Mister White: The Novel

by John C. Foster

  In her listlessness he saw her future as predicted by Gruebel. When Mister White was finished with her, she would become another nameless waif discovered frozen beneath an overpass or, if she were lucky, wandering mindless until she was picked up and institutionalized.

  The idea to travel south was hers, or possibly Mister White’s, but Lewis agreed to it as he came to understand there would never again be joy for him in this life. All that was left, all that he might earn, was red satisfaction.

  They drove through most of the day and arrived in Alexandria, Virginia as dusk lay across the town.

  Lewis followed her directions to a neighborhood of stately homes with wide, front lawns and driveways sporting BMW’s and Mercedes in equal measures.

  He pulled up in front of a well-kept dwelling with bright, bay windows and cut the ignition. The engine ticked as Hedde took a last hit from the flask and handed the empty container back to him.

  “Won’t need it after tonight,” she said.

  The dome light threw its radiance down over them when she pushed open the passenger door and paused with one leg still in the car, one leg outside, disheveled and possessed and all of fourteen years old.

  Halfway gone.

  “I want you back,” he said.

  “You can’t have me back.”

  Lewis clutched her knee through the long skirt but recoiled, nerve endings transmitting the undeniable truth of what she was becoming.

  He looked at the house and spittle flew from his lips when he spoke. “Then you make him pay,” he snarled. “Make him suffer.”

  “Yes, Daddy.” His daughter smiled at him from beneath tangled hair. “You run when I close this door,” she said, and he saw a curl to her lips that belonged to Mister White. “You go someplace that I’d never think of, that he’d never think of, where no one who knows you would ever think of. He will never stop looking for you. Understand?”

  Lewis nodded, trying to fight through the blockage in his throat as tears streamed freely down his cheeks. “I love you,” he whispered, but she swung outside and a door slammed shut between them.

  He threw himself across the car, hands slapping against the window. She looked back, her expression writhing with confusion, and he knew that fear was the only thing left of his daughter. He wept openly, the warmth of his sobs fogging the glass as his dark girl walked away, somehow evading the motion-sensitive security lights that shined daylight on the front lawn. She danced into shadows and became insubstantial.

  Lewis sat back in the driver’s seat and wiped the tears from his wet face before keying the ignition. He revved the engine, flinging hatred from his eyes at the comfortable house before shifting into gear and dropping the hammer. The powerful car fishtailed until he wrenched it under control.

  Anything, he had promised.

  It was her last wish, so he headed south.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Bierce was seated alone at his dark wood dining table clad in nothing but a silk robe as he sliced a thin piece of squab in a red wine reduction, the gentle strains of Vivaldi reaching him from the stereo in the living room. The electric chandelier overhead cast a dim yellow light over his meal.

  He was, as a rule, fundamentally opposed to the idea of business dinners and had ignored a request from the FBI man, Chambers, to meet him at the historic Tabard Inn this evening. Dinner was a time to let the senses play and mind work undistracted by social interactions.

  Besides, the blue pill dissolving under his tongue meant he wouldn’t be going anywhere for a while. He felt a warm drop in his middle as the narcotic took hold. He had been near to a twitching wreck after the past several days, and it was time for him to withdraw into his well-appointed shell and pull himself together.

  The disastrous reports from New Hampshire had not yet been connected to Lewis Edgar, though he expected the connection to Catherine Edgar would be revealed eventually. Though Lewis Edgar’s corpse had yet to be discovered, several of the bodies would require dental examination for purposes of identification, and Bierce was certain that the quarry had been run to ground.

  More importantly, it seemed that the European operation was finally concluded without dangling ends and his connection with Abel was no longer visible.

  He pierced a baby russet potato and chewed thoughtfully, exhaling to release some of the heat as he considered the propriety of backing a container truck loaded with kerosene up to the old Millhouse and running a hose inside to the escalator. He grinned, his too-small teeth briefly visible.

  Not a practical solution but—

  The music ceased and he lifted his head, perturbed when it didn’t resume. Still chewing a mouthful, Bierce walked past the glass cases of his liquor cabinet onto the soft Persian rug in his living room, cocking his head when he saw the PAUSE button pressed on the CD player. He pressed PLAY and the music resumed as he returned to the dining room.

  Bierce lifted his face, nose wrinkling at an unpleasant smell.

  He was slow to register the scrape of cutlery against plate and paused on the threshold, gasping when the lights flickered overhead.

  A filthy little girl was seated at the table, eating his dinner. She was dressed strangely and her hair was matted with some tacky substance.

  “Who are you?” he demanded. “What are you doing here?”

  The girl looked up at him, cheek stuffed full of his squab as she chewed.

  “Don’t you know your old friend?” the girl purred, and Bierce placed a hand to his temple as a pain knifed through his skull. He thought quickly of the black leather case and its eyedroppers upstairs in his personal safe.

  “Hey, you don’t have my book here at your home, do you?” she asked.

  He took a step back, exhaling sharply through his nose at the sensation of gnats buzzing in his face. The girl rose from his seat and the lights flickered again before they went out completely. Bierce blinked, thankful for the wash of illumination from the streetlights through his large windows.

  The girl stood in front of him.

  How did she suddenly get so close? he thought as he was enveloped in a rank, organic odor. He flinched but was unable to tear his eyes away from the pale shape of her face, her features an indeterminate smear, save for her mouth. Her teeth.

  “Who…who are you?” he asked.

  “Lewis Edgar sends his regards,” she said, and he wondered when her fingers had grown so long.

  “What?”

  “You know who I am,” the girl said.

  A filth-encrusted fingernail touched his breastbone and slid down to his belly as a voice slithered through his mind.

  Who am I?

  His bladder released and his moan was that of the damned.

  “You can’t…” he said.

  “You were always going to be mine,” she said as he backed into the wall and slid to the floor, a marionette with his strings finally cut.

  “Say my name,” she said as she leaned over him and he gagged at the corruption she exhaled.

  “God help me,” he whimpered.

  “Say my name,” she murmured in a lover’s voice as her nose touched his in an Eskimo kiss. Her palms found either side of his head and began to exert pressure, squeezing his weak whisper into a shrill scream.

  “Mister White…

  “Mister White.

  “MISTER WHITE!”

  EPILOGUE

  It was a bright day and the shade of the overhanging poplars was a welcome cover for the two old men seated in front of the combination gas station and general store.

  “Got a live one,” Henry said from his wooden chair on the porch, tapping ash from his pipe.

  Leonard glanced at his white-bearded friend, his seamed, brown face like old leather. “Whyn’t you earn yourself the price of those Cokes you keep stealin’ from my cooler and pour the man some gasoline.”

  The old Camaro was road dirty and its overloud engine rumbled to a stop as a cloud of dust settled around it.

  “White boys and they car
s,” Henry opined, bringing a wooden match to the pipe’s bowl.

  “You really ain’t gonna go help this boy?” Leonard griped, hawking an impressive loogie into the dirt.

  “You offering insurance?”

  “Nobody would insure your grizzled ass,” Leonard said, pushing up from his chair with a grunt. “I pay you more’n you’re worth in Cokes as it is.”

  Leonard stepped carefully down from the wooden porch and walked over to the Camaro as the driver’s door opened. He dragged his foot to a stop as the gray-faced man with the red-rimmed eyes emerged.

  “Haunted,” he would tell people later. “Man had haunted eyes.”

  “Fill her up,” the stranger croaked.

  “You all right, son?” Leonard asked.

  The man nodded and cleared his dry throat. “Tired.”

  Leonard hobbled around the back of the car and felt for the gas cap. “Henry, get this boy a Coke if you can bring y’self to share one. Boy’s throat sounds like sandpaper.”

  Lewis nodded thanks and slumped against the car as Leonard inserted the gas pump and flipped the lever. Numbers rolled and the pump dinged dutifully.

  “New Hampshire plates,” Leonard said in the uneasy silence. “You a long way from home.”

  “Where is this?” he asked, and Leonard snuck another look to make sure his customer wasn’t drunk or high.

  “Roke, Alabama,” Leonard offered after a bit, waving the air at a stink that seemed to be coming from the car.

  “Drink this,” Henry said, approaching with the aid of a cane. He fixed Lewis with his gaze and said with his typical lack of manners, “Son, you look like the Devil hisself been bitin’ your tail.”

  Lewis jerked and nearly dropped the glass bottle, but Henry steadied him with a gnarled hand and exchanged a glance with Leonard, both men sharing the same thought. This man shouldn’t be allowed back behind the wheel.

  “What’s your name?” Henry asked.

  “Lewis,” the customer replied.

  “You hit something with your car? Stinks like maybe you got a rabbit or something underneath.” Leonard used his hands to lower himself, palms in the dirt, and glanced underneath, but shook his head when he rose.

  “Something in your trunk? Get y’self a deer?”

  Lewis straightened and pulled the keys from his pocket, face twisted in confusion. He stepped over the gas hose and Leonard shuffled aside to let him turn the key in the lock. The old man said nothing about the dried, brown handprint he spotted on the trunk, smaller than this stranger’s own.

  “Lord,” Leonard said, throwing an arm over his face at the powerful stench.

  Shiny flies buzzed around a hat box resting next to a spare tire and greasy jack.

  “What you got in the box?” Henry asked, coming around to the back.

  “I don’t know,” Lewis said in a dead voice.

  Henry and Leonard exchanged another look and Henry asked, “You mind I open it?”

  Lewis shook his head and reached down to do it himself, waving aside the fat flies crawling on the box.

  He lifted the lid and both old men stumbled back, Henry losing his balance and falling to the dirt.

  “Oh Lord!” Henry said, and Leonard bent to pull his friend back away from the haunted man and the horror in the trunk. “Call the sheriff!”

  The customer seemed not to notice the two men as he reached into the box and gently lifted a woman’s severed head in both hands.

  His pained moan rose like a foghorn until Lewis screamed, “Cat!”

  He sagged to the dirt, staring down into his wife’s stiff expression, hair crusted brown with blood. Her eyes were frozen wide in terror and eternal in their accusation.

  “Cat!” Tears burst from his bulging eyes as the two old men hurried inside the store with all the speed their arthritic limbs allowed, the horrible shrieks continuing behind them.

  Lewis laid back in the dirt, the bright sky above a dazzling blur through his tears as he cradled his wife’s head against his chest and wept.

  THE END

  John C. Foster was born in Sleepy Hollow, New York, and has been afraid of the dark for as long as he can remember. A writer of thrillers and dark fiction, Foster spent many years in the ersatz glow of Los Angeles before relocating to the relative sanity of New York City where he lives with the actress Linda Jones and their dog, Coraline.

  Foster’s short story “Mister White” appeared in the Grey Matter Press anthology Dark Visions: A Collection of Modern Horror – Volume Two before inspiring the novel of the same name. His short fiction has appeared in numerous magazines and anthologies.

  Foster released his first novel, Dead Men, in 2015. Mister White is his second novel. For more information, please visit JohnFosterFiction.com.

  Several years ago I submitted the short story “Mister White” to Grey Matter Press and they were kind enough to publish it in the anthology Dark Visions: A Collection of Modern Horror - Volume Two. That process was such a wonderful experience that I knew wanted to work with them again somewhere down the road, and when the idea to expand the story into a novel hit me, I had only one home in mind for the book. Fortunately they liked the novel as much as the short story and the rest, as they say, is history. I’d like to offer my sincere thanks for the generosity, patience and friendship of Anthony Rivera and Sharon Lawson. This book would not be what it is without your talent. The next round of margaritas is on me.

  Thanks are also owed for the unwavering support of Carol and Duane Jones, who have welcomed this ne’er-do-well writer into their family. While I question your judgment with regard to vagabond novelists, I will never question your heart. You are still not allowed to read the book, however.

  To my mother, sister and brother, I’m glad you’re always in my corner.

  Writing would be a lonely business if not for Linda Jones. I am a lucky man indeed to have not only your love, but access to your keen eye on each and every fledgling draft. Reading a first pass requires a delicate touch and your imprint lingers on each and every story.

  "Grey Matter Press has managed to establish itself as one of the premiere purveyors of horror fiction currently in existence via both a series of killer anthologies -- SPLATTERLANDS, OMINOUS REALITIES and EQUILIBRIUM OVERTURNED -- and John F.D. Taff's harrowing novella collection THE END IN ALL BEGINNINGS." -- FANGORIA Magazine

  SAVAGE BEASTS:

  A Nightmare of Supernatural, Science and Sound

  SAVAGE BEASTS is a volume of contemporary dark fiction inspired by some of the greatest artists in musical history. SAVAGE BEASTS is a thrilling and thought-provoking nightmare of horrifying supernatural experiences exploring darkly introspective science fiction, terrifying horrors and fantastical alternative realities, each accompanied by the sound of the music that defines your life.

  Written by some of the most talented authors in genre fiction, the short stories in SAVAGE BEASTS shine a light on eleven dark worlds with fictional work inspired by rock icons Nine Inch Nails, Pink Floyd, The Cranberries, Genesis, Tom Petty and The Heartbreakers, Danish death metal band Pestilence, new wave and dancehall diva Grace Jones, Portuguese electronic house duo Underground Sound of Lisbon, indie rockers School of Seven Bells, classical composers Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart and Johann Sebastian Bach and many more.

  Soothe your desire for exceptional music-inspired fiction in SAVAGE BEASTS: A Nightmare of Supernatural, Science and Sound with dark tales curated by Bram Stoker Award®-nominated editors Anthony Rivera and Sharon Lawson.

  FEATURING:

  "To Soothe the Savage Beast" - Edward Morris

  "Going Home" - Karen Runge

  "That Song You Can't Get Out of Your Head" - John F.D. Taff

  "Pestilence by Beemahr" – Shawn Macomber

  "Killing Noise" – Konstantine Paradias

  "When Death Walks the Field of Battle" – J.C. Michael

  "An American Ghost in Zurich" – Daniel Braum

  "Poor Mal" – Maxwell Price

  "Eidol
on" – E. Michael Lewis

  "Crawling Back to You" – Paul Michael Anderson

  "Die Musik des Teufels" – T. Fox Dunham

  REVIEWS:

  "Few ever get into the territory as Grey Matter Press' SAVAGE BEASTS, which derives its scary stories under the guiding light of macabre music. And luckily, SAVAGE BEASTS has the talent behind it to rock into your nightmares." – FANGORIA

  "The tales in SAVAGE BEASTS are as varied as their inspirations. Many of the contributors don't just use music as their muse, they place it front and centre in their narratives. Here, music has the power to save and to kill, and nothing buried in the past stays buried forever, regardless of how frightening it is." – MONICA S. KUEBLER, RUE MORGUE

  * * *

  Start Reading

  SAVAGE BEASTS

  A Nightmare of Supernatural, Science and Sound

  DEATH'S REALM:

  Where the Here and the Hereafter Collide

  There is something that awaits you on the road ahead. It's there, lurking in the darkness at the intersection between the Here and the Hereafter.

  Whether we choose to admit it or not, just ahead of each and every one of us on the road of life is a dangerous place where we will all, one day, arrive. It's here, at the intersection of this existence and the next, where the forces of the Living and the Dead converge in the terrifying location known as Death's Realm. And it's here that those from either side of the veil meet to wage their everlasting battle in the struggle for control. Both sides have their agenda. And both will do anything to win the war.

  DEATH'S REALM: Where the Here and the Hereafter Collide is the next volume of terror from Bram Stoker Award®-nominated editorial team of Anthony Rivera and Sharon Lawson of Grey Matter Press.

  DEATH'S REALM: Where the Here and the Hereafter Collide features sixteen tales of dark, speculative horror fiction from modern masters of the genre, including the two-time Bram Stoker Award-winning author and World Fantasy Award nominee Hank Schwaeble; the award-winning, Bram Stoker Award-nominated and Shirley Jackson Award-finalist Stephen Graham Jones; the Bram Stoker Award and Thriller nominated JG Faherty; editor-in-chief of the highly respected Jamais Vu magazine Paul Michael Anderson; critically-acclaimed authors Jay Caselberg and John F.D. Taff; emerging masters of modern horror Aaron Polson, Gregory L. Norris and Martin Rose; co-authors known for their extremely disturbing horror fiction, Simon Dewar and Karen Runge; critic favorites Brian Fatah Steele, John C. Foster and Jane Brooks; the twisted, Lovecraft-influenced Rhoads Brazos; and recognized authors of literary fiction Jay O'Shea and Matthew Pegg.