by C. K. Vile
Nick placed his hands on the keyboard. A twinge fired off in the left one. The protective glove that covered it allowed for the use of his fingers, but they still grumbled at the idea of exercise.
The scarred tissue covering his hand and arm was tight, like his skin had shrunk. It was still too early to tell how permanent the damage would be.
He tapped at the keys. Slowly. Deliberately. One sentence. Another.
The words came gradually at first. He was exercising a muscle he hadn’t used in weeks. He tried to be patient with himself. He had to walk before he could run, so to speak.
He pulled up memories of Danielle, sorting through them, examining every moment from as many angles as he could manage. Every insane moment, from the day he bumped into her at Bonnie and Chuck’s, to the final horrifying sight of her burning alive in front of him.
It was the first time he’d done this without the sheer nightmare of it clawing its way into his brain and reducing him to human rubble. There were moments—there always would be as he understood it—where he wilted slightly. But he powered through. He didn’t just power through. He used it. He made it work for him.
If he was feeling it, so would his readers. And it was a story worth reading, as much as it was a story worth telling.
It was the story of a girl. A sad girl. She grew up in a broken home, one that brimmed with booze and neglect. She had a fascination with mayhem and the macabre.
And she didn’t know what love was.
The writing came faster and faster. Even as the ache in his hand intensified, he shut it out, along with everything else.
The girl thought she knew what love was. She certainly understood devotion, but that wasn’t the same thing. Whether the result of nature or nurture, love escaped her, and as a result she ruined everything she touched. Not intentionally. That was the real horror of the story. Right up until the end, when her obsessions finally destroyed her, she wanted only to love and be loved.
By the time he finished, the book would be scary. It would be sad. It would be a little funny, because god knows, the girl had a sense of humor. But ultimately, it would be tragic. A story of the best and worst of a human being too damaged to exist in the world.
As the day wore on, despite the pain in his hand, despite the hunger that gnawed at his belly, he stopped writing only once.
Knock knock.
Nick pulled up a window on his laptop. It displayed the images relayed by the camera system he’d had installed.
Sheriff Reed stood at his door. She waved at the camera.
He got up and walked past the monitor built into the wall of his foyer. Six locks bolted the front door shut. Nick unlocked them one by one and opened the door for Reed.
“Mr. Dawkins.”
“Sheriff Reed. What brings you by?”
She took off her sunglasses. “Thought I’d stop by and check on you while I was out this way. Someone hit a cow down the road a ways.”
Nick grimaced. He’d seen pictures of what that looked like.
“Ew. Nice of you to stop by, though.” Nick gestured into the house. “Wanna come in? Have a drink?”
“No, no, I can’t stay. Thanks though. How’s the hand?”
Nick held up his gloved hand. “It’s okay, but not okay. Like it doesn’t bother me as much these days, but it looks like—well, it looks like someone covered it in glue and set it on fire. I don’t know how to answer that, to be honest.”
Reed nodded and smiled broadly. “Fair enough. And the movie, how’s it going?”
“Son of a bitch.” Nick involuntarily swore every time the film adaptation of The Inn came up in conversation.
“Still that sore about it?”
Nick shook his head. “I still can’t believe I gave it to Trumble and his people. I mean, I know I was on a lot of Vicodin at the time, what with the horrific injuries and all, but Christ. I can’t imagine what I was thinking.”
Nick remembered the email. “Oh, hey, I did want to say, I got an e-mail from Corpse last night. Probably nothing, but you never know.”
Reed pulled out her notepad. “Shoot.”
“There’s been a—how’d she put it? An ‘increase in chatter’ the last few days on the Myiasis site.”
Reed sighed as she scribbled on her notepad. “That’s probably not good.”
Nick leaned against the frame of his door. “It doesn’t seem like a big thing. This guy disappeared, stopped posting. The Lizard-Dreamer, I call him. Wants to wear my skin. People are wondering if he’s gone mobile.”
Reed raised her eyebrows. “Damn, Dawkins. I don’t know how you do it.”
“Right?”
Reed scratched at the paper and closed the pad. “Children’s fiction. Look into it. Promise me?”
Nick laughed. “Nation’s children traumatized by ‘See Spot Die’. Film at eleven.”
Reed put her sunglasses on and did her best to keep a straight face. “Take care of yourself, Dawkins.”
“You too, Sheriff.”
She walked back to her car. Nick shouted at her. “Made you laugh.”
Reed shouted back as she climbed into her cruiser. “No you didn’t.”
Nick closed the door, locked his half-dozen locks and went back to the kitchen table, where his phone was blinking. It was a text from his mother. It had been a few weeks since he’d heard from her and he was pleasantly surprised by her restraint. Then again, her continued self-control in contacting him had been the only condition he’d placed on her continued presence in his life. Well, that… and no cooking for him.
He agreed to a visit in another week or so, once he’d completed his current book and had a chance to decompress. The rest of the day was him and his thoughts, along with the clack-clack-clack of the keys.
He tired as the sun hung low. His fingers slowed. His left hand ached. It was long past time to put the medicinal cream on the still-healing burns.
Ding
New e-mail. Probably from CorpseFlower. Maybe they’d found the lizard-dreamer at Chuck Palahniuk’s house. Let him have that one.
His blood froze.
From: Flypap3r.
Impossible. It was impossible. It had to be someone messing with him. Someone had found his personal e-mail. A cruel joke.
He opened it.
Chills ran up his arms.
Dearest Nick. If you’re reading this, it means our love has been cut short. This e-mail has been set on a timed release. If I don’t reset the timer periodically, it’ll mail itself out.
Jesus.
In the unlikely event I forgot to reset the timer, please come pester me to fix it. I’m probably tuckered out in bed from carrying whatever number child we’re on.
Nick shook his head. She even managed to be a scary mix of crazy and endearing from beyond the grave.
But chances are I’m gone. I’m sorry. Wherever I am, I miss you, and I know you miss me too.
Sometimes.
If that’s the case, I want to tell you about things I may never have had a chance to tell you in life. If I did, I’d have updated this accordingly.
First, I hope you and your mom are still getting along. I’m sure she’s helped you through this difficult time of me having been taken from you so soon.
Second, I’ve known you for a long time. I know you better than you know yourself. I have since I read one of your books for the first time. Rat King. And you were right, the original ending was better. I’m sorry I had to lie about knowing who you were. I didn’t want you to think I was a crazy stalker. But I knew we were meant to be together, and that’s why I moved to Forest Down. I knew if I waited patiently, fate would bring us together. And it did! And I couldn’t be happier.
Third, I don’t know if I ever told you how much your special song meant to me. Nobody But Me? I saw you the other night. I saw you write and write and write and bust a move like it was going out of style. It was the sexiest and most wonderful thing I’ve ever seen. I mentioned knowing you better than you know yo
urself? I knew when I watched you that night it was the first time you’d written anything in a long time. The Inn! I read it. It’s amazing, and I love that you put me in it. It’s how I know you truly love me.
But here’s the thing. I don’t want you to go back to not writing. That’s not you. Trust me. And I’m afraid without me there to inspire you, that’s what will happen. That’s what happens when you’re alone for too long. You know it and I know it.
Nick stopped reading for a moment. Did she have a point there? It was worth considering.
So I’ve fixed that for you. You know that story I sent you? Flypaper? It was a metaphor, as you probably guessed. And I’ll bet, since my e-mail address is Flypap3r, you thought it was a metaphor about me. I know you were drawn to me, and stuck on me from the moment we met.
He looked at his hand, cocooned in its protective glove. Here there be irony.
But Nick, the flypaper was never a metaphor for me. It was a metaphor for you. You’re the flypaper. Whether you realize it or not, you’re special. Your writing is special. People are drawn to it and to you. And without me there for you, sweetest Nick, you’ll need human contact more than ever. And you’ll have it.
Uh oh.
There’s a site called Myiasis. I helped set it up with some of my online friends, those of us who loved you too much to be contained on your ‘official’ site.
Oh, he knows.
Do you know what myisas is, Nick? It’s a warm, comfy place where fly-babies live. Isn’t that wonderful?
It’s maggots growing inside a living host, Danielle. That’s what it is. Leave it to her to romanticize it.
Myiasis is a place where your most devoted fans can go. The people who love you more than anyone. It’s a place where they can thrive and grow into the beautiful flies they’re meant to be. And when they mature, Nick, when they’re able to leave their nest and fly on their own, they’ll be drawn to you. They’ll come to you and be stuck to you until the day they die. Like flypaper. Isn’t that romantic?
Fuck no. No no no.
I’ve seen to it that they’ll find you, like I did. You’ll never be alone again.
God no, Danielle. You crazy little shit, what did you do?
I hope you’ll embrace your true self as a beacon to all the people out there who were as broken as I was when I found you. I hope you find happiness in their love and devotion, like you found it in mine.
Nick slumped back in his chair. The world spun. His breath was short. He couldn’t feel his face.
I love you forever, Nick. Forever until the day you die.
Chapter 19
Myiasis.
The site built around a love and appreciation for the writings of Nick Dawkins. A monument to his glory, begun by a handful of his most devoted readers.
In two short years, the site had been founded, moderated and cultivated into a veritable temple of worship; a place for his fans to congregate and discuss his works and their meanings.
The site’s administrator sat before a computer monitor and pulled up a log-in screen.
Administrator.
Password: ********
A torrent of information made itself readily available. Postings, replies, direct messages. Most of them would be ignored. They were the wailings and teeth-gnashing of a lower class. People who would never touch his greatness, never truly know him, only the bits and pieces he allowed the world to see through his prose.
The Administrator opened a private e-mail account. There were a handful of new messages, but only one stuck out as being remotely noteworthy.
From: Flypap3r.
The girl had been dead for months, according to the news reports. Quite the story at the time: Celebrated Horror Author Injured by Deranged Fan. The poor girl. She’d directly impacted his life and his writing forever, and would only ever be regarded by the public as a ‘deranged fan’.
And now, an e-mail from the personal account of said fan.
Intriguing.
The Administrator opened the e-mail, timed to be sent posthumously, and was met with a lengthy e-mail and an audio file. A quick read divulged a number of interesting tidbits about the inner workings of Nick Dawkins. His thoughts and feelings, as observed first-hand by the girl who’d wormed her way into his life and his sheets.
His appreciation for human connection.
His disdain for the meddlings of lesser creatives in his work.
And a song. A song of great significance to the brilliant author.
The Administrator clicked on the audio file.
The long and sorrowful note was followed by a tumultuous beat and Nobody But Me kicked into high gear.
The girl’s e-mail continued. She wanted it to be known that Nick was alone now. That he needed human contact in order to continue producing his life’s work.
The Administrator tapped a foot to the song.
Nick needed his army of flies—the ones currently gestating throughout Myiasis—to go to him. To bind themselves to him. To bring out the best and the worst in him.
He needed them. Each and every one.
The Administrator stood up and walked out the door.
He would get to know them.
Soon.
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