“Just checking in to see how you’re coming along. I sent you a couple e-mails.”
“I’m out walking.”
“Coming up with some great ideas?”
“You know me,” Dennis said, avoiding the answer.
“I just got off the phone with Random House. You’re going to laugh at this.”
“They’re bankrupt?”
“They’re already in their fourth printing for Empty Spaces,” Maureen said. “Making 2.5 million copies in print.”
“The shredders are going to be busy.”
“The sales they’re tracking are going extremely well. And publicity is just starting to kick in too—”
As Maureen spoke, Dennis stopped and stared at the peaceful water reflecting the fading sun. For some time he heard her words but didn’t really hear a thing she said. Because as she spoke, another thought ran through his head.
Actually, it wasn’t a thought. It was a face.
Cillian Reed’s face. Those eyes.
“Dennis?”
“Yeah?”
“What do you think?”
“About what?”
“Us doing dinner when I’m in town.”
He remembered her saying something about a trip to Chicago, about coming out to visit him.
“I’m up for anything that’ll get me out of the house,” Dennis said casually. “Just let me know when.”
Maureen laughed and told him she had already e-mailed him when she was coming.
After hanging up the phone, Dennis felt a dread hanging over him. He didn’t want to see Maureen. He didn’t want to talk about the novel that had just been released and oh yeah, by the way wasn’t his. And he didn’t want to talk about the novel that he should be writing because oh yeah, by the way he hadn’t even started it.
And maybe Cillian would show up to crash their dinner.
As he stepped through the trees at the edge of his property and back onto his lawn, he noticed something on his deck near the sliding glass door.
The closer he got, the more he expected it to fly away or scamper off. But it didn’t.
And then he saw why.
The body of a Canada Goose lay on its side next to the door, but its head and neck were somewhere else.
And the glass door…
Dennis cursed out loud, wondering if he really saw what he thought he was looking at.
It looked like something had been smeared across the glass. Something bloody and wet with clumps in it.
As he walked up the steps to the deck, he saw where the head and neck had gone.
They were resting on the wooden table. Right next to a blood-smeared note.
Dennis froze. He scanned the lawn, the tall trees on each side, the river, even the sides of the Victorian home. He listened to see if anybody was around, but he was alone.
Just him and this dead goose.
3.
He flung the note across the kitchen, and it went flying better than most paper airplanes, shooting upward until it hit the small chandelier above the round breakfast table. It dropped down and seemed to rest, waiting, beating like a just-removed heart.
This time he didn’t hesitate. He grabbed the cordless phone on the counter and dialed a familiar number. A cheery voice answered.
“Hey, Ryan, it’s Dennis.”
“Oh, hey,” the deputy replied. “I just passed your way not long ago.”
“I have a situation I need a little input on.”
“Did that young lady come back around?” Ryan joked.
“No. It’s along those same lines, but this time I’m a little worried.”
“What happened?”
“Somebody left a dead goose on my deck, along with a note.”
“A dead what?”
“Goose.”
Ryan chuckled. “Bet that’s a pretty sight. What’d the note say?”
“I’ll let you read it.”
“You know who it’s from?”
“Yeah.”
Dennis didn’t plan to tell Ryan everything. This call was unofficial, and he would urge Ryan to approach the situation that way.
“Is it threatening?”
“Kind of,” Dennis repeated. “Any chance you could swing by?”
“No problem. I can be there in the hour.”
Dennis shut off the phone and went to pick up the note. He slid it out of the crimson-speckled envelope and read it again.
Dear Mr. Writer:
Or can I still call you that? Didn’ t you once say a writer is anyone who writes?
I hate Canada Geese. Do you know what it sounds like when you break their necks? The sound is delightful. Loud, wild, even with their head torn from their body. I wanted to leave this here to remind you that I’m not far.
We need to talk soon. But I will tell you where and when. In the meantime, watch your neck—I mean back!
Mr. Aspiring Writer (Who Writes)
Dennis put down the note, knowing this was just the start. The kid would soon be wanting more. Instead of simply harassing him, Cillian might start asking for money. Or things might get dangerous.
Even after doing Google searches linking Cillian Reed and writing, Dennis had found nothing on the young man. The young writer. The young fan he had ignored and then stolen from.
“Watch your neck—I mean back!”
That was a threat if he’d ever heard one.
Dennis looked around his house as though someone might be there. Then he cursed at himself, the note, the whole situation.
He knew it could be a very long winter if he kept this up, seeing things and being afraid of what was behind his back.
For a brief moment, Dennis thought of his safe in the garage, of the handgun locked there in a fireproof vault the size of a car engine.
The thought was a mild comfort.
4.
“There’s not a lot I can do about this.”
Ryan wore jeans and a sweatshirt. He was off today, but still thought enough of Dennis to come by. He was tall and lean with a crew cut and narrow eyes behind narrow glasses. He fit his role well: looking young and inexperienced, the kind of guy who wrote tickets but wasn’t going to chase down any crazy murderers. He looked like he could be a teenager, even though Dennis knew Ryan was in his midtwenties.
“There’s no name, nothing too threatening.”
“What about the goose?”
“Well, yeah, that could be vandalism, but again, how do you know who it was?”
“I know.”
“You have some interesting fans. It could be any one of them.” Ryan smiled, but Dennis didn’t return it.
“When should I officially report this?”
“Any time you’d like. You could make it official, start a report. Just in case.”
“In case what?”
“In case anything else happens.”
“I can’t. I don’t want any of this to be official. No reports filed, nothing like that.”
“The police can’t do anything if you don’t report this.”
Dennis nodded. “I just—maybe I just wanted you to know about it. So if something else happens, I can get your input.”
“I say file a report. Nothing’s going to happen from doing that.”
“There are some questions I don’t want to answer.”
“Like what?”
“That’s what I want to avoid. Questions.”
“Are you sure you know who you’re talking about?” Ryan asked. “It’s not someone else?”
Dennis shook his head.
“Did you ever kill a goose in any of your books?” the deputy asked.
For a second Dennis wondered if Ryan was joking. He couldn’t help laughing. “To be honest, I don’t remember. I’ve killed a lot of people—animals too—in my books. Never killed a dog, I know that. That’s the one thing my publisher once said. Never kill a dog. But as for a goose—you’ve got me there.”
“I still think it might just be a fan’s homage to you.
”
“Pretty sick homage, wouldn’t you say?”
“You’re the storyteller. Every author attracts certain readers, right? Imagine if you were writing those Fabio-covered romances.”
“Yeah. I’d get women throwing their girdles at me.”
“Now that’s scary.”
“I really don’t think this was a random fan,” Dennis said.
“Then look—just—if you reconsider, let me know. I can take down something official at the station. And if you see anything else that’s—strange, I guess—just let me know.”
5.
“Den.”
He raised his eyebrows and mumbled something.
“Den, listen.”
He groaned and shook his head.
“Den, I’m here. You have to listen to me.”
“Okay, yeah, sure.”
He tried to open his eyes, but they were heavy and the bedroom was dark.
“You have to be careful.”
“Okay.”
“Something bad is about to happen. To you. To Audrey.”
He opened his eyes and reached out. His hand touched nothing but blanket and extra pillows.
The voice sounded—it sounded like many things. It was vibrant, full of so much love and life. But more than anything, it really truly sounded like Lucy.
It was her.
Dennis stared at the ceiling above, the silence of the bedroom suffocating, like an invisible gas covering him. The kind you breathe in a gas chamber.
He kept his eyes open, waiting to hear her voice again. But it wouldn’t come.
2005
It was an old farm that hadn’t been used for farming in years and rested in the middle of nowhere. They had traveled west on the interstate for at least an hour, then turned off onto a dirt side road that stretched into the flat emptiness of Illinois until it reached the house and barn. By then darkness washed over the countryside like a blanket covering the dead.
The big guy’s name was Bob. He led them to the house first, turning on a dim light in the kitchen. The bulb flickered like it was ready to take its last breath. Bob wasn’t a man of many words. He liked to show things instead of talking about them.
And that was why they had come out here. Bob wanted to show Cillian something.
The wind screamed outside, the old house creaking and groaning in reply. The kitchen smelled of body odor and garlic, its white surfaces splattered in grime—the refrigerator now dark with rust, the sink coated in brown, the floor thick with mud and dirt. On the table sat a long hunter’s knife next to a plate of dried-out fruit.
Bob opened the fridge, the squeaking door showing its age. He didn’t ask but handed Cillian a beer. Cillian took it and guzzled half of it down. He noticed his hand shaking.
“I’ll be right back,” Bob said.
Cillian finished the rest of the beer and looked around. His eyes took in everything, but they kept coming back to the large hunting knife on the table. For a second, as he heard the footsteps approaching, he thought of grabbing the knife. Just in case.
He had no idea what the big guy had done or what he might be planning.
All he had said was: “Want to see a corpse?”
And Cillian, fascinated, half drunk, and mostly skeptical, had told Bob sure.
The big guy lumbered back into the kitchen, stopped for a second and looked at Cillian.
The only thing Cillian knew about this guy was that his name was Bob and that he divided his time between living on this farm and living with his parents in the house in Geneva. Cillian still hadn’t been inside the house, and the way Bob acted and spoke about it, he might never go there. Bob’s parents sounded bizarre, their house closed off, their lives a mystery.
The way Bob looked at him made him think Bob could easily take the knife and cut him up and feed him to the pigs. If, indeed, there were pigs to feed him to.
“Come on,” the big guy finally said.
It was a short walk to the barn through the fierce wind. Cillian could make out the bulky silhouette in front of him, the peculiar gait. Bob swung open a large door on the side of the barn, and they entered the silent, cold blackness.
It felt like a tomb.
Cillian stopped upon entering the barn, the smell unbearable. It wasn’t a barnyard smell, the kind associated with livestock and manure.
This smelled like something gone bad.
Like something dead.
He paused for a minute, forcing himself to take a deep, stinging sniff. It wasn’t something dead, but someone dead. This was what the dead smelled like, and it was worse than he’d imagined. His eyes watered, and his stomach lurched.
Bob’s boots shuffled across the floor. Finally a small gas lamp flicked on, the unsteady flame illuminating the open space around them.
Cillian could see an old tractor rusting away in its last resting spot in the center of the barn. Stalls that once housed cattle or horses now sat unused, untouched. Hay still remained on the fl oor.
The big guy stared at him for a second. Thinking. Perhaps wondering whether to trust him, or perhaps wondering whether to kill him.
Cillian had doubted that Bob actually did what he claimed to do. But he didn’t doubt it anymore.
It wasn’t just the deep, undeniable stench. It was everything. This farm in the middle of nowhere and the way Bob looked at him with that blank stare. The feeling filled the barn the same way the smell did. It was thick, throbbing, and very real.
This was what Cillian had wanted to see, to taste, to touch: pure, unmitigated terror.
The big guy shuffled through the barn, leading Cillian past open stalls. Shadows scattered and shifted. At one point Cillian thought he saw something that looked like a hand. Something that looked like a skeleton.
Close to the last stall, the smell still putrid, Bob held up the gas lamp. He waved it, urging Cillian toward the enclosed space.
Cillian approached slowly, with hesitation and fear. The fear crawled all over him. It felt electric and fantastic.
The first thing he saw was a bruised, pink ankle sticking out of the dark muck.
Then he looked farther and saw who it belonged to.
And upon seeing the open mouth and ripped cheek, then taking in the motionless face that looked up at him with shrieking eyes, he knew one thing.
Nothing would ever be the same again.
Threats in the Dark
1.
—Do you believe in ghosts?
—No.
—But you write about them.
—I know. But I make things up.
—I believe in them.
—You do, huh? And why’s that?
—Just because. Because I know they’re real.
—You once believed in Santa Claus.
—But that’s because you both told me he was real. I’m older now.
—You’re twelve.
—So?
—I guess that’s old enough to believe in ghosts.
—It’s easy to believe. It’s a lot easier than not believing.
2.
Dennis jerked up, twisting his neck and wincing in pain. He had been asleep in his office chair, the iMac in front of him sleeping as well, the lone lamp on his desk the only sign of life around. As he rubbed the back of his neck to get rid of some of the ache, he adjusted to the light. It was two thirty.
He hadn’t been able to write or create in such a long time. Sitting in a chair and facing the computer didn’t spark anything. It always just resulted in him playing a game or e-mailing or wandering around on the Web or falling asleep.
He looked at a picture of Audrey in grade school and remembered what he had been dreaming about. Sometimes he dreamed memories. It seemed like lately that had been happening a lot. And this one was from a memory of when Audrey wanted to read his books and he’d told her she was too young. She thought twelve was old enough to read her father’s works, thus resulting in a conversation about things for children versus things for adults. And o
ut of that came the conversation about ghosts.
Audrey believed in ghosts because her mother believed in them.
A lot changed after the miscarriage, especially for Lucy. And one of those things was her faith.
Dennis shut off the office light and headed toward his bedroom. The wood floor creaked as usual. But tonight the groans seemed louder, the darkness more foreboding. He was used to wandering the house in the darkness, by himself, without a care. But tonight he couldn’t help thinking someone else was in the house.
The rustle of wind sounded outside. He entered his bedroom, greeted by silence, emptiness. He thought about the book he couldn’t write, the bills he couldn’t pay, the house in Colorado he couldn’t sell. He had thought about selling this house, but Audrey wouldn’t stand for it. Yet the place sometimes felt like a cold, dark tomb to him. A shrine to a dead woman.
An image of the girl jumping off the bridge filled his mind. He could see the embers beneath the bridge, glowing in the darkness of his imagination, just like they had years ago when he wrote that scene.
Then he thought about Cillian and about Samantha who warned him about all of this.
“You’ve done something, and you need to be careful.”
He could see her lifeless eyes and her bruised arms. He splashed water on his face, unable to get rid of the image.
“This man wants to hurt you. And it’s all because.… Plain and simple, the book cannot come out. It can’t be released. Ever.”
Dennis stared at himself in the large mirror.
Now what?
And why did Cillian assault a young woman simply to warn Dennis?
If he would do something like that just to make a point, what would he do to Dennis?
The thoughts made his head hurt. The guilt of taking the manuscript along with the threats and the hallucinations and the stress over his finances…
Perhaps this was what happened when pent-up sadness and loss finally got to you.
You start losing your mind.
But he knew his mind was fine. The creative juices weren’t there, sure, but perhaps the upcoming meeting with his agent would help. Or maybe he’d take a vacation and get away.
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