by C. E. Wilson
“Ex-husband.”
“Divorced?”
“Not yet.”
“Separated?”
“Yes.”
“Legally?”
“No.”
“So you do have a husband,” Jessen concluded. “Kevin, I believe. And he feels that you are far too focused on your career. He has been neglected. Alone. Forgotten. And so he was unfaithful. He says it didn’t mean anything, but it obviously meant something to you, since you now live alone like a filthy, drunken recluse. I’m not being judgmental, just honest.”
My mouth went dry. “H-how you do you know all that?”
“Please. It’s a dream. I know everything. I know more than you know about you. But that sounds a little Dr. Seus-ian, doesn’t it?” His mouth curled up into that closed-lipped smile again, an expression that sent a biting chill up my spine and settled in my hairline like a bee getting ready to sting. I hated how calm he was, but if this was a dream and there was no way that he could kill me, I decided to take advantage of the opportunity.
“So if you know so much about me, then you should be aware of how much I hate you.”
“Hatred is the sincerest form of flattery.”
“That is not how the saying goes,” I snapped.
“Poetic license, dear girl. You may hate me, but you admire me as well. You have every single one of my books – even the posthumously published ones. Your horror movie collection, I believe, contains every single movie I have ever referenced in any published work or interview. These are all very impressive statistics.”
“Don’t talk to me like I’m one of your crazed fans,” I snapped, feeling the straps loosen only for a moment or two. “You know I’m a writer. You’re my competition.”
“You can’t compete with a dead man.”
“No, not usually. But I have to. Every time I publish a new book, I have to compete with you. You. Jessen Blake. The Kurt Cobain of horror writers—”
“I hate that nickname,” he snarled, stabbing the knife between my bound ankles. “Of all the choices they could have made.” He rolled his eyes and left the blade behind. “But I digress. Is it my superior position on the sales charts that irks you so? That’s your reason for hating me so much?”
“Yes.” I licked my lips. “All my life I wanted to be an author.”
“Because you had dark thoughts?”
I ignored his comment. “I saw how people were finding success in self-publishing and I told myself that was what I was going to do with the rest of my life. I saw the success you had. The movie deals. The television shows. The premiers. I wanted it all. But I only wanted it if I could still be an author. I didn’t want to write to be famous. I wanted to be famous because I could write. And like you said, paranormal romance wasn’t kind to Emma Ross. In fact, she flopped. Too unoriginal. Too unpredictable. Too boring. I heard it all. I was beginning to fall apart... there was so much pressure that I couldn’t stop crying. But then my ex suggested I write like the movies I like to watch.”
“Horror movies,” Jessen surmised.
“I thought he was crazy! Me? A horror writer? No one would read it. I was too dark. Too nasty. Too depraved.” My face scrunched up. “Too crazy.”
“But it worked,” Jessen said calmly as my expression brightened.
“Like a charmed bitch,” I said proudly, just now realizing that one of the restraints on my wrists had fallen away so I could wave my hand around. “Turns out that I was better at writing horror stories. I couldn’t write a realistic romance to save my life, but I sure as fuck could kill off people with gusto. And I loved it. I love everything about it! When my first trilogy hit top 100 on Amazon, I thought I was dreaming. But no! It was real. And readers wanted more. And so I kept writing. I never had a backlog, but I was always working on something. Each story got easier and climbing to the top became less of a dream and more of an expectation. I loved every moment of it...” I trailed off, pinching my eyebrows together.
“Until you made it as high as you could go,” Jessen filled in.
“Yeah. Suddenly I discovered that my greatest competition was also one of my favorite authors. It killed me. I thought about killing you in a book, but that seemed to be career suicide, so I let it go. I figured that you were dead, so I would have to make it into the number one slot eventually. You were dead! How many stories could a dead man possibly have? And yet they kept coming. Your books kept showing up. More books. It was as if you were still alive.” I lifted my head slightly off the cot. “You are dead, aren’t you?”
“As a doornail, I’m afraid,” he said with a shrug.
“But... how?” I gasped. “How are you doing it? How are you still publishing books? How many do you have left? How long do I have to wait before you have nothing left to show the world?” The other strap on my wrist broke free, and I sat up on the cot. My eyes followed Jessen Blake as he paced back and forth near my still-bound ankles. “You were only thirty-three. You’ve got to almost be out of stories.”
“Even if I was...” he trailed off, “... I have enough to publish for some time whenever a rising star posts a new book.”
My eyes widened. “Wait, what? Why?”
“Because I willed those who oversee my estate to do it that way.”
“But why?” Frustrated tears welled up in my eyes. “Why would you do that? What have I ever done to you?”
“It’s not just you,” Jessen said, shaking his head as though I was nothing more than a petulant child. “It’s all horror writers. New horror writers. Talented horror writers.”
“But why? I don’t even fucking know you—”
“We’ve never met, but you have to admit that I know you pretty well. Trust me, Shade. It has to be done this way.”
“But why?” I snapped, feeling the restraints on my ankles loosen. “Why? So you can be a legend for all time? You don’t want anyone else to steal your spotlight, is that it?”
“No, it’s not—”
“Because you can’t deal with not being number one?”
“I’m arrogant, but I’m not that arrogant. Give me some credit.”
“So why?” My ankle restraints snapped free, and I lunged towards him, gripping his collar and shaking him crazily. He didn’t react at all, he didn’t even blink. Maybe it was because it was a dream, but he felt light in my hands. “Just... can’t you tell them to stop publishing your books around mine? I just want to be number one. Just one time!”
“I can’t. I’m dead, remember? If you understood—”
“Find a way! You snuck into my dreams, find a way to sneak into someone else’s.”
“I only came here to warn you!” he snapped, rocking in my vice-like grip. I stopped shaking him. “I’m only here because I wanted to explain. I wanted to explain that it’s best this way. Stop fighting to be at the absolute top. Let me have the slot. It’s best that I have it, okay?”
“Why? So someone else can take it?”
“Because,” he growled. “You are not meant to be number one.”
“Why? Because you don’t think I’m as good a writer as you? Because I am! I’m just as good as you are! I’m young like you were.”
“It is not for you,” Jessen said, eyes hard and fixed upon mine. “Please don’t take this personally. It must be this way. It’s too dangerous otherwise. You don’t know... shit... you’re waking up.” He glanced up over his head towards the ceiling. It was rotting. Pieces were flaking down to the floor. “I’ll see you again soon.”
“Why can’t I be number one?” I asked, going to reach for him again. My hand plunged through his chest but seized only empty air. “Fuck! Why? Why are you doing this? I want to be number one! That’s all I want...”
Jessen Blake didn’t answer as my hand hung in the air.
And then his body was gone like it was never there in the first place.
Chapter Four
The following morning, I woke up angry. Livid. Fucking pissed off. I drug a hand down my face and gl
anced around, half-expecting to be in that cold, dank room with Jessen Blake in my dreams. Jessen Blake. In my dreams. What fucking right did that asshole have to show up in my dreams? I was still trembling with rage and I tried to calm myself. It was a dream. I’ve been thinking about him a lot, so it’s natural to have a dream like that. But that dream was anything but natural – it was too real, too clear in my mind.
Distractions. Just another distraction. For a moment, I considered giving up drinking and smoking. Not forever, but just for a few days to cleanse my system. That way, I could refocus on the book.
The book.
I sat up violently in bed and glanced towards my laptop. Closed, so with a pang of fear in my heart, I clambered over and flipped it open.
Daddy, Don’t Sleep was still there. Half finished. Half gory. Half disgusting. All poised to be number one. I kept the screen open as I stumbled into the kitchen and turned on the coffee maker, deciding that starting the day with a hot cup of all-black had to be better than vodka and orange juice. But my mind kept going back to the dream. Jessen said he had willed his estate to continue publishing his books just before any promising author released theirs. Why? Why would he do such a thing? Honestly, I wasn’t even sure if Jessen Blake had known, or even cared who I was, let alone all the other horror authors who were trying to make it when he died. But he must have. If I saw his books, I suppose that it was just as likely that he saw mine.
But why would he care either way if I was number one or not? Or anyone, for that matter?
And how did he know so much about me before I was famous and after he was already dead?
Something didn’t add up.
My brain hurt as I poured a cup of finished coffee and decided to spike it with Bailey’s.
I managed to get another 10k written before sleep claimed me. My phone buzzed with messages from my agent, editor, PA, and ex-husband. It didn’t escape me that my family hadn’t bothered to reach out. Again. My parents never really understood me wanting to be an author, and they seemed to be downright ashamed that I was now a horror writer. I think they wished I worked a standard ‘traditional’ job. Hell, I think they would be prouder of me if I were stocking shelves for a living, making less money in a month than I do in a day as an author. Maybe seeing my books on the big screen would change that. Maybe seeing me on a red carpet would make them pick up the phone. But no matter. If they didn’t want to talk to me, then I guess it was okay that I didn’t want to talk to anyone else.
I managed to write out another 15k before my hands started to shake and I began to feel the tingling in my thumb and middle finger. I had to stop before the carpal tunnel got worse. It reminded me of Kevin yelling at football players to stop being pansies and to play through the pain. They have to heed the warnings of their bodies just like I do. Shutting the laptop, I noticed several more missed messages from the selfsame Kevin, but he should have understood that I was in my writing cave. He’d lived with me for two years while I was in and out of that cave – and it ended our marriage. Yawning, I reached for my pack of cigarettes on the way out the front door and took a seat on the chilled cement stoop as my brain returned to the strange dream from the night before.
Jessen said I couldn’t be number one. That it was better this way. Said it was dangerous.
But why?
And the biggest question of all – why would he have his estate publish his books at the same time as mine? What had I done to this man that made him so resentful that he wouldn’t give me a chance to top his achievements? I know he said not to take it personally, but it was hard not to. He was in my dreams. Was he visiting others? Haunting authors seemed like a hell of a waste of time in the afterlife. Besides, other horror writers were at number one before him and would probably be after him. And I could be one of those people if I could wait him out.
The back of my neck prickled and I looked up. Someone was watching me from a distance. I couldn’t see who, but I felt their eyes. Watching. Weighing. Judging. Why the fuck was Jessen Blake competing with me from beyond the grave? I closed my eyes and leaned against the railing. Maybe I was losing my mind. Steps started coming up the walkway, and I sat up straighter, prepared to shoot a look of annoyance in response to the look of judgment I would most likely receive from one my neighbors.
But it wasn’t a neighbor coming up the walk.
It was Jessen Blake.
I narrowed my eyes as he stopped in front of me. Thunder rumbled in the distance. “I’m dreaming again, aren’t I?”
“If I’m here then you must be.” The closed-lip smile appeared on his face. I wanted to smack it right off. “I know we left things on a sour note last night so I wanted to try and explain myself.”
“Explain yourself how? That you made it your personal wish that I never become the next number one horror writer?”
“Did I say it was just you?”
“It may as well be. Do you have any idea how fucked up that is? Seriously, dude. What did I ever do to you? Did we ever meet when you were alive?”
He shook his head. “No. But like I said, I’d heard of you. When my health situation became painfully clear, I began to make my contingency plan. I found you and a few others. I watched your story. I watched theirs. I wanted to see where you were all coming from and where you were all going. You were close. The closest of any author to get where I am now.”
“What? Dead?” I snarked.
“No.” His voice darkened. “Number one. You were the closest horror writer to possibly taking my number one slot. And when I figured this out, I made sure to visit you first. I also named you specifically in my will.”
“What does any of this have to do with haunting me in my dreams?”
“I’m not haunting you, I am warning you. And I’m here to tell you that neither you nor any other horror writer will top me. Not for a very long time at least. I spent my last nine months writing like a man possessed. I wrote around the clock. I knew my time was coming soon, and towards the end, I couldn’t stop. I wanted to make sure there were hundreds of stories—”
“Hundreds?” I gasped, standing up. Jessen Blake stared down at me with hardened hazel eyes and I swallowed. “You still have hundreds of stories to publish?”
“You don’t want to know how many stories I have,” he said in a small voice. “And price point doesn’t matter to me at all. My estate has orders to publish them at the minimum price if necessary to maintain my number one status. You will never reach that level. No one will. Not if I can help it.”
“You’re out of your mind.”
“That’s hilarious, coming from you.” I winced, and he shook his head. “In any event, you’re too young. How old did you say you were? Twenty-three?”
“Twenty-five.” I took a long drag from my cigarette, happy that even in my dreams I could smoke. “Look, I don’t know what the fuck this is all about, but my book is going to get the number one slot this time. You can bet your ass on it.”
“The one about your father?” He tilted his head to the side.
I almost dropped my cigarette. “How... how do you know about that?”
“I know everything,” he said simply. “More than I’d like to know. I wish I could tell you things straight out, but the rules forbid it. I can only warn you. Beg you. Plead with you to understand that you must not hit the number one slot, Shade. You’re young. And you’re close. And you’re right; there’s a high chance that your next book could unseat me. Despite everything I’m doing to try and stop it, Daddy, Don’t Sleep could still defeat me.” He frowned. “And you don’t want that.”
“Why? What’s so wrong with wanting what you had? You’re number one, even dead you still get to be the top horror writer. You think I don’t want that? You think I don’t want some cheesy coined nickname like you have? Maybe I want to be the Amy Winehouse of horror authors. Maybe I want to be the second coming of Jessen Blake—”
“You don’t want any of those things, trust me.”
“I h
ave no reason to believe you!” I stepped towards him, and he held up his hands with a resigned look. But I didn’t touch him. I was afraid of killing him – just like I would have done in a book if it wasn’t such career suicide. At least for now. If I was number one, I could kill whoever I wanted in any book, and no one would have the balls to stop me. Not my ex. Not my agent. Not my invisible parents. Not even my bossy and overly controlling editor.
I cast my cigarette past his shoulder.
“You listen to me,” I said, keeping my voice low and threatening. The sky above was beginning to break, shining sun down on us. “I don’t know what your problem is, but I am going to finish this book, and this book is going to hit number one. I don’t care what you or your little will or estate does. You can throw your best book out on the same day as mine for all I care. You can do whatever you want, but I am going to hit number one. I am not going to live and die in the shadow of a dead man. You hear me?”
He started to fade. I didn’t know whether I liked or hated it.
“I hear you,” he said in a voice that sounded far away. “But I wish you would understand me. You don’t know what you’re asking. You don’t know what you’ll inherit if you surpass me. It’s best for everyone that I’m the top horror writer. My books are alive, but I’m dead. It’s best this way.”
“Your riddles are pissing me off,” I said. “Give me one good reason, and I’ll consider what you’re saying.”
“What?”
“Why can’t I be number one? Why does it have to be you?”
For a few moments, all was silent. Jessen’s insubstantial hazel eyes darted back and forth – to the sky and back to his shoes. To the left and the right. To me. Through me. At me. Around me. I felt nervous under his gaze, and something nearly painful prickled the tips of my fingers. Even in sleep, I was having problems with carpal tunnel.
“I’ll ask again,” I said, tired of the silence. I wanted to wake up and finish my book. “Give me a reason. An actual reason as to why I can’t be number one, and I’ll consider it.”