Mr. Monster

by Dan Wells

  Forman smiled snidely. ‘For love.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘for love. Forty years ago, Mkhai came here in a brand new body, ready to start a brand new life just like he always did. How long did he usually stay in a body before moving on?’

  ‘A year at the most,’ said Forman. ‘When you can go anywhere, and be anyone, there’s rarely any reason to stay longer.’

  ‘He found a reason here,’ I said. ‘Her name is Kay.’

  Forman laughed, an abrupt, derisive snort. ‘Kay Crowley? Mkhai is a being thousands of years old. He’s had queens and empresses at his command; he’s had slaves and fanatics, priestesses and worshippers. What did Kay have that an entire history of beautiful women couldn’t offer?’

  ‘Love.’

  ‘He’s had love!’

  ‘Not real love,’ I said, leaning forward. ‘You don’t even know what real love is. If someone loved you, Forman, you’d love them back, and when they stopped, you’d stop. There’s no commitment to anything, so it never really matters. It isn’t real. But real love is pain. Real love is sacrifice. Real love is what Mkhai felt when he realised that Kay would never accept him as he was - only if he became something better. So he gave up the bad stuff and made himself better.’

  Forman stared at me intently. ‘How could a sociopath like you possibly know anything about love?’

  ‘Because I have a mother who gives her entire life to help two children who don’t notice it, don’t appreciate it, and can’t possibly return it. That is love.’

  We watched each other, studying each other, thinking. This was the key moment, when I needed him to move from trust to longing. I needed him to feel there was a piece of him missing, because I knew exactly what he would do: the same thing he always did. He’d go out and find the missing piece and bring it back here to beat it into submission. It was his only way of dealing with the world. While he was gone, I would put the next phase of the plan into motion.

  I thought about the people I missed.

  ‘You were wrong,’ I said. ‘Humans are not defined by death, and they’re not defined by what they lack. They’re defined by their connections.’

  I thought about my mother, and everything she had done for me. I thought about the way she’d protected me six months ago when I killed the demon, and when neither of us knew what to do. I thought about the way she’d turned her life upside down to accommodate me, to be the person she thought I needed. I hated it, but I knew she was trying to help.

  ‘Mkhai knew it,’ I said. ‘He finally realised that there was more to life than running from one body to the next, from one life to the next, always escaping from everything without ever getting anywhere.’

  I thought about my sister, who wanted to watch out for me but didn’t even know how to watch out for herself. I thought of her bruised and scared, and I thought about how she’d be even more scared tonight when she realised that Curt was gone. She was an idiot, but she cared about people.

  ‘Mkhai left your little community of demons because he didn’t need it any more,’ I continued. ‘Thousands of years of meaningless existence, of existing without truly living - and finally he was free. He moved on, and the power he gained made him so much more than you will ever be. You called him a god, but he was more than that in the end. He was human.’

  I thought about Kay Crowley, the little old lady across the street, who smiled and helped and loved so unconditionally that she brought a demon in from the cold and made him a man - and I thought about that man, the old neighbour I’d grown up with, the demon who’d been more of an example to me than my own father. What were his last words?

  Remember me when I am gone. I remembered him, and I missed him.

  Loss and longing.

  ‘Stop it!’ yelled Forman, standing up and pacing across the room - not towards me, but towards nothing; it was a nervous twitch.

  My plan was working.

  ‘You’re not here for this,’ he said, waving his arms while he walked. ‘You’re not here for sadness - this boring emotion.’ He marched into the living room, and his voice fluttered back in. ‘I don’t need to miss things!’ He barged back into the room and grabbed the sides of the table, leaning down to shout in my face. ‘You think I haven’t felt this before? You think you can just shock me with some new emotion and I’ll bow down and . . .’ He stood up and turned around, then scratched his forehead, took a step towards the sink, then turned around again.

  ‘I don’t need this,’ he said. ‘I’m leaving.’ He approached me around the table, and I backed up instinctively. ‘I’m not . . . just sit down. I’m locking you up so you don’t do anything stupid. I’ll be back.’ There was a thick length of chain under the table, with a manacle welded to the end, and Forman locked this securely around my ankle. ‘I’ll be back,’ he said again, ‘and you’d better be feeling something more interesting when I get here.’

  He walked out, locking the front door carefully behind him. The car roared to life and drove away. I was alone.

  Time for phase two.

  Forman acted like he’d stormed off to escape my sadness, but I knew better. The last time we’d forced him to feel sad he’d come downstairs and attacked us. If all he’d wanted was a new emotion, he could have just attacked us again. No, Forman had left to kidnap someone, just like I thought he would - probably Kay Crowley, or maybe my mom. Once I understood him, he was easy to predict; I’d told him he was missing something, and now he’d gone to get it.

  I had an hour, maybe less, assuming he went straight to Kay and brought her back immediately. I needed to be ready when he returned, but I couldn’t just attack him because he’d feel it coming; even when he was completely overwhelmed, as he had been in the basement, he could snap out of it in an instant. The only way to hurt him was to do it indirectly, by laying a trap. I stood up and tested the chain. It held fast, but it gave me about twenty feet of movement. I hoped it would be enough.

  The kitchen was a good place for a trap because it had the strongest electrical outlet in the house: the oven. All I needed to do was rig something to shock him when he came back - but what? I dragged my chain over to the cupboards, starting at the farthest edge where I had to stretch the chain to its fullest and reach out with my arm. Most of the cupboards were bare - what few dishes he had were mostly in the sink, waiting to be washed. One cupboard had a stack of paper plates and a box of plastic forks; another held a single ceramic mug, dusty with disuse. The cupboards below the counter were more fruitful, containing a number of rusted pots and pans, a coffee-maker, and, for some reason, a cardboard box full of old newspaper.

  The counter itself held a number of items I might be able to use: a knife block, half-full; a toaster; a microwave. I opened the drawers and rooted through piles of mismatched silverware, old packs of batteries, and a random assortment of tools and wooden pencils. There were two screwdrivers . . . I might be able to take something apart.

  There was blood on the screwdrivers.

  I looked closer; there was blood on all the tools. This wasn’t just a utility drawer, it was another torture station. I pulled a knife from the block and examined it carefully. It had been washed, but not well; the serrations on the blade held brown remnants of old blood.

  Of course I knew that he would try to torture whomever he brought back, but I considered now the possibility that he would do it here, in the kitchen. His basement was full, and his torture room was occupied; if he did it here he could force me to watch or even to help without having to unchain me. And he had a full suite of tools - knives and screwdrivers, icepicks and pliers, even a hammer. All I needed to do, then, was electrify a tool I knew he would reach for, and then sit as still and emotionless as possible until he touched it. I couldn’t let him know, through excitement or anxiety, that I was waiting for something. I had to be completely dead.

  But what tool to electrify, and how?

  I might be able to tie a wire to a tool in the drawer and run it out and back, into the oven outle
t, but there was no way to guarantee which tool he’d reach for first. I looked around for a clock, but there wasn’t anything; I had no idea how long he’d been gone, or how long it would be before he came back. I had to move quickly, and I couldn’t think of anything else, so the tool drawer it was.

  I got the coffee-maker out of the cupboard and pulled a knife from the block. The coffee-maker cord was at least three feet long, maybe four; I hoped it was long enough to reach from the open drawer to the outlet behind the oven. I used the knife to cut the cord, right at the base of the coffee-maker, and started shaving away the plastic coating around the wires. While I was doing that, I noticed that the metal from the knife-blade extended back into the handle - it was a long, single piece of metal, flanked on the end by pieces of wood riveted around it. A current at the tip of the knife would carry straight through to whomever touched the handle. I jumped up and looked at the wood block. There was a hole in the bottom where the tip of the biggest blade, a large butcher knife, peeked through. This could work so much better than the drawer - it was easier to rig, and easier to make sure he touched the right thing. I pulled out the huge knife, dumped the rest into the sink with the dirty dishes, and sat down to work.

  First I needed a way to secure the wire to the knife. Bracing the butcher knife against the floor, back in the corner where any floor damage would be hidden by the coils of my chain, I lined up the icepick right at the tip and hit it with the hammer. Nothing. I hit it again, over and over, trading out the icepick for a Phillips screwdriver and still accomplishing nothing; the blade was too strong to puncture. I picked up the knife and chopped it against the heavy iron rim of a frying pan, again and again until it finally began to dent. When the dent looked deep enough to hold it, I looped the exposed wire around it and tied it off.

  Using a smaller knife, I cut the plug from the other end of the cord and slipped the whole thing through the knife block. The cord came out of the bottom just fine, and I shaved away about four inches of plastic coating from the end. I placed the block on the counter, passing the cord hanging off the side behind the oven, and looked out of the window.

  Nothing yet.

  Working swiftly, I pulled the oven away from the wall, unplugged the power cord, and wrapped my newly-exposed wire around one tine of the plug. Assuring myself that everything was ready, I plugged the oven into the wall, connecting a straight line of current from the wall outlet to the handle of the knife. I pushed the oven back against the wall and examined the scene. Everything looked normal - except for a few inches of cord running out from the bottom of the knife block to the gap by the stove.

  I looked around for something to hide it with, and found a half-damp rag in the sink. I brought it up to the counter and set it on top of the cord; I just had to hope he wouldn’t notice it was out of place.

  I glanced out of the window again and saw the car on the road, just coming around the nearest bend. Don’t panic, I told myself. Stay calm, but not too calm. He’ll feel fear from the women, just like he always does when he gets here. Just blend in. I allowed myself a touch of fear, but no nervousness, no desperation; I forced myself to walk slowly around the room, gathering the tools I had used, putting them back into their drawers with calm, measured precision. Just enough fear to look normal, but not enough to stand out.

  I closed the drawers and went to the fridge, pulling out the grapefruit juice and taking it back to the table - if I tried to look too innocent he’d get suspicious. I opened the juice and took a drink straight from the bottle; it was acidic and strong, and I grimaced at the shock. I heard the car park outside, and the engine died. I took another drink and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. The front door opened, though I couldn’t see it from my seat at the table.

  ‘Thank you again for coming,’ Forman said as he opened the door. ‘I’m sure you can appreciate the need for secrecy, and we normally wouldn’t do this at all, but he did request you specifically.’

  ‘And you’re sure he’s okay?’

  No. No! I knew that voice, and it wasn’t Kay or Mom.

  Forman stepped into the kitchen, grinning like the devil. ‘Hello, John,’ he said. ‘I brought us a new toy.’

  The woman came around the corner. It was Brooke.

  Chapter 21

  ‘John!’ cried Brooke, half-smiling and half-staring in shock. I must have looked terrible. ‘You’re alive!’

  ‘Brooke,’ I said, standing up slowly. ‘You shouldn’t be here.’

  ‘You should never trust a stranger,’ said Forman, ‘but everyone trusts a policeman.’

  Brooke frowned and wrinkled her brow. She was confused. ‘What?’

  I can’t do this, I thought. I can’t go through with it - not with Brooke.

  ‘Brooke,’ I said, taking a step towards Forman, ‘turn around and go.’ He’ll sense my emotions and attack me, I thought, but at least she can get out. The chain scraped across the floor, and she tilted her head to see it moving slowly behind the table.

  ‘What’s going on?’ she asked.

  ‘Run!’ I shouted, and lunged for Forman, but he was perfectly prepared for the attack and punched me straight in the face. I staggered back and Brooke shrieked. She turned to run, but Forman leaped and grabbed her by the hair, wrenching her to a stop with a violent yank that sent her sprawling to the ground. I ran towards him again but he had his gun out now, pointed straight at my stomach.

  Back off, I told myself. The plan can still work, but only if I’m empty. I can’t feel anything. I’m completely empty.

  Brooke was crying, fighting to get away, but she stopped abruptly when Forman swung his gun around and pressed it up under her chin.

  ‘Betrayal,’ he said. ‘It really is the sweetest, John, just like I told you.’

  Brooke looked at me, her eyes going wider, and Forman took a deep, luxurious breath.

  ‘There it is again.’ He closed his eyes, gritting his teeth. Then he and Brooke began crying, almost perfectly in unison.

  Brooke was mortified now, scared literally stiff, and Forman gripped her tighter, pulling harder on her hair. ‘No! No! No!’ he shouted - then pulled his gun sharply to the side and slammed it hard into the side of her head. He let go of her hair and she stumbled to the wall, grasping it desperately for balance.

  Nothing, I thought, pushing down the anger. Attacking him now won’t do any good at all. Just wait - and feel nothing.

  ‘Please,’ said Forman, regaining his composure, ‘take a seat.’ He was using my neutrality to recover from Brooke’s intense emotions of betrayal and fear. He waved his gun towards the table. Brooke clung to the wall with one hand, rubbing her face with the other. She didn’t move.

  ‘You will learn quickly,’ Forman told her, ‘that I don’t like to ask for things twice.’

  Brooke looked up at him, eyes wide with fear, then at me. After a moment she grabbed the back of a chair and sat down warily.

  ‘What are you doing with us?’ she asked.

  ‘Whatever I want,’ said Forman, gesturing for me to sit as well. I sat in the chair opposite Brooke, facing the living room. The counter, and the electrified butcher knife, were just in the corner of my vision.

  ‘That’s the short answer,’ he went on. ‘The long answer is that I am teaching John a very important lesson about deception. You see, he wanted me to go out and get Kay Crowley - so I could learn some kind of valuable tripe about love, I believe - and he thought he was being very sly about it. He was manipulating me, and I don’t like to be manipulated, so you, Miss Watson, are going to help demonstrate the consequences.’

  ‘I’m not going to help you do anything,’ said Brooke. I was a little surprised she had that much fight in her. Of course, the more she fought him, the more he’d enjoy it - just like with Radha.

  ‘Actually you are,’ said Forman, opening one of the drawers. ‘But the nice thing about this kind of help is that you don’t have to lift a finger.’ He pulled out a pair of snub-nose pliers and snapped them open and
shut. ‘I’m going to do all the work.’

  Brooke’s face paled, and I knew that she finally understood the situation. She jumped to her feet, pushing back the chair, and looked at me desperately. I shook my head.

  Don’t leave the room. You’ve got to stay in this room.

  ‘Sit down,’ Forman demanded. He still had his gun in his other hand, and he used it now to persuade her back into her seat. Brooke backed against the wall.

  Forman smiled, wolfish and evil. ‘Can you talk some sense into her, John?’

  I didn’t want to have to do this to her. I could do it to Kay, to my mom, to anyone else in my life, but not to Brooke.

  ‘Forman is a psychopath,’ I said, trying to keep my voice even. If I gave her any kind of hope - even if all I did was tell her to trust me - Forman would realise I had a plan. ‘He killed a woman yesterday, and he has four more in the basement. I’ve been trapped here for two days, and I know enough to tell you that the more you fight, the worse it gets.’