Maybe you’ll find another manuscript just sitting in the closet waiting for you to plagiarize, waiting for you to steal.
This voice was different, sounding a lot like Cillian Reed.
He shook his head and gave himself a look of disgust and disappointment before shutting off his thoughts along with the lights and climbing into bed.
Dennis had always been good at burying things. But the grave was overflowing, and he could no longer keep everything inside it.
Just as he was starting to relax into sleep the phone blared, and he jerked in the darkness to find it. The cordless was somewhere.… It was loud, louder than usual, but he couldn’t find it.
It kept ringing.
Finally he found it in the armchair in the corner, a chair that was more for decoration and for holding clothes than it was for sitting on.
The chair, another ghost of the past.
He clicked on the receiver.
It was Cillian.
3.
“Would you like to play a game?”
Dennis paused, standing up, gripping the phone. “What do you want?”
Laughter heckled him.
“It’s a good day to die.”
“Listen, you little creep,” Dennis started, “your threats don’t mean a thing to me. Why don’t you try to come around here again?”
“No tears please. It’s a waste of good suffering.”
“What?”
The laughter continued.
“Don’t watch many horror movies, do you, Dennis? You write about them, but you’re not a fan of them. You don’t believe in them. You don’t live them. But that can all change. I know.”
“What’s going to change is you coming down here and getting the life beaten out of you.”
“Whatever you do, don’t fall asleep.”
“Don’t what?”
“Surely you know where that’s from.”
“Where what’s from?”
“That quote. ‘Whatever you do, don’t fall asleep.’ ”
“This isn’t a game, buddy.”
“Nightmare on Elm Street. Now could you come up with something that good? I used to like your fiction, Dennis. I really did. But something happened.”
“If you keep harassing me, I’m going to call the police.”
“You got bored, Dennis. You got uninspired.”
“I swear,” Dennis yelled, “I’ll call the cops.”
“Didn’t you already? Or is that young deputy just a good friend who gives you writing tips for nothing more than a handshake and a pat on the back?”
“Are you watching me?” Dennis said. “Are you actually watching me now?”
There was silence.
“’Cause if you are, you’d better run if I find you.”
“Want to see something really scary?”
“This isn’t a joke, kid.”
“We all go a little mad sometimes. Haven’t you?”
“I’m not kidding. You don’t want to do this, buddy.”
Cillian chuckled, then paused for a second. “Dennis, I have one question for you.”
“I’m not scared of your threats. Nobody’s going to believe that I stole anything from you.”
“Dennis?”
He remained silent for a moment. Finally the voice spoke very clearly, very softly.
“ ‘Have you checked the children?’ ”
He knew that movie line, and it wasn’t funny.
Dennis started to rail on the cordless, but he was talking to dead air. Looking at the phone, he thought for a second. It was a threat, sure, but this time it was different.
This time the guy was talking about his daughter.
And he wasn’t taking the chance that the guy was just joking around. Not with Audrey.
4.
“Audrey?”
The voice on the other end was muffled.
His heart raced.
“Audrey, are you okay?”
“Dad?”
“Yeah.”
“Dad, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I’m just checking on you. I’m sorry—look, I’ll explain. Just tell me you’re okay.”
“I’m fine.”
“I know I’m calling—”
“It’s quarter after one. And that’s here. It’s like three in the morning where you are. What are you doing?”
“I don’t want to alarm you—”
“Well, you are alarming me. Are you okay?” Audrey asked, now fully awake, her voice anxious.
“Yes. Just—you need to know. I’ve recently been having some problems with a crazed fan.”
“Another one? Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yes, I’m fine. And tomorrow I’m going to talk to the police, okay? It just—this one—he’s a first. He’s not just kinda crazy. He’s dangerous.”
“Did he hurt you?”
“No, no—I’m fine. Everything’s fine, honey. Just—you never know. Nowadays you have to be careful. You never know what someone’s capable of. And I just want you to be careful, okay? Just be a little more careful than usual. Let your friends know. It’s not like—I seriously doubt this guy is going to do anything more than call and e-mail, but you never know.”
“Has he done anything else?”
Dennis thought of the dead goose. That little bit of information could be edited. Audrey, the animal lover, didn’t need to hear about that. She might never step foot on their deck again.
“I just wanted to make sure you knew—to make sure that if you see or hear anything unusual you’ll be careful. Okay? And let me know about it.”
“Okay, sure. But are you being careful?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. Everything’s fine. I’m just—you just watch out, okay? Just in case. Promise me you’ll be careful.”
“I will. You too.”
Dennis shut off the phone and lay on the bed, expecting to hear the phone ring again. But it didn’t.
He remained awake for a long time, staring into the darkness, waiting to hear something, wondering what would happen next.
2006
Cillian watched them through the bedroom window. The happy family with their happy smiles and their happy lives and their happy happiness. He wanted to cram their happiness down their throats and make them choke on it.
The bedroom smelled putrid. It was dimly lit, messy like the rest of the house, with boxes and bags and garbage and nastiness everywhere. The smell was so bad it had been difficult walking through the front door. The big guy’s parents weren’t around, or if they were he hadn’t seen them. All he wanted when he walked in was to go upstairs and spy on the neighbors like he was doing now.
The bestselling author, his pretty wife, and hot daughter.
The invasion of privacy, the secrecy, the spying made Cillian feel a little better. Just a little.
How dare he be ignored?
Bob shuffled into the room holding a beer, offering him one.
“No,” he said, staring out through binoculars.
It was midafternoon and the family had gone inside. For half an hour, Cillian hadn’t seen anything.
“Want me to kill them?”
He stared at the big guy and realized he wasn’t kidding. “No. Look at me. Nothing happens to them. You don’t do anything to them, got it?”
Bob just nodded.
He was sick, this guy. Interesting and fascinating in a sick, twisted sort of way. But utterly stupid. He didn’t want Bob interfering.
He had big plans. He wanted to make Dennis Shore’s life a little more… interesting.
Bob couldn’t help. He didn’t understand how to be subtle.
“You need a little taste,” Bob said to him.
“A taste of what?”
The big guy rummaged in the corner of the room, pulling out a shirt and a pair of pants, then a few bags, a bed sheet.
“Look at this,” Bob said, holding up what looked like a set of sharp prongs.
“What’s that?”
“It’s one of my—one of my toys.”
“What’s it for?”
“Hurting.” Bob laughed in a way that a mentally disabled person might. “It’s called the heretic’s fork. Used in medieval times for torture. You put this part under someone’s chin, then the other on his chest, tying this around his neck so he can’t move. You don’t penetrate any vital points, so it prolongs the pain.”
Cillian examined the instrument, then the guy holding it.
This was why Bob intrigued him. And why it was good hanging out with him. This could go well in the newest book he was writing.
It was about a psychotic killer.
He looked at the big guy.
A psychotic killer who didn’t have any feeling, any remorse, any gauge of good and evil.
The good—if there had been any—had left him a long time ago and had been replaced with grime and stink and filth, just like the house his parents lived in.
Just like his heart.
Great fodder.
Amazingly great fodder for a real author. Not for phonies like the guy next door.
Want to see real horror, Mr. Shore?
He watched Bob play with his fork apparatus.
I’m looking at it right now.
And I want you to get a glimpse too.
Malicious and Deliberate
1.
“I’ve got a problem.”
Maureen nodded, but the expression on her face didn’t change. The word Dennis often used to describe his agent was unruffled. She never seemed bothered, and her mood was always optimistic. Perhaps that’s what it took to be an agent. To not let the insanity of publishing get you down, to see the possibilities instead of dwelling on failures.
As Dennis took a sip of wine, he realized he had probably had a little too much to drink. His head swirled around the muted light of the small dining room, the other tables quiet in conversation. They were at a quiet French restaurant, perfect for intimate conversation. After talking for most of the hour about Audrey and about Maureen’s nephews and nieces, they were finally getting down to the wonderful world of business.
“I’m not really sure what to do about it.”
“Well, maybe I can help you,” Maureen said, taking another bite of her fish.
Maureen was probably in her late forties, even though she looked more like she was in her late thirties. Dennis always forgot how tall she was until he greeted her with an awkward hug. She was slender with dark hair kept short. She wasn’t exactly attractive, at least not in Dennis’s estimation. He preferred a little shorter, a little more round. Maureen had an edge about her, as though all of her interesting sexy parts had been whittled down to nothing.
He hadn’t exactly planned to tell her what was going on with his writing. Or what wasn’t going on with his writing. But he hadn’t planned on ordering so much wine either. And if he was going to tell anybody, it might as well be her.
“I’m behind on my novel.”
“Really? That’s a first, isn’t it?”
“No, not exactly.”
“How far behind?”
“All I have is a title.”
Maureen smiled with surprise. “That’s all?”
“Yeah.”
“And it’s due at the end of October, right?”
Dennis nodded, raising his eyebrows, giving her a what now glance.
“You’re a fast writer.”
“Not that fast.”
“Look what you did with Empty Spaces. Remember your anxiety before the benefit? Maybe nerves stimulate your writing.”
He couldn’t help but laugh.
“A lot of artists do their best work under immense pressure,” Maureen said.
“Paying a second mortgage on a Colorado chalet isn’t typical artist pressure.”
“I’m talking about Lucy. I can’t imagine how I’d go on if I lost my husband.”
“Denial’s a great thing. But it eventually catches up with you. Just like unpaid bills.”
“You’ve had a tough couple of years, Dennis. We can always postpone the new book—”
“No.”
“I’m just suggesting—”
“Maureen, things are—they’re really tight. I never expected to be in a bind like this. Lucy’s medical bills—I just wanted her to get better, you know? I didn’t care about the costs. I hadn’t been concerned about money since Breathe took off. And right now—I need that advance check. And the only way to get it is to hand in a good manuscript.”
“I can ask James about getting the check to you early.”
“I already asked. They can pay me when the manuscript is in hand, but legally they’re not able to cut a check now. They’re pretty strict on that, even with one of their top authors.”
“I can talk to him again—”
“I just—you heard James talking up the new book when we saw him. How Random is ramping up its efforts—how they can’t wait to see the new book. All this pressure—I never thought it would affect me. I never thought I’d let it get to me.”
Maureen started to say something, then paused. “You still have time, Dennis. You can do it.”
But even as he nodded, there was only one thing on his mind. He thought about the upcoming anniversary of Lucy’s death, how it approached on the horizon like a blazing fire in the night sky. He didn’t want to drive toward it, but he had to. There was no other direction he could go.
The wine tasted refreshing. He took a large sip and thought of Cillian Reed.
If the kid decided to tell someone and found a way to prove it, this conversation would be meaningless. It wouldn’t matter whether Dennis handed his next book in. He wouldn’t have that chance. All that would matter was what was left of his writing legacy.
“Dennis?”
“Yeah?”
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah. Just tired.”
“I hope you don’t mind me saying so, but you look tired. I saw that in New York.”
“You know how you can fake it so well that you can almost convince yourself you’re okay? Sometimes I think—no, I guess I know—that’s what I’ve been doing. But I’ve had to. For Audrey. For everyone.”
Maureen’s eyes brimmed with sadness and sincerity. “You’re allowed the chance to grieve too.”
“Yeah, I guess so.” He drained his glass as his eyes filled. He wasn’t sure if it was the wine or traces of tears. “I guess I just don’t do that very well.”
“I don’t think anybody does. And everybody goes about it their own way.”
Dennis nodded. He glanced at Maureen, then at the paintings on the walls around them. He suddenly had déjà vu. He remembered being here with James and Maureen, with just one big change: Lucy had been here with them.
“I’m just—I’m afraid, Maureen.”
She laughed. She always laughed when someone said that word around Dennis. “You’re never afraid.”
“I know. But I’m afraid now. I’m scared that I haven’t grieved yet, but that I’m about ready to start. And where will it take me?”
2.
A writer has to be fearless.
His wife’s words came to him on the ride home. Maureen was driving his SUV at his suggestion, the sleeping town of Geneva passing them by. He couldn’t recall when Lucy had said it to him, but it had been just as his first horror novel was taking off and he found himself writing another.
He had made an offhanded remark to Lucy, telling her she needed to write a book too. And she had responded that she could never write.
—You need to be fearless to be a writer.
—No, you don’t. You just make things up. Tell a good story.
—That’s not all you do.
—Then what is it? It’s not like I’m in the Marines risking my life. Or trying to find a cure for cancer.
—You’re putting your heart and soul out there for others to see. For others to criticize and critique.
—Oh come on. Maybe with my first two novels. But we
see how well those did.
—I’m not joking, Den. Breathe isn’t just a ghost story, and you and I both know it. You might be able to tell everybody it’s just a spooky little story, but I know why you wrote it.
—You told me to write it.
—It’s about Abby, about losing her, about a family struggling with grief. But you did it in a remarkable way.
—I don’t know about that.
—Everything you write is a part of you. That’s what makes your writing special. But that’s what also makes it hard. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t go to those places.
—Please. I just have an overactive imagination.
—It’s more than that. You’re able to go to the dark places that we all have. Some people pretend they don’t exist. But you dive into them and create a story out of them.
But as he and Maureen neared his house, Dennis realized it had been some time since he had done that.
3.
The whole night suddenly split open with white specters.
What at first looked like garbage blowing from his driveway onto Route 31 turned into pages drifting across the road.
“What’s all over your lawn?” Maureen asked as she steered through the wall of shrubs and under tall trees toward the house.
They were everywhere. Hundreds, maybe thousands of sheets of paper.
Dennis couldn’t control the expletive that escaped his mouth.
“What is this?” Maureen asked.
Dennis stepped out of the Volvo as it stopped halfway down the driveway toward the garage. Headlights cut through the darkness, illuminating the path under the trees along the lawn. The breeze blew a few sheets onto his windshield.
These weren’t pages from a printer. These were pages from books.
And they had text on them.
Along with something else.
Dennis knelt down and picked up a piece of paper. He recognized it instantly.
He tried another one that had dark smudges on its edges.
Another had something written over the text.
Ghostwriter Page 9