, stopped breathing.

  When she opened them again, the Cruiser was still, inches from the gap. She couldn’t see how far down it reached but something told her it was deep.

  “What the hell …” Ethan said as he stepped outside.

  Ivy parked and followed him. The crack was impossibly deep and wide. She looked left and right. It stretched for miles in either direction. “This isn’t real. It can’t be.”

  Ethan picked up a rock, tossed it in. It fell forever, until blackness covered it.

  There was no sound of it hitting the bottom, no sign there was a bottom. Could that be true? Could something come up from behind and push her into this newly formed hole? Could you truly fall forever?

  Yes, you can. You’ve been falling for years with no sign of hitting the bottom.

  The man from the store was locking up and stepping into his car. Ivy and Ethan waved their hands and shouted for his attention.

  He paid them no notice.

  Jack Larson had owned A to Z Convenience for most of his life. His father had bought the place from a man named Sadaf. Jack had only fleeting memories of the guy but he’d been nice enough, slipped him a few free sticks of gum every now and then. He hadn’t deserved the racial slurs people—his father included—threw his way. He’d been the only man of Middle Eastern descent in the area and as such had been treated like an oddity. It had been Jack’s introduction to how cruel the world could be.

  Now that he’d run the store for the better part of thirty years, though, he knew it was much worse than he’d initially thought.

  Take the store’s location, for example. He saw that damned Marlowe sign every morning and night. It served as a reminder of what had happened, hundreds of innocent people losing their lives just because some nut job liked to film his atrocities. Jack had never watched any of the videos himself but he’d heard of them at plenty of bars, college kids talking about the screams and the pleas as if they were just bad horror movies and Tucker Ashton was no more than an urban legend.

  That is, until he came back to his hometown and went on a night-long killing spree. Then he dropped the “urban” and became a full-on legend. As sick as it seemed, that bastard was a celebrity around here, a black cloud that had settled over the surrounding towns. Now there was a book out, probably a movie next.

  And Jack had had quite enough. He’d been toying with the idea of selling the shop, moving down to Florida. Hell, he could probably open up a new store and make twice the money. Property was cheap, the weather preferable, and he wouldn’t have to see that sign every time he glanced out the window.

  Last stop.

  He locked the door behind him, triple-checked it as his father had shown him just before the heart attack got him. Truthfully, it didn’t matter. No matter how tight you locked up, if someone wanted to break in, they could do so with ease. But out here, so close to Marlowe, it was never an issue. Hardly anyone traveled this road, unless you counted the pretty lady from earlier, the one that had made his bubble pop. His face reddened. Good thing he was alone.

  Then there was the couple. The guy talking about Tucker a mile a minute, the girl looking like she wanted to run for the hills. Jack considered himself a good judge of character after dealing with the public for decades. That kid’s character was rotten. There was something off about him Jack couldn’t quite pinpoint. Probably better that way.

  He took one last look at the shop, peered through the glass to ensure no one moved inside, a forgotten customer or clever thief.

  Or something worse.

  He shivered, pulled up his collar against the spring breeze.

  On his way to the truck he froze. For a brief moment, he thought he saw something in his periphery, some undefined movement. He didn’t want to look. The night played tricks and out here, geographically speaking, it did more than that. He’d seen plenty of inexplicable things. Shadows and shapes that were unaccounted for.

  Against his will, he turned his head as he slid the key into the door. For a nanosecond, he thought he saw two figures standing in the middle of the road. Waving at him, as if for help. In fact, if he listened closely, he could hear their voices, though the words were muffled.

  He let go of the key, stepped into the road, and rubbed his eyes. The air shimmered, filled with something like a charge. He hadn’t caught the weather forecast, wasn’t sure if a storm was coming. The way the hair on his arms stood to sharp points, though—that was evidence enough.

  He s
quinted once more and saw the shapes were gone, as were the voices. There was nothing down that road but darkness. He jogged toward the truck, didn’t want to be caught outside when the storm finally arrived, though this was only half true.

  The other half, he thought as he blew a bubble, this one stopping just before it exploded onto his chin, was simple yet embarrassing.

  There may have only been darkness down that road but it felt otherwise.

  It felt like the darkness had eyes. Eyes that never blinked and never tired.

  He sped off in the opposite direction, the tires kicking up clouds of dust and, mercifully, obscuring the rearview mirror.

  The following excerpts were taken from Charles Williamson’s Birth of a Monster, published on the day of his death.

  Later, after the road trip and eventual hometown rampage, Tucker Ashton would tell authorities he learned to kill from the shadows. He spoke of them, of darkness in general, as though it were alive. Something tangible that breathed and lived and gave detailed instructions on how to hunt victims. The half dozen therapists that interviewed Tucker during his imprisonment came to the same theory: for him, the dark had become his friend. During those lonely nights, after the sun had set and night covered the basement, he would stare deep into the shadows for hours. Eventually he came to believe the shadows stared back.

  And then there was the issue of the potatoes.

  Tucker was not sure where they came from. Perhaps his father, in a drunken stupor (becoming more and more routine after the death of his wife) had wandered into Tucker’s room while he slept and dropped them off. Usually he slid a plate of food onto the top step, something partially microwaved: pizza rolls or Hot Pockets. According to Tucker, they were always cold in the middle.

  He noticed the potatoes one evening, just before the sun had set enough to shroud his living quarters in shadows. They lay in the corner, within a crinkled plastic bag. He wasn’t sure how long they’d been there but it was long enough so that they’d grown. Several stalks had pierced through the plastic and grew upward. The transformation fascinated him. He would wait patiently all through the night (he’d developed insomnia, something that likely aided his descent into madness) for the sun to finally show itself. He would note the development of the growth until, finally, the stalk reached epic proportions. It climbed to several feet, hanging firmly against the wall like a vine.

  While under observation, Tucker admitted his fascination. He drew a conclusion that seemed to be more of a revelation. Some things grew in the dark. Some things evolved in the shadows. Like the potatoes and their transformation, he believed he was becoming something else in that dusty basement chamber. He believed the shadows and his computer (his only form of escape) were both part of his metamorphosis.

  After he left, police searched the Ashton residence. They found the potatoes in the corner of the basement, just where Tucker had left them. The vines had grown nearly to the ceiling. They stank of mold and rot, much like the scene of his many murders. Before Tucker had gone on his trip, a few weeks before his eighteenth birthday, he’d taken the only family photo he owned out of his desk. It was a simple picture of him standing between his parents at a carnival, a reminder that things hadn’t always been so dire. Authorities found it on the highest peak of the potato shrine, the sharp edge of the stalk impaling Tucker’s childish face.

  The first victim was a tourist who had the unfortunate luck of hiking through one of three trails in Marlowe. Tucker was on his way out. He’d packed lightly, taking his laptop and camera.

  Tucker heard the hiker long before they met face to face. He recalled her being very pretty in a celebrity sort of way: long blond hair, tied back into a ponytail, flawless skin that shimmered with sweat, and a body that would’ve driven the average male to the point of lust. But Tucker was not the average male. Sexuality confused him. His hormones were conflicting. They drove him away from what would become his ultimate goal. He kept his urges in check and focused on the task at hand.

  The woman, Celine Hawkins, did not see Tucker until he tripped her. She landed face down on the soil and woke several minutes later. Her shirt had been ripped off and her breasts were bare. Tucker had used the fabric to bind her hands and feet. He held the camera steady, a smile on his face. Reviewing the video, there is nothing sexual in the way he disrobed her. The frame does not linger on her anatomy. It stays close to her face, nearly unmoving, as he raises the large rock with his free hand and brings it down thirty-two times, eventually caving her skull. Dental records were needed to identify her body.

  She screams once during the initial impact. Tucker later admitted he was disappointed in that first kill. He would learn to keep them alive longer, for the videos, for his growing fan base he did not yet know existed.

  He traveled most of the next year, never settling in one spot for too long. Though he had no driver’s license, he stole several vehicles with ease. He’d learned from simple instructions online. The Internet, he stressed time and time again, was the source of all the world’s knowledge. Much like the dark, it could change you if you allowed it.

  He picked up odd jobs, all of them under the table for obvious reasons. During a stint as a landscaper for a theme park mogul, while staying at a one-star motel, Tucker decided to upload that first video of the hiker. He wanted her death to mean something. He wanted, unsurprisingly, to gain recognition for what he’d done.

  It was too risky to use a popular video sharing website. Such violence would be taken down quickly, especially if it was deemed to be real. He was familiar with the dark web, had traveled its digital pathways on more than one occasion, but so did the CIA and FBI. The majority of activities taking place in the underbelly of cyberspace were of the illegal variety. It was too risky, especially if he planned on more killing. Which he did.

  He decided to upload the video to a forum. He searched for websites dedicated to snuff films. Most of the users, much like police officials, debated their existence to begin with. Tucker thought it was a good place to start. He could pretend the video was fiction, just a student film with realistic special effects. He chose a nondescript title (Girl gets head bashed in) and pressed enter. He felt a moment’s hesitation, wondering if he ought to cancel. Not because of guilt or shame, but because he did not want to be caught so early in his quest.

  But all those hours alone had worked to his advantage. He could evade being caught if need be. Tucker had developed computer skills that rivaled those of a professional hacker. In fact, several such individuals were recruited after his videos became more widespread. It took a team of nearly thirty to finally track him down. By then, of course, it was much too late.

  Tucker watched the screen, refreshing every few moments, hoping someone had finally noticed him—or at least his work. He was in luck. The first response was simple, a bit obvious for his taste, but he smiled nonetheless.

  Comment one: That shit is sick.

  Thanks, Tucker typed.

  Comment two: For real. How you do that?

  Trade secret ;)

  Comment three: The way she screams and twitches, you’d think it ain’t even fake.

  That’s because it isn’t.

  Comment four: Ha, ha, I bet. What’re you a cereal killer or sumthin?

  Not yet. You need to kill three or more people. This is my first.

  Comment five: LOL, you crazy. You got anymore?

  No. Would you watch if I did?

  Comment six: Hell yeah. I’d watch the shit out of those.

  Your wish is my command :)

  By the end of the night, there were over one hundred comments, with triple the amount of views. Two days later, it reached the thousands and grew from there. Tucker, for the first time in his life, was no longer alone. Even if he hadn’t met them face-to-face, these forum users appreciated what he’d done. So what if they thought it was just movie magic? They’d know the truth soon enough when more videos appeared.

  A star was born.

  Tucker Ashto
n killed a total of twenty-seven people during his travels from the east coast to the west. As of this writing, there are four other murders reported to be connected to his trip but are yet unproven. The same is true of more than a dozen disappearances in the Midwest. Many of Tucker’s videos were eventually taken down by fellow hackers and supporters only to be uploaded on, ironically, the dark web.

  Perhaps his most infamous victim before traveling back to Marlowe was Scott Baker. Police tried to connect him to Tucker, to pinpoint a pattern or clue from his death. It was, after all, the only message Tucker had left the world.

  I’ll be seeing you.

  That’s what was written with Scott’s blood in the bathroom of the one-bedroom apartment he shared with his girlfriend, Ivy Longwood. The couple had been together for just one year, had met at their day job, teaching at a private school in Oregon. Due to a rather rigid nepotism policy, either he or she would need to find work elsewhere, lest they both be terminated. Scott volunteered once their relationship was made public, though Ivy protested. She was a new hire, had less tenure, but Scott insisted. He would find a new job so they could be together without hesitation. Friends and relatives recall their romance with smiling faces. It was, by all accounts, true love.

  Days before Scott had an interview at a school twenty miles south of their apartment, he was eviscerated in his bathroom tub. Ivy was the one to find him. She called the cops immediately, claiming at the time that she thought she heard someone else in the apartment, footsteps in her bedroom. She waited outside for the police and was certain no one exited. The back door had been boarded up while the fire escape was being worked on. There was only one way in and out. Tucker Ashton had not been spotted doing either. The murder was not connected to him until the video surfaced several days later.

  Authorities questioned Ivy over the next weeks and months, attempting to decipher the message. Had she ever come in contact with Tucker? Was she aware of his videos? Had she ever downloaded any of them? Did Scott give any indication he’d met Ashton or commented on any of his websites? The answer to each of these questions was a resounding no, which makes Tucker’s only written message all the more puzzling to this day.