What Price Gory?

by West, Terry M.

  His headlights struck something on the left side of the road. It was Inocente, leaning against his shit-brown Pinto. He was smoking a cigarette and staring into the darkness. He didn’t seem to notice as Calvin sped by.

  Calvin knew staring back was a bad thing to do, and that he should just continue to punish the gas pedal and focus on his getaway. But his eyes looked again to the rearview.

  The cars were right behind him now. Their high beams flickered and a chorus of horns called out to him. Calvin gritted his teeth fearfully and pushed down on the gas so hard that he was sure his foot would break through to the road below. His car began to hesitate.

  “Shit!” Calvin cried out. The engine made stalling sounds and the carburetor coughed.

  Two cars pulled up to either side of Calvin’s car. The white-faced ghouls stuck their heads out from their windows and shrieked at him with their filthy mouths. Each took a turn slamming into Calvin’s car.

  Calvin fought to keep the car straight on the road. The engine noise cleared up and there was a sudden surge in his vehicle. His car pulled ahead of his tormentors, and he screamed victoriously as their lights shrank away from him. He looked to the rearview and he saw that the monsters were turning their cars around and heading back to the satanic diner.

  The lights hit him again, stronger this time. It was like staring at a rainbow during a bad acid trip. The colors swirled around and popped off in his head. He pressed the brakes, instinctively, as his eyes recovered from the stars and gray film.

  Calvin was on the other side of the overpass. His headlights shined on the dead end sign that had steered him toward hell. He took a deep breath and opened his car door. His legs ached, and he grimaced as he stepped outside. The air was much cooler. He walked to the side of the road and took a long piss.

  He came back to his car and looked it over. Both sides were severely dented. Calvin had no idea how he would explain this. He dug out his phone, and saw several missed calls and messages from Carol. The time on his phone read 5a.m. His wristwatch was nearly four hours behind it.

  Calvin squatted back into his car and noticed the bag of apple turnovers. He grabbed it and peeked inside. The food had rotted and looked like it had been sitting there for weeks. Calvin tossed the bag into the high grass near the road and shut his door.

  He took his phone and saved his location. Calvin never wanted to forget where the entrance to the dark place was. He slipped the car into gear and went in search of the 290.

  Calvin was now very determined to be a happier person. He was going to go home and speak genuinely and honestly with Carol. A positive change could still be made. He was sure of it. His life would improve after this. Both of their lives could improve, if Carol was willing.

  And if Carol showed any unwillingness to make their life together a more comfortable arrangement, he had another option to exercise. And it wouldn’t mean a messy divorce. He realized the demon with the Julie nametag was right. Calvin had indeed taken something back. It was a grand and dangerous idea, and he suddenly felt like a caveman shedding his fear of fire after discovering its warmth, worth and potential.

  He drove, his mind putting the plan together and he smiled when he realized how easy it would be. His imagination was very vivid and he knew his wife very well. He could see clearly how this little sick scenario could play out.

  Calvin and his wife seldom went out for a night on the town. He would find a sitter for their son, and then tease Carol with a huge surprise. Carol loved surprises. He would bring her to the bearings of the dark place. He would cross over with her and then leave her, on the side of the road. Calvin wouldn’t be violent with her, but he would manhandle her from the car if he had to.

  He imagined her walking the dark road until she found Inocente. And he knew Inocente would be drunk and hungry and he would tell her that lame joke about his name, and then he would lead Carol toward the neon lights of the diner. The giant girl on the sign would beckon them with a wink. They would either walk together or some other lost soul, dead or alive, judged or not, would give them a ride to the place.

  And from there, Calvin knew how this would conclude. There was one thing about Carol that Calvin had missed in his initial assessment of her and it was something that mortified him whenever he took Carol out to eat. She was a very rude and impatient customer. It had always embarrassed him to no end. Carol could be a nasty person, sometimes.

  And she hated apple turnovers.

  WHAT PRICE GORY?

  Trevor Hughes was an egomaniacal prick. His editors knew it. His publishers knew it. Most of his peers (a dwindling minority in Trevor’s mind) knew it. And his agent, Mitchell Carson, was taking a refresher course on the matter.

  “He was working on a blurb for the cover of my next book,” Trevor barked into the phone as he paced the floor of his living room like a caged beast. “Imagine the publicity! Andy Cohn, the king of horror fiction, passes the mantle to Trevor Hughes with his last breath. We have got to capitalize on this, Mitch.”

  “After the funeral, Trevor. If Andy wrote it, we’ll find that blurb,” Mitchell Carson replied.

  Trevor quaked a little on the inside. Andy Cohn had to have written the blurb. Everything depended on that endorsement. Trevor’s future. Indeed, the very future of the horror genre itself. Without that little sentence perched atop Trevor’s next bestseller… Then Andy would have died in vain, as far as Trevor was concerned.

  “How long after the funeral?” Trevor demanded, downing his brandy without savoring the taste.

  Mitch took a second to spit it out, no doubt contemplating the fate of the bearer. “Let’s give Mrs. Cohn two weeks to recover. Out of respect,” he offered.

  Trevor could picture his weasel bastard of an agent pulling the phone a safe distance from his head and grimacing. He knew his bean counter well. And Trevor was not going to disappoint the little parasite.

  “Two bloody weeks?” Trevor exclaimed, slamming his snifter on the mahogany bar that separated his living room and kitchen. It was a marvel the glass didn’t break. “You must be joking, Mitch. We don’t want to lose the emotional impact. We have to get the ball rolling while the body is still warm.”

  “Jesus Christ, Trevor,” Mitch groaned. “I only have a few morals left in me and you are seriously tugging on them right now. I respect your ferocity. I always have. Hell, that and sheer force of will has brought you this far in the business. But there are limits. And I have them. The man died. His wife is no doubt terribly distraught. Do you understand what you are asking me to do, Trevor? Andy Cohn keeled right over on his desk. Do you really want me to go into his house and stroll into his office right now to see if he had the God damned decency to plug your book before he passed?”

  “Calm down, Mitch,” Trevor advised, not seeing the big fuss in his request. Mitch’s plan of simply walking into Cohn’s home and checking sounded reasonable to him. There was just Andy’s wife to get past, and she was undoubtedly too consumed by her grief to notice. Why was Trevor the only one wearing big boy pants in this situation? “Don’t blow a temple on me, mate. I need you clear-headed on this. Cohn was my mentor. My idol. His death bothers the hell out of me, as well.”

  Trevor studied his fingernails and sighed.

  “But, business is business,” Trevor continued. “Life goes on, as they say. And I am sure Andy would have agreed. This is very important for me and your percentage, Mitch. Please don’t muck it up. Get in there as soon as you can and keep me posted, okay?”

  There was better to say nothing silence on the line. Trevor never failed to impress Mitch.

  “Mitch? Hello? Are you with me on this?”

  “Sure, Trevor. As soon as Mrs. Cohn is ready.”

  Trevor closed his eyes and sucked in some air, looking for his calm center. He suddenly felt like quite a well-adjusted lad for having the patience to deal with this whole exhausting exercise. Really, the things he had to endure…

  “All right, then, Mitch,” he said, his words
now benign. “Please give Pamela Cohn my sympathies. And do convey that we have all suffered a loss.”

  “I’ll do that,” Mitch replied, sounding only slightly appalled now.

  Trevor hung up the phone and poured another brandy.

  Time is of the essence, he thought, downing his fifth drink as quickly as the four before it. He was getting tipsy, and this was good. He needed to take the edge off of his current circumstance. His first three horror novels had been critical successes. He did not receive good reviews. Good reviews were for good writers, and he was much better than good. His reviews had been unconditional submissions to his talent. His reviews had been feverish love letters. His fans were many and loyal. So much so, that he had to hide behind fences and hire security in his celebrity. There were always those whose adoration could be dangerous, and he wanted no one wearing his skin as a suit.

  He had been declared a, if not the, master of the horror fiction genre by critics and disciples alike.

  His only true competition had been Andy Cohn. Cohn had been the undisputed king of horror fiction. He had ruled the genre for decades, and he had left a prolific mark on it. Hell, the man was practically a genre unto himself. But now Cohn was gone. And it was Trevor’s time.

  Honestly, he had no idea if Cohn’s blurb would put an extra penny in his purse. The blurb meant more than that. It was a matter of pride to Trevor. He had to have Cohn’s acknowledgment. And if he were to wrest the title away from a dead man, he would have to bring the Midwest and South to his cause. His works suffered only slightly in these territories. But suffer they did. The readers that dwelled there would have a hard time giving up their Andy Cohn; most likely because the man pandered to idiots. His work was called accessible, which may as well have meant written for dummies.

  Trevor laughed. Horror for dummies. That was the legacy Cohn could be proud of. Cohn gave his readers a step ladder to reach his words. Trevor, on the other hand, challenged his audience. He expected them to better themselves when they engaged in his fiction. So what if they may have needed a dictionary to guide themselves through his perilous prose. It was educational for them. It was healthy for their souls. Cohn was junk food for the mind. Trevor’s fiction was in the pink; it had nutritional value.

  But if Andy instructed those sheep readers of his to indulge themselves in the Trevor Hughes brand, they would most likely follow the dead man’s directions. They adored Andy Cohn. They would miss him. But they would find true solace in Trevor’s arms. And he would take their entrusted imaginations to new dark heights undreamed of. He would beckon them to places that Andy’s talent could never unearth. They would be better off. And they would see it, eventually. All they needed was a cue; a map to follow.

  Trevor poured another drink. The tension was killing him. He still felt like he was reaching for that next level. He had become a whore for success, and he would not be happy until he had attained the fame and love that Cohn himself had amassed. A pipe dream, to be sure, for most writers. But Trevor was right there. He could reach up on his tippy toes and touch that height. He just needed a boost to scramble onto the ledge. But now his prospect of reaching that rank of popularity may have been as dead as dear old Andy. It all hinged on a dead man’s quote.

  “Cohn, you miserable, flaccid cretin! You self-indulgent bastard!” Trevor screamed at the emptiness in his house, venting the frustration welling in him. He was sure Cohn was listening. “Why didn’t you take better care of yourself? I’m at least ten times your better. But how can I compete with you now? I can’t best a ghost. You eclipsed me in life and now you are doing the same in death. God damn you, Andy Cohn!”

  More brandy found its way into his glass. Trevor used the drink to wash down further choice words to his dead adversary. A chill suddenly raked his back. He noted, through the thick brandy veil that covered his senses, that the room was becoming unbearably cold, though his fireplace raged. The house his horrors had bought was in Los Angeles. He lived near the important people, because he was one of them, now. It was June. The old place was drafty at times, considering its size, but it was suddenly giving his hometown of Toledo, Ohio in the dead of winter a dash for its money.

  “It’s fucking freezing in here,” Trevor exclaimed, lapsing out of the phony English accent it had taken him eight years to cultivate. It was part of his allure now. He wished he could just have a procedure to do away with his old drawl all together. He would have sliced it out himself, if he could.

  Trevor took the tacky quilt dear old Mum had made him from a hallway closet and draped it over his shoulders. The brandy should have kept him warm. He was practically shivering, now.

  Suddenly, a tremendous surge of flame blasted out of the fireplace. The delinquent blaze flowed over brick and onto the hard wood floor, unrolling like a demonic red carpet. The blaze narrowly missed Trevor’s bare toes. The fire toasted an expensive Persian rug, a piece of eye candy guests and workmen were asked not to stride upon.

  Trevor looked around, searching for something to put the fire out. The place would go up in minutes. It was old, brittle and dry, which is why he had paid so much for it. It had character. His reflexes were swimming against the brandy, despite the sobering adrenalin that was pumping into his system.

  He abandoned the search for something to douse the fire with when he noticed that it was not spreading. Actually, it was growing quiet and shrinking. The blaze tamed itself to an inch or so in stature. It winked at him, as if it had been joking all along, and then it died altogether, leaving a tiny stir of smoke in the air as a last word.

  Two soot-covered hands emerged from the fireplace, clasping brick on either side. Slowly, a dark, hunched figure struggled out of the fiery womb like a newborn hell spawn. It shuddered as it came out, dripping sulfur.

  An unholy shriek came from the black mouth of this freshly scorched horror. The first thing that had Trevor was stark terror. It clutched with sinister assurance at him. But deeper down, something else was stirring in Trevor. A part of him inside was trying to reach the control center, but it couldn’t call Trevor away from this freakish exhibition. An immense sense of déjà vu was energetically tapping him on the shoulder; his fear told it leave me alone, kid… can’t you see I’m busy…

  The creature straightened itself up, lumbering to the burnt floor. It had the form of a human, but seemed to be composed of the ash it was bleeding with every little movement. Then the memory finally reached Trevor and it gave him a good throttle. This was a passage from The Chimney Creeper, an early literary effort on Andy Cohn’s part. The fear still had him and wouldn’t let him loose, but now Trevor had an absurd idea of what was occurring here. Obviously, Cohn’s monster was here to defend its master’s honor. This gave Trevor no uncertainty as to the creature’s intentions.

  He wasn’t sure what he should do. Self-preservation quickly asserted itself like a stern-faced father, prompting a vase into Trevor’s hands. It was fight or flight time, and a near empty bottle of brandy had rendered flight pretty fucking useless.

  Trevor gripped the ornate and very expensive weapon in his hands tightly, preparing for a showdown with this monstrosity of Cohn’s imagination. The dark being stopped wailing from the pain of its newfound existence and it paused. It seemed discouraged that Trevor wasn’t going down without a fight. This gave Trevor a small amount of courage. It was only a thimbleful, really. But it was something. He had managed to pry a pinky finger of dread from his shoulder.

  “Let’s do this, then,” he said, readying himself.

  The creature began to shake. Black flakes rained on the floor and bruised the walls. A number of ominous antiques and pieces of dark and exotic art promoting cruelty and pain (pieces that one would imagine a dark wordsmith to own - and Trevor was all about image) were stained and ruined. The creature’s untidy display started as a minor tremble, but soon escalated to a grand mal seizure. The beast shuddered furiously, like a dog drying off. Trevor had been far enough away to avoid the mess, but the vase in his hands
was dripping goo.

  The gunk and ash was soon off of the creature, revealing a man underneath.

  The late, great Andy Cohn.

  The vase shattered against the floor, but Trevor’s hands continued to gnarl at the air as if the vase were still guarding him from this insanity.

  “Oh my God,” Trevor muttered, though he didn’t believe in such. He lost any pride he had in keeping his rationale up to this point.

  Andy stood in Trevor’s living room, naked and breathing the same air. This was no zombie or abomination that had crawled from a fresh grave. Cohn’s Nordic features were quite animate. Though he had died in his fifties, he still looked like a frat boy in the face. He ran a hand through his mussed blond hair and sighed. He looked around apologetically at the mess he had made. His blue eyes finally settled on Trevor, who was frozen in a weird combination of fear and wonder. Cohn laughed and it was loud and robust. It was the victorious laugh of a prankster who had just pulled one over on you.