Ghostwriter

by Travis Thrasher

  “You are in a barn two hours west of Chicago on an unnamed and unknown farm. You’re bound and very close to dying.”

  “So what is this? A hallucination?”

  She still grips his hand, her face so smooth, the smile so perfect.

  “No. This, Dennis, is real. It’s soft and it’s peaceful and it’s very much real.”

  “Is this heaven?”

  She nods. “This is a snapshot of it.”

  “Are you real?”

  “Yes. And even though I know you never told Audrey what I asked you to tell her, it still applies. It’s still very much true.”

  He goes to hug her but she stands back. “No.”

  “Lucy…”

  “Dennis, your life and your being and everything you’ve created are but a breath in the rest of time. But there is one thing that endures. One hope.”

  “Lucy—what—”

  “It’s love. And love can conquer anything, Dennis.”

  “Not this,” he says. “Not this life and not with the evil that’s out there.”

  “Terror is real, Dennis, but so is love. Love doesn’t delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.”

  “Is this made up?”

  “No. The stories you write, they’re made up. But they contain pearls of yourself. This place is not a dream or a mirage. It’s real. As real as the love you still have inside.”

  “Then I want to stay here.”

  “You can’t. You have to be invited, Dennis. And you have to accept the invitation. And all of this—this madness, this darkness—is all part of you being called.”

  “I don’t understand. Called to what?”

  “Called to believe. Called to accept that life is not in your control.”

  “But what about—what about Audrey—”

  “You need to keep that love in your heart. That’s what keeps it beating.”

  He thinks for a moment but then winces, changing the thought, unable to consider something so horrible here.

  “I’m with you, know that. And know that you’re not alone. You’ve never been alone. Never.”

  He knows he could never create something like this, this pure and this true. He’s tried but over and over and over again he fails because he is flawed.

  “I don’t want to go back.”

  “This is but a glimpse, an image you’ve been allowed to see. Just like I was allowed to see.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re loved. And because there are those you love who believe despite not having seen.”

  “I don’t—”

  She nudges his hand. “You’re loved. So fight with that love and don’t give up. Don’t stop. And always know I’m here.”

  Lucy, don’t.

  But he blinks and the lake and the trees and the sky and the beauty all disappear.

  And he finds himself in darkness again.

  “Dennis.”

  Lucy, I don’t want to leave you. Don’t make me leave you.

  “Dennis!”

  I love you and always will love you, and no matter what happens…

  “Dennis, come on, man!”

  I will be the man who loves you, the boy who fell in love with a girl.

  “Dennis.”

  He opens his eyes again, and this time he finds himself even more surprised than he was when he saw Lucy.

  He sees Hank and knows he’s no longer in heaven.

  5 a.m. Halloween

  Bob sits on the chair, shirtless, his bare feet and bare chest not cold even in the frigid temperature of the house. Sweat runs down his hairy back; his hands grip the knife.

  He is debating what to use. On the table in front of him are various tools.

  The wind screams, and his house shakes.

  There is a rattling, then a whine.

  He doesn’t notice where it comes from.

  The blade he caresses cuts his finger, ever so slightly. But he knows it will do and it will do fine.

  A shadow inches out of the back room, the storage room, the room where he keeps waste that he will eventually throw away.

  For a long time Bob stares at the foot-long blade with fascination and awe. He doesn’t hear the footsteps behind him, nor does he see the face of the man walking toward him.

  But he does hear the loud creak in the floor. He turns slowly, not afraid, not surprised.

  Bob has never seen the man before in his life. A red-headed man, burly and tough.

  And white as a ghost.

  As he is about to stand up, the intruder says something.

  “What kind of sick perverted freak are you?”

  Shaking his head, the redheaded man doesn’t hesitate. The gun in his hand doesn’t waver. The .38 he’s holding doesn’t shake. And the first bullet he fires hits Bob right in the chest.

  He drops the blade and looks at the man.

  “What have you done? Where is he? Tell me where he is right now!”

  He starts to laugh, and the redheaded guy walks over to him and presses the gun against his forehead.

  He is not afraid.

  “Tell me where he is right now. I swear, tell me, you monster! You pig, tell me!”

  Bob winces and laughs and then the laughter stops.

  It stops when he sees someone behind the redheaded man.

  He sees the glaring, leering face of the kid. The boy named Cillian.

  And then everything is black, and he begins to hear the screams.

  Grim and Unrepentand

  1.

  “Audrey.”

  It was the first word he spoke. Ankles and wrists tied with electrical wire, blood dripping, a swollen eye and bloody nose and mouth, Dennis looked like a prisoner of war. And all he could say to Hank was Audrey.

  “Hey, come on, let’s get you up.”

  But Dennis kept saying it. “Audrey. Audrey. Audrey.”

  Tears ran down his face.

  “Dennis, come on, man.”

  “No.”

  “Dennis, she’s fine.”

  “No, no.”

  “Den—I just came from the house. I just saw her, okay? She’s a basket case, but she’s okay.”

  “No.”

  “I saw her just an hour ago. The police are with her. Ryan just got there, okay? She’s in good hands. And she’s worried sick about you.”

  “The car—the boy—the white—Mitch—”

  “The cops are coming.”

  “Give me your phone,” Dennis said with a slight slur.

  “No, you need to—”

  Dennis cursed at him and demanded the phone.

  Hank gave it to him and Dennis tried to dial the number but couldn’t.

  “Here, hold on.”

  Hank dialed and waited.

  “Audrey? Hey—I have your father—”

  Dennis took the phone in his right hand. It shook as he held it.

  “Audrey?”

  “Dad, where are you?”

  Never had a voice sounded so refreshingly wonderful.

  All he could do was weep.

  She’s still alive.

  A hand went around him, then another took the phone. It spoke, but Dennis couldn’t hear what was spoken.

  “Thank you, God. Thank you.”

  Dennis went down to his knees and continued crying, but these tears were tears of joy.

  Joy, and humility.

  2.

  This is what he remembers about the moments that follow.

  Hank not saying much, looking pale and horrified, only asking Dennis what he needs.

  The flashing lights of a squad car approaching at a maddening pace, followed by more lights and sirens and madness.

  One policeman turning into twenty men and women, all around him, their faces changing from tough and curious to faint and appalled.

  Several people asking him questions, sensitive, looking for answers.

  Paramedics putting him on a stretcher, giving him
an IV, checking him over, asking more questions.

  Hank staying at his side even when pushed to answer more questions.

  Squad cars and ambulances and fire trucks.

  Men and women white with disbelief, their faces saying it all.

  Such utter and absolute horror.

  He’s too weak to think anymore, too shocked to put all the pieces together, too relieved, too distraught to ask Hank how come those big hands of his were so bloody.

  Dennis doesn’t ask because he knows. And he doesn’t want to know.

  These aren’t the pages of a story. They’re the life he’s living out. Sometimes, on some days, horror and misery and suffering find their place and a life to terrorize. And thus, a tale is told, grim and unrepentant, with no happy ending.

  And after what all these people find on this farm, including what surrounded him for a night he’ll never forget, there will only be more pain and suffering.

  But unlike the character in Empty Spaces, Dennis breathes life.

  And he knows who allows him to.

  3.

  At the hospital, finally able to rest, Dennis looks at his friend who had not left his side since finding him in the barn.

  “You saved my life.” He states the obvious.

  “I was lucky.”

  “How?”

  “That guy—your friend, the young guy—that night he saw us at Pancho’s. There was no way anybody knew that about me.”

  “Knew what? What are you talking about?”

  “When he referred to Bailey—the dog I drove over one night when I was plastered. The one I buried in my backyard.

  Nobody ever knew about that. I never told a soul, Den. Including you.”

  “You said you didn’t remember—”

  “He freaked me out. I didn’t know what to say. So I did a little research on him.”

  “What do you mean research?”

  “I went to talk to his family. And they told me he got to know a man—this guy named Bob. They said they knew his last name because it was so unique—Holzknecht. They told the authorities that too.”

  Dennis had heard that name before.

  “Why does that…”

  “Yeah, it sounds familiar, doesn’t it? Your neighbors—their last name is Holz.”

  Dennis nodded, still trying to figure out the connection.

  “Your—fan, or whatever you want to call him. He became good buddies with this Bob character. And I believe that’s who killed him.”

  “You believe he’s dead.”

  Hank nodded. “And after what I saw tonight…” He let out a sigh. “I think they’re going to find that guy’s parents. And we’re lucky because we could have…”

  Dennis nodded. He knew.

  “But how did you know about—about the barn?”

  “I got your message and drove over. You weren’t around. You babbled in your voice mail, talking about the neighbors and about Audrey. Your car was there, and it looked like you had just disappeared. I decided to go next door to ask the Holzes some questions, and instead I found—I found a messy place.”

  “Not as messy as the farm.”

  “Yeah. The farm is registered under a Bernard and Henrietta Holzknecht. It took me about an hour to find an address in that outhouse I was in. I just—I’m telling you, man, I just knew. I knew something was up.”

  “But how?”

  “I had a dream. And I saw you—I saw you in mud and darkness and knew you were in trouble. Heck, maybe it was just my imagination after hearing that from that young guy. I don’t know. I just know that I needed to find you.”

  “You did.”

  “Yeah.”

  Dennis gave his friend a glance that said more than the words he uttered: “Thanks, Hank.”

  “If this was one of your books, I’d be dead right now.”

  Dennis nodded but didn’t feel like joking about the dead.

  There were plenty of them back there at that farm, plenty of bodies to identify, plenty of families the news would destroy.

  “Hank, can you do me one more favor?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Can you go get Audrey?”

  Part Five

  All That’s to Come

  Coming Back to Life

  1.

  “You okay?”

  “Dad, I’m fine.”

  “Just checking.”

  “It’s been six months.”

  “I can still check.”

  “You checked on me yesterday.”

  “I know.”

  “I’m fine, Dad. Really.”

  “All right.”

  “How are you?”

  “Hank’s still rooming at the house, which has been interesting.”

  “Getting any writing done?”

  Dennis just laughed.

  “I gotta go,” Audrey said.

  “Be careful.”

  “I have the world watching.”

  “You have more than that,” he said as he told her good-bye.

  2.

  Sometimes when the phone rang he picked it up expecting to hear Cillian’s voice.

  Sometimes when an e-mail came in he opened it expecting to see Cillian’s address.

  But ever since that grisly morning stuck away in some unseen barn, Dennis had not heard from his writer friend.

  Cillian had disappeared.

  Just like the words he used to use in telling his stories. The words—the magic as Lucy used to call it—were gone.

  He believed he’d used up all of that magic.

  But that was okay. That’s all they were in the end. Just words. Nothing more.

  3.

  It had been a while since he had gone to his PO box in Geneva. It had been before everything happened, before the media camped out by his property and watched his every move. They had since left, but he knew there was probably a mass of letters and cards awaiting him.

  And sure enough, there was.

  Three mail bags worth of greetings and get wells and the typical sorry-you-had-a-serial-killer-living-next-to-you cards from Hallmark.

  It would take him a week to go through everything.

  Back home, he took the bags and dumped them out on his dining room table.

  One thing caught his attention right away.

  But surely…

  It made him think of the gift he had given Lucy right after he had discovered she had cancer. He gave it to her as a gesture, a notion, a symbol of the two of them.

  I burned that picture in a field a few days after she died.

  Of course it wasn’t that.

  But Dennis looked at the package, the square, fl at, cardboard box, and he felt his heart racing.

  Is this Cillian again? Has he come back? Is this another game?

  Dennis left the package on the table along with all the other contents.

  He needed some air.

  4.

  The package waited on the kitchen table.

  He had hoped that maybe it was his imagination, that maybe it wouldn’t still be there when he got back.

  Dennis was afraid to open it.

  He noticed something that he hadn’t originally seen: in the corner on the left-hand side was Lucy’s name.

  Written in her handwriting.

  No address, no PO Box 222, North Shores, Heaven insignia.

  No, of course not. That would be crazy.

  The name in her handwriting wasn’t crazy.

  It was scary.

  So why had she sent something to his PO box and not their home?

  It had been marked on the same day he had been knocked out and kidnapped and dragged to a cold barn in the middle of nowhere.

  It has to be Cillian. Throw the thing away.

  He touched the package. He used to put his hand on her chest, just above her heart. Perhaps this package beat the same way.

  I’ll never forget. You know? How can I?

  He fingered the package to make sure it was real. What was real and what was m
ade up? The line had long since blurred. First in his writing then in Lucy’s death and now, after all was said and done, here. With a package she mailed a year after she died.

  And I’m thinking I know what’s inside.

  He took a breath.

  Then he took the package in his hands.

  They’re shaking. God, I’m nervous.

  He ripped open the tab in the envelope. He could feel a cardboard backing. Actually, there were two. He carefully slid them out of the yellow package.

  It was a sunny April afternoon. The wind was blowing outside, the temperature cold. The sky looked like orange sherbet, the cozy glow filling this room with warmth and life. The day held on, not quite done, the busyness not yet finished.

  All of these things mattered because they would be cemented into his mind and his soul until his last breath. He would remember this—standing here, opening this package, peeling the tape from one side of the two cardboard sheets, lifting one of them to see the color photograph, the square shot that wasn’t a copy but was the original he had bought years ago and added borders to and named appropriately “Us and Them.”

  His handwriting was still there, but it was marked over with the same blue pen Lucy had used to sign the outside of the package.

  Us and Them

  Next to it Lucy had written something else.

  And it made him laugh.

  And the orange glow filled his soul.

  He knew she wasn’t far away, that she was there, watching, waiting.

  And he continued to laugh, shaking his head, speechless and utterly moved.

  Belief

  1.

  Sometimes the longer you wait to say the right thing, the necessary thing, the faster time goes by. And sometimes time passes over it altogether, leaving the words and sentiment lost forever.

  Memorial Day was drawing to a close. The day had been full of laughter and baseball, both in part due to Hank spending the day with them. He drank remarkably very little and eventually bid Dennis and Audrey good night, and as he did Dennis said words that were obvious but needed to be uttered.

  “Thank you, friend.”

  “For what?” Hank asked, honestly not knowing.

  “For allowing this day to happen. And each day to follow.”

  “I shouldn’t get that credit. But I’ll take it anyway.”