by The Blumhouse Book of Nightmares- The Haunted City (retail) (epub)
“Yup! Mouth shut. About all of it.”
“All of what?” he asked. He really did not want to know.
“Oh, forget it. It’s all so silly.” Katherine put her head on her pillow. “So, would you like me to call Brittany? Try it again?”
If it was blackmail, Jackson made no accusation. Is it blackmail? Who cares? A quick call to Cline will straighten this woman out. I’ve seen Cline in action. Cline could uproot an entire family, get them to leave the country with one phone call. That’s how good Cline is…and I have Cline. Cline is mine. Katherine? You don’t have Cline. What a pity.
He mumbled something barely audible to Katherine. Barely. “Go fuck yourself.”
“What was that, honey?” Katherine asked, innocently.
“I said, ‘I love you, Katherine.’ ”
She laughed and laughed until Jackson got up, two pillows in hand, and left the room. He did so confidently. For he possessed not only the people who could make this woman go away, move out, but something far more valuable. He possessed the keys to the kingdom. The notes he took on Novel Fifteen. The Holy Grail to the next success. For Jackson knew that women like Katherine age, they age and try to correct time’s toll on the body, they do so until they cannot do so anymore, until they are unwanted by men like Jackson. But men like Jackson, who were possessed of certain talents, were immune to time’s toll. This notion fairly well summed up Jackson’s notion of the male-female dynamic. Jackson collapsed on the den couch.
I need to sell books and speeches, which I can do in a heartbeat. I rely on no one, nor do I need to rely on anyone. That woman sells herself. And she has a shelf life.
These thoughts gave him pleasure. Sometime during the night, he believed he heard her start her car and leave.
—
Monday morning, Jackson changed up his routine. Awakening at 9:30 a.m., after what seemed like a night of half-hour naps, he had his coffee and cigarettes and…further changed it up. Changed the Process. Instead of sitting down at his computer, Jackson practically raced to the wall safe and retrieved the notes, the twenty-five handwritten epiphanous pages of hotel notes. The solution.
Jackson sat down not at his desk, where the computer resided, but rather in the deep leather chair sitting next to his carefully arranged library. Again a variation from his Setting, his Routine, his Process.
He began skimming the notes. His fix, these notes, the mainline to his brain. They confused him at first. Wrap your head around this, try again. Bullet points. He had forgotten he had written them in bullet points. Ah, okay. Read them as bullet points, they’re perfectly clear as bullet points. He read them carefully. Where’s my rush? What’s wrong here? He then examined them, as if they were not notes, not bullet points, but petroglyphs, in need of decoding. They simply made no sense, these bullet points, these ciphers:
Trees, but not
House, not cabin, house. Large, trees. Surrounding
Dark, not night. But dark
Disturbance, not love. Love, but control, not freedom
Ropes, ties, binds, sex
Anarchy and orgasm. Orgasm and anarchy
Neck, choke, fingers
Blue, but not blood
Blood, not mine
My blood, but death, not hers
Murder, all murder
My murder, my orgasm, my blood
And on and on. Page upon page of handwritten detritus. Of no use. Of no point. Yet he refused to surrender to the chaos of the notes. Perhaps opening the computer, putting the notes next to the computer, perhaps it would create a synergy of sorts. A word, a sentence, something that would magnetize the handwritten notes toward Novel Fifteen, waiting to be written.
He sat in his desk chair, opened his computer, and booted it up.
A fluorescent psychedelic haze of blinking lights and letters flashed on the screen. Lights and letters, in primaries and pastels, blacks and whites, bolds and underlined. At first he could not read it, and then he could read it all too well:
YOU’RE NOT JACKSON, NOR ARE YOU MR. GREY. YOU ARE JACKSON GREY. THE BRAND. WAIT. NO, THAT’S IMPRECISE. TOO GENERIC. YOU DESPISE IMPRECISION. I APOLOGIZE. MUCH RESPECT, JACKSON GREY. THE BRAND JACKSON GREY IS…WHAT? “THE KING OF NOUVEAU HORROR”? WHAT THE FUCK DOES THAT MEAN, JACKSON? NO WONDER YOU SHY AWAY FROM THAT BRAND; IT’S VOID OF MEANING (AND BY THE WAY, YOUR FALSE HUMILITY IS VOMITOUS). YOU SHY AWAY FROM “BRAND” IN GENERAL, CORRECT? THE IDEA DISGUSTS YOU. YET ONE CANNOT IGNORE THE IRONY. THOSE SPEECHES YOU GIVE, THOSE SEMINARS, THOSE PRIVATE DINNERS WITH WEALTHY WRITERS-IN-WAITING, ACHING FOR YOUR ADVICE, HANGING ON YOUR EVERY WORD, HEARING YOU, JACKSON GREY, REPEAT AND REPEAT AGAIN: “BRANDING IS EVERYTHING THESE DAYS. IT’S ALL ABOUT THE BRANDING.” YOU’RE THE VERY DEFINITION OF A HYPOCRITE, JACKSON. ONE WHO PRIVATELY DESPISES WHAT ONE PUBLICALLY PROMOTES. ALL THIS WOULD BE FINE, YOUR HYPOCRISY, IF YOU COULD, IN FACT, WRITE. BUT THAT’S PROVING TROUBLESOME, ISN’T IT, JACKSON GREY? BLOODY EYES, SLEEPLESS NIGHTS, NERVES GROUND DOWN. BOOZE, BLOW, PILLS, WHORES, YOU’RE A BEATEN MAN. THIS CONCERNS ME NOT, IT’S LAUGHABLE, FRANKLY. THIS DOES, HOWEVER, CONSUME YOU, CORRECT? THE TORMENT? IT CONSUMES YOU. I UNDERSTAND, JACKSON. HONESTLY, I DO UNDERSTAND. THE PROBLEM IS: I SIMPLY DO NOT CARE. NOT ANYMORE. I DON’T CARE.
Jackson, absent any persona, pretense, utterly unworried about perceptions, yelled out, like a child, for V.
—
V had her own routine. In any emergency regarding Jackson, she was to call Cline. Just call Cline. As said “emergencies” were becoming more and more frequent, so were her calls to Cline.
At some point in the day, Katherine returned. She saw Jackson lying in bed, some scattered pills on his nightstand, a tumbler half full next to those pills. For some reason he was happy to see her. Until she took in the full picture, shook her head, and mumbled, “Pathetic.”
That’s what he thought he heard her say. “Pathetic.” Maybe not. Maybe she was better than that.
From his bed he heard phone calls being made, calls being answered. He figured some collective decision had been made to send V into his room, like a doctor, about to deliver a diagnosis.
“Mr. Cline said you have a virus on your computer. He said it’s not a big deal. He said to tell you that a man is coming over to fix it.”
Jackson started to interrupt. No! No one touches my computer. V said, “Yes. A man is coming over to fix your computer.” Jackson was too weak. He nodded. He relented. Fine, V, you run the house.
V announced the arrival of the computer technician and, two hours later, his departure. Jackson, so completely mentally and physically exhausted that he did not engage this person, coming or going. He simply nodded to V, and he understood that she would understand that this nod, this nod of despair, meant “Let him in, let him work, let him out.” Jackson had only the strength to ponder the pills on his nightstand. The pink pills, the white pills, which did what? How many to take and when to take them? The pills were not producing Novel Fifteen. Why take them at all? Why not?
—
That same Saturday night, emboldened with the all chemical artifice, the liquor, powders, and pills, Jackson felt fortified to make one phone call.
Jackson’s direct line to Marlene was not unlike his direct line to Cline: exclusive, precious, rare. Even more so with Marlene than Cline. Even after Novel Three, Jackson had to go through Lyla, Marlene’s assistant and associate editor. All of Marlene’s authors had to go through Lyla; this was not a sign of disrespect, but rather a signifier of Marlene’s power. After Novel Three, Jackson demanded a direct cell-phone line and one was provided.
Marlene ignored the call. Her night: a huge charitable event. A charity that Marlene ran. However, Jackson kept calling and Marlene finally relented.
Jackson skipped the usual pleasantries.
“I’ve got a couple of problems, Marlene. I’m sorry if I caught you at a bad time—”
“I always have time for you, honey. You know that.”
Is that why I had to call six times? You�
�d better have time for me. I make you, your company a fortune. The day you stop having time for me? The day I make other people and their companies a fortune.
“I appreciate it, Marlene,” he said blandly, absent any appreciation.
Jackson went on to explain the problems, the two problems. “Cline sent a computer technician out here, and V said— Wait, Cline said he was repeating what the computer guy said.”
“I don’t know what you’re saying, Jackson.”
“I’m saying that somebody may have hacked my computer!” he shouted.
“Okay! So what? It happens every day!”
“Anybody in your office have a hard-on about me, dislike me, a grudge?”
“Of course not, Jackson. Oh, Christ, is that what this is about?” Then softly, as one might speak to a bridge jumper: “Honey, Jackson, my dear, nobody here hacked into your computer or wrote anything on it. We run a tight ship here, sweetie. We have to.” She’s doing Sweet Marlene, the phony. She’s actually irritated. I know the Sweet Marlene act. How dare this bitch sound irritated?
“Okay, fine.”
“And as far as not being able to write anything for five days, I mean, five days…think about it. It’s not that big a deal! The words will come. They always do!” Marlene began racing about her Upper East Side space looking for the right earrings, jewelry. She did not want to be late to her charity event.
Why are these people all taking this so lightly? Katherine, Cline, Marlene, V? And what will it take to jolt these people out of their frivolity and jolt them into my nightmare?
“Or maybe the words won’t come, Marlene. Ever think about that? Maybe I’m just…done. Maybe I want to be done.”
Marlene was silent for a beat.
Yes, those are jolting words.
“You’re not done, Jackson. You don’t want that, Jackson. The fifteenth novel! You can do that. Hey, maybe signing that contract will give you the inspiration to—”
Jackson hung up. Marlene sat on the edge of her bed. She began hunting for phone numbers. She was going to be late after all.
For the first time in more than a week, Jackson felt good. Other people were locked in his hell, his suffering. He took a pink pill, or was it a white pill? He took a nap, and after, when he entered his study, he did so knowing there would be new words on his computer. New words. He just simply knew it.
OH JACKSON, POOR JACKSON GREY! YOU THINK PHONE CALLS AND TECH PEOPLE CAN FIX YOUR PROBLEMS? YOU KNOW BETTER! YOU BELIEVE IDLE THREATS, THE THREAT OF QUITTING WHAT YOU STARTED NEARLY TWENTY YEARS AGO, CAN STOP THIS NIGHTMARE? YOUR HEAD IS SEVERED AND YOU’RE TRYING TO SEW IT BACK ON WITH THREAD! NO, THE WORDS WILL NOT COME, JACKSON. THEY’LL NEVER COME. NOVEL FIFTEEN? A FANTASY. YOU NEED MORE THREAD TO SEW YOUR HEAD ON. YOU’RE NOT IN A BIND, JACKSON. YOU ARE A BIND.
Jackson read these words blandly, as blandly as they were written. And after the car rolled up, gathered Jackson, and dropped him off at the Regal, which led to Andrew, which led to the Club, which led him to powders, the pills he could not identify, women whose names he did not know, things he did not remember, Jackson Grey got lost, lost himself for seventy-two hours.
What he did remember, and remember vividly, is that at someone’s urging (Was it Andrew’s? The Woman’s? CEO of Tech Company?) he did call Cline, he called Marlene, he told them he was done. Finished. He wanted his life back.
—
When Jackson returned Monday night (he stayed an extra day) absent of any memory of the past three days, lacking the desire to retrieve such memories, he entered his living room and found it occupied. Completely occupied. Sitting in or around his expensive view were Marlene, Cline, Katherine, V, and a woman, late thirties, whom he vaguely recognized as Lyla, Marlene’s assistant, the associate editor.
“Oh, look, what do we have here?” Jackson smirked.
“It’s not a fucking intervention,” Cline said. “Don’t worry.”
“We need to have a chat,” Marlene added.
“We had a chat, Marlene, remember? I need a break. A long break. A forever break.”
Marlene looked at Cline, then Jackson.
“Jackson…,” she implored.
“Somebody’s fucking with my computer, and frankly I don’t care who it is anymore. I see it as a sign. A sign I need to get out, Marlene.”
“And I need Novel Fifteen. We have a contract, Jackson.”
“A contract! A contract?” Jackson looked at Cline. Cline said nothing.
“Fine! We have a contract! I didn’t sign it! Tell her about unsigned contracts, Cline! Worthless. They’re worthless! Cline?”
“Jackson,” Cline said softly. “You really want to do this again? Just sign the contract, take some time off…”
Jackson glared at Cline. “You son of a bitch. Speak the fuck up! The contract!”
Katherine began softly. “Jackson. Calm down.” However, Jackson could not release his glare, his visual stranglehold on Cline.
He approached Cline. “You, working your ‘terms,’ such bullshit! I read that contract. Yeah, I read it this time. Now I’m getting paid a third of what I got paid to write the last two books combined! What a fucking insult!”
“Well,” Marlene began. “Times are tough—”
“Oh, please, Marlene! For Christ’s sake! I’m not an idiot!” Then glaring back at Cline.
Cline glared back. “What do you want, Jackson? What do you expect? You’re getting paid what you’re worth!”
“Are you fucking kidding? My books hit the New York Times bestseller list at—”
“Your books?” Marlene snapped. She looked at Cline. “You’re right. It’s happening big-time. He’s losing it.”
V cleared her throat. “What the hell is going on here? I don’t get it!”
“Of course you don’t, V,” Katherine said, dripping with vitriol. “You don’t get paid to…get it.”
“Listen, you bitch—” V started.
“I get paid to get it,” Katherine said, plainly.
“What? You mean like a whore?” V looked pleadingly at Jackson. That say-it-isn’t-so look that Jackson knew all too well.
“V! Don’t! Just…don’t…”
“Yeah,” Katherine smirked. “Like a whore.”
V stared at Jackson, pained. Jackson was suddenly somber. He remembered Novel Four. The pressure, the strain, the confusion. He’d needed release. He remembered gently pushing V to the bed. He remembered V struggling at first and then giving herself to him. He remembered it happened again, after Celina left. He remembered his desperate need for comfort. He remembered his admonition that such acts could never be discussed, and they never were. It was never discussed, it was never repeated. He paid V more than other men like Jackson paid the women who ran their industries.
Marlene looked at V. “He’s a wonderful public speaker!” she said, as if that alone would bring order to chaos.
“Oh, god, yes! Fucking great! I’ve heard him. That’s why he gets the big bucks to speak!” Cline chimed in.
“He’s a writer!” V said.
Marlene stood up. “Oh, for Christ’s sake! I flew out here for this shit again?”
Jackson crossed the living room toward the deck. “That’s right,” he said softly to himself. “I am a writer.”
Marlene turned toward V. “He was a writer, honey!”
“And it was a hell of a book! That first book. My god,” Cline said.
“It was. That’s when we got him,” Marlene said. “My company, Cline representing him—”
“The second book was pretty good too,” Cline added.
“It was okay. Just okay. It needed fixing,” Marlene answered.
“It was a hell of a fix!” Cline said, smiling.
“Can we stop this?” Jackson yelled. “I just wanted to write one book!” Then, staring at Marlene, “Then I’m stuck with a sequel you made me write!”
“Nobody made you, Jackson. And to be honest—”
Jackson interrupted. “One book! I fired
everybody after that book and got all of you. And you got your sequel!”
Marlene looked at Cline and finished his thought. “We saved you!” Marlene’s temper was getting the best of her. “That ‘sequel,’ or the thirty-something pages of it you delivered, was shit! It didn’t need fixing! It didn’t need rewriting! It was terrible! Just embarrassing! We didn’t fix it. We wrote it!”
“And it sold like wildfire, and you got all this, Jackson! Including her—” Cline pointed to Katherine. “And all the ‘hers’ before her.”
“It’s Katherine,” she said to Cline. Then, looking around, “I know,” she said, staring at V. “I know I’m the whore in this picture—but it’s Katherine. My name.”
“Whatever. Everybody knew what he or she was doing,” Cline added. “Everybody still knows what he or she is doing.”
It was unclear, at least to V, if Jackson knew what he was doing.
V looked pale. “You’ve written fourteen books, right, Jackson? Right?”
“I don’t know what I’ve written, V.”
Cline chuckled. Marlene piped in. “Oh, Jesus, the pity party again? Really?”
Jackson sat down, head in hands.
“That first book,” Marlene said. “It was just too good. Then the film.”
“I wouldn’t have been doing my job, I mean doing it the way it should be done, if we let it stop there,” Cline added. “And, Jackson, nobody made you sign that next contract. You wanted all of this. You wanted everything. And this is how we got it for you.”
“What’s he talking about, Jackson?” V asked.
Jackson faced Marlene. “I told you when I met you that I needed to get a horror novel out of my head. And then write, I don’t know, a book of poetry, a travel narrative, a biography.”
“And I told you it doesn’t work that way. Not with me, your editor, my company, your publisher, Cline, your attorney. We told you that your desires would keep you in some shithole studio apartment wasting away, unpublished, working a day job. But if you wanted us, this team, you had to play by our rules.”
“You promised me a way out of this one day!” Jackson blurted.
“Well, Jackson, I guess that day hasn’t come yet,” Marlene said. That day would never come. They all knew it. Except Jackson. Jackson knew only numbers, the numbers that spelled success, thus Marlene naturally adjusted her position toward that, toward the numbers. “And to be honest, I don’t think you can afford that day!”