Where Stars Won't Shine

by Patrick Lacey

  The castle-like door opened again and a man in a wheelchair was pushed in front of the microphone. He looked nothing like his son but Brad Ashton seemed just as scared as the other three humans in the room.

  The two dead men transferred Brad to one of three chairs on stage. He spotted Jacob in the crowd. The bartender had put on a new set of clothes, a suit that looked identical to the one Brad was forced to wear. The axe had torn through the back of the blazer and what looked like fresh blood seeped through the fabric. Did the dead bleed? Brad hadn’t thought so. Not until tonight.

  Listen to yourself. You sound bat shit crazy.

  Except Brad had seen enough tonight to know this wasn’t a nightmare. It had gone on much too long. He would’ve woken up by now. The same went for any doubt he was still alive. The fear he felt in his chest—not to mention the piss that threatened to soil his new pants—was more than enough proof. He’d never longed for the sterile white of the nursing home until that moment.

  “So glad you could make it,” Zeke said. He spoke with confidence to the crowd, buttering them up for what came next.

  And what, exactly, did come next?

  “Let’s bring out our second guest, shall we?” Nods and claps from the audience. Brad tried not to stare at them for too long, lest his mind come even more unhinged than it already was.

  The door opened again. Brad peered in but saw only darkness. It swirled like mist rising from the sea. When he’d been back there, he’d had the sensation he traveled further than was possible. The ballroom, if he remembered correctly, was near the rear of the hotel. There were only a few feet until you hit the back parking lot. But in that room, within the shifting shadows, they’d wheeled him along for what could’ve been miles. Which further proved one thing.

  This was not the same Hotel Marlowe.

  Something rustled. For a moment he thought there was a bat nearby, impossibly large, flapping its wings and preparing to sink its jagged fangs into his neck, but when he turned around there was just a tarp. Two more dead folks, a man missing his left arm and a woman with no eyes, carried something underneath the plastic lining. They struggled, nearly dropped it twice, before setting it onto the seat beside Brad.

  Something smelled horrid. The scent permeated the air but only he reacted, the crowd oblivious. His stomach knotted. He hadn’t eaten anything today unless you counted the tasteless black coffee they brought to his room this morning.

  “What’s this?” Zeke said, pacing the stage, pausing for dramatic effect. “Is there a person under there? Who could it be? They don’t seem to be moving much, do they? No, their performance is, shall I say … a bit stiff.”

  The crowd giggled in unison. If he had an ounce of energy, he would’ve covered his ears, but every bit of reserve left his body when he realized who was beneath the tarp, sitting just inches away from him.

  Reunion.

  Hadn’t that been the word that crazy bastard used?

  Brad shook his head. “No. You can’t. It’s not right.” His mouth was numb, his speech slurred more than usual. His meds were long overdue. He hadn’t taken his morning or afternoon dose. His arteries protested. His heart slammed against his rib cage, wanting out of his chest cavity, as if it, too, knew what was coming.

  The two dead assistants grabbed a section each of the tarp and prepared to pull it away.

  “No,” Brad said again. “Don’t. Please.”

  “Don’t be such a party pooper,” Zeke said, his grin wide like a shark. “She’s been waiting so very long for this.”

  The tarp was removed. A cloud of dust erupted into the air. Brad tried not to breathe. To do so would be blasphemous. But he couldn’t help it. His lungs were old beyond his years. A lifetime of drinking and smoking left him winded, left him taking a deep breath after only a moment of holding it back. He coughed so hard he tasted blood but he couldn’t stop shivering like a patient halfway through a psychotic episode.

  He was breathing in his dead wife.

  The dust settled and the room quieted as they took in Diana Ashton’s presence. Like the others, she was dead, only permanently so. She wasn’t speaking or breathing or moving in her seat. Her skin had long since rotted away, revealing the bones beneath. Even her skeleton showed signs of her attack. Parts of her interior had been gouged. He could see where her mugger had bashed her beautiful face against the pavement. Had she screamed for Brad that night? Had she begged the heavens for Brad to come to the rescue? He thought maybe she had but it hardly mattered now.

  He felt himself come undone in that moment. It was worse than when he’d received the phone call in the middle of the night, worse than identifying the body, worse than locking away his son, worse than learning Tucker had become a cold-blooded killer. His pulse fluttered in uneven increments and he could sense another stroke coming on. This was The Big One, the attack to end all attacks. He welcomed it with every bit of his broken body.

  He managed to lift his hands enough to cover his face but the tears were persistent. They crept through his fingers, slid down his hands. The crowd grew hysterical. He peeked at them, saw the way they laughed and pointed and teased. “Kill me,” he said. “Just fucking kill me.”

  The door opened for the third and last time of the night. It screeched so that he thought for a moment Diana was screaming but when he looked she was still very much dead.

  From behind he sensed another presence. The air grew cold. His hair grew rigid. Those drops of piss finally won the battle, trickling onto his thighs.

  The crowd stood and pointed at something behind him. They looked equally shocked and mesmerized. It was the same stare blind followers gave their dictators.

  A hand touched his shoulder and squeezed. A face appeared centimeters away from his own. A stranger’s face. A monster’s face.

  Tucker’s face.

  “Hey, Dad. Did you miss me?”

  TWENTY-ONE

  IT WAS ALL so beautiful. Being here like this, in Marlowe, in his hero’s hometown—Zeke couldn’t put into words the excitement he felt. It was almost sexual in nature. He could feel his cock stiffening as he watched Tucker make his entrance. So confident, every soul—or lack thereof—gave him their complete attention. Zeke had always wanted that, to not care what others thought. So what if his interests lay in the macabre? He hadn’t been hurting anyone. He’d made a lucrative business out of killers, put himself through school, bought a house—had even been saving for a special kind of ring for Amy before they’d made the trip here.

  Now, though, he wasn’t married to anyone but Tucker. He had become, as if by some cosmic stroke of luck, Ashton’s right hand man. He could sense Tucker’s presence inside him. The moment he’d sat down in the studio everything had changed. Old memories vanished by the second. Even his time with Amy seemed distant. There was a sprinkle of affection left within his heart but soon that too would be deleted.

  He looked at her now, craning his head away from the big show. She was crying. Always crying, that one. So sensitive. So weak. It didn’t matter how hot she was, how good she could work her hips or tongue or how she made him feel when he smelled her hair and saw her smile. She was part of the past, would go the way of the other townsfolk before the night was through.

  He smirked. This was Marlowe. The night was never through.

  Tucker cleared his throat.

  “I’m so glad you could make it, Dad.” He bent forward as if talking to a child. “It’s been so long. I bet you thought you’d never see me again. I bet you thought I was lying dead in a gutter somewhere. Or maybe hoped is a better word. Because we both know deep down inside, you always knew I was out there somewhere. As it turns out, I was closer than you thought.”

  Brad Ashton made to spit on his son but his stunted mouth worked against him. The loogie barely left his lips before it dripped down his chin.

  “Allow me,” Tucker said. He pulled from his pocket a handkerchief and dabbed the saliva. It was the color of tomato sauce. “Looks like you’re bleed
ing. How fitting.”

  “Fuck you,” Brad said. The words were barely a whisper.

  Tucker nodded. “That’s it. Let it all out.”

  “You’re no son of mine. I didn’t even want you in the first place. The only reason I agreed was because your mother was an angel.”

  “So we agree on something after all.” They both looked at Diana and paused for a moment.

  “Can’t you cover her up?” Brad said. “Can’t you use the last bit of decency you have left and put that tarp back on?”

  “Why would I do a thing like that? Are you ashamed of her, Dad? Are you embarrassed of your poor, dead wife?”

  “Don’t talk about her that way. She was—”

  “A great woman. Yeah, you already said that. But she died a long time ago and it sent you over the edge and you got nasty. You locked your son away in a basement. Your son who didn’t have any friends, had nothing but time on his hands. But I made friends when I started killing. You know how many fans I have? People worship me, even if half of them think I’m dead. Even my victims love me. They have a way of coming back after they’re gone. Kind of like me.” He turned to the crowd. “Isn’t that right?”

  The crowd clapped and those who still had their feet stomped them onto the floor. It was deafening. Zeke was certain his ears would be ringing by the end of the night. It was worth it, though. All of this was worth it.

  Tucker turned back around, addressing his father again. “And you’re no different. You wanted to get away from this town but some places don’t let you leave. Some places suck you right back in. Haven’t you figured it out yet? I have a gift. I made this place from scratch. All those nights in the basement, dreaming of killing—it turned me into something more than human. I kill and create at once. Once you die by my hands you get to live in this heavenly place forever. Would you like that, old man? Would you like to stand by my side for all eternity?”

  Brad shook his head as best he could. A stain appeared beneath his crotch. Zeke smelled something foul but even piss and shit couldn’t sour his mood. “Just kill me,” Brad said, his lip trembling at an awkward angle.

  Tucker leaned in closer. “You were never a good listener.”

  Tucker held up his hand. Zeke pulled the knife from his pocket. Tucker had placed it into his palms earlier, entrusting him with this important task. He handed it over.

  Tucker wound back, held the knife in the air for a few long moments. “Let’s be a happy family again.”

  Brad said something else but the words were lost in the blood gurgling out of his throat as Tucker brought the blade down, slicing it evenly across his father’s neck. Red spilled forth in a small river. He convulsed for only a few seconds before he went still, though he wouldn’t be for long. His eyes did not close in death. They remained open, unblinking.

  Tucker licked the blade clean and the crowd applauded as if they’d never seen anything so miraculous.

  Zeke couldn’t agree more.

  “We have to get out of here,” Amy said for the fifth time.

  Ivy agreed. She’d like nothing better than to bust through the doors and run like hell. But there was one simple problem. The doors were unmoving, sealed shut by some force beyond their comprehension. And even if they did make it past the doors, what then? They could run all they wanted, hide to their hearts’ desire, but Tucker and his little fan club of victims would find them. It was a hopeless game of hide and seek and she wasn’t certain if it was worth playing.

  Perhaps it was better to give in, to let go.

  Her opinion changed when Brad Ashton, dead moments ago, began to move again. At first Ivy thought the blade hadn’t cut deep enough. The wound was superficial. He’d just fainted from the shock. But as she squinted and saw something that looked like a spinal column beneath the mess of blood, she knew she’d been wrong. He had been dead after all.

  Emphasis on the had.

  Now his eyes fluttered with movement, with understanding. His arms and legs wriggled like infant worms feeling out their new home.

  “… not possible,” Ethan was saying. “No way in hell. It’s some magic trick. This whole thing is a charade.”

  Amy shook her head. “That’s exactly the problem. It is real. All of it. Weren’t you listening to what that bastard said about his gift?”

  “I refuse to believe that.” Ethan’s tired face did not match his attire. The victims had shaved his cheeks. Gone was the five o’clock shadow but the bags under his eyes remained. If anything they’d grown darker and deeper.

  “She’s right,” Ivy said. “It doesn’t matter if you believe it or not. The fact of the matter is this: if that man kills you, you come back as one of his servants. Look around. That’s what all this is. All these people were his victims. Now they’re helping his cause.”

  Ethan rubbed his temples. Ivy could feel the headache from here. “And what exactly is his cause?”

  Before she could answer, their attention was drawn elsewhere. Brad Ashton had stopped shaking. He surveyed the crowd, blinking like he was getting used to seeing for the first time.

  “How do you feel?” Tucker said. He leaned in close, studied his father’s eyes like he was a physician. He touched Brad’s lips, pushed them around with the tips of his fingers. “Still numb?”

  Brad’s eyes widened. He shook his head. “No. I can … feel them.” Then he did something so uncharacteristic Ivy’s bladder shrank in response.

  He smiled.

  So that’s how this ends. He kills you and you come back as his fucking employee. You smile and nod and do his bidding because you have no choice. He’s the boss, after all. And Marlowe is on a hiring spree.

  “See,” Tucker said. “It’s not so bad, is it? Death in Marlowe is a lot like life everywhere else. It’s tough at first but you’ll grow used to it. We all grow used to it eventually.”

  “What about me?” Zeke stepped forward. “When do I get to cross over?”

  Tucker studied him like he was just a boy. He held a hand to Zeke’s cheek. “I know this is difficult to understand, but I need you to stay human for the time being.”

  “But why?” He sounded on the verge of tears. “I want to be part of Marlowe.”

  “Don’t be silly. You are part of Marlowe. The most important part. Unlike us, you can come and go as you please as long as I give the okay.”

  “But why would I want to do that? This is my home. I’ve been waiting my whole life for this.”

  “Because as long as you’re alive, you can bring back new members of our township. Just like you did with Pops here. I may be the king of the castle but you’re the prince. You’re the recruiter. And business, as they say, is booming.”

  Zeke smiled. Understanding washed over his pale, sickly face. Ivy hated him then. He was just as bad as Tucker. She looked over to Amy and could feel the animosity flowing from her eyes. She’d finally stopped crying. Anger replaced sadness. It was a good look on her.

  Tucker rubbed his hands together and licked his lips. He looked hungry. “Now, let’s get on with it, shall we? If memory serves me, there are still three new hires that have yet to go through their initiation. Let’s keep things moving. Who’s up for a parade?”

  More cheering. Ivy, Ethan, and Amy looked at each other, all of them just as confused, though all of them were sure of one thing.

  Their deaths and eventual rebirths were right around the corner.

  Then there were hands. Hundreds of hands grabbing onto them and turning them in the opposite direction. Leading them out of the ballroom, through the front lobby, and toward the magical doors that were, unsurprisingly, open again. Chilly air filtered in from outside and Ivy thought she saw something huge out front. Something monstrous.

  Something starving.

  But as they got closer, led by the dead folks around them, she saw it wasn’t a beast but a float. A giant float of a dragon. It was crudely constructed, as if by a group of children. Its skin was dark green, the color of swamps and the things th
at dwelled within them. Artificial flames shot out of its bulbous nose, looking more like scalding magma. Its eyes were different from the rest of it. Whereas its body and face seemed almost comical, the two life-like orbs were anything but. They were a deep shade of red that reminded Ivy of the blood she’d seen so often back in the real world.

  On top of the float were several seats.

  “Son of a bitch.” Ethan managed to stop for a moment, to fight against the hundred bodies behind them. “It’s just like her drawing. It’s exactly the same.”

  “What’re you talking about?” Ivy tried to reach for him, touch his shoulder. It wouldn’t help, she knew, but perhaps he’d be reminded they weren’t alone tonight. They had each other.

  “He got into my head and he made what I’m most afraid of.”

  The crowd behind them parted and Tucker stepped forward, slowly clapping. “Bravo. You’ve finally caught up to speed. I’ve been telling you as much all night. I am the dragon. This place is the dragon. No princesses allowed. When Lisa gets here she’ll be nothing but a slave. I won’t kill her, Ethan. She won’t be so lucky. I’ll keep her alive. All the progress she’s made will be for nothing. Every cell in her body will get chomped on by those pesky little critters in her bloodstream. Because that’s what dragons do. They burn you alive.”

  Ethan tried to break free. One of the dead smacked his nose in response.

  Tucker stepped closer, took Ethan’s face into his hand. For a split second, though it could have been a trick of Ivy’s exhausted eyes, she thought Tucker looked like something else. Something that wasn’t the least bit human. Then the moment passed and he was just a tall and skeletal man who made her want to faint. “It won’t matter for you, Ethan. You won’t care that your girl is suffering. You’ll be reborn by then. You’ll like watching her cry. You’ll smile when she finally breathes her last breath.”

  Ethan growled, actually growled like some feral animal, and snapped his head forward, mouth open. He narrowly missed Tucker.