“We’ll build another blockbuster.”
She scoffed at her assistant. “You say that like it’s an easy thing to do. Trust me, if it was, every book we published would be one.” And that didn’t happen by a long shot. They didn’t even break even on 90 percent of them.
“Yeah, but still the bitch is dead.”
It was probably wrong to be happy about that, but like Lesley, she couldn’t help feeling a little relief. Helga had been a handful.
Oh, who was she fooling? Helga had been the biggest bitch on the planet. A chronic thorn who had given Elliott two ulcers and a permanent migraine for four solid months around the release of any of Helga’s books. In fact, Helga had been screaming at her over the phone when she’d had a heart attack and keeled over. It was creepy really. One second she’d been calling Elliott’s intelligence and parentage into question and the next . . .
Dead.
Life was so fragile and tragedies like this rammed that home.
Lesley’s phone rang. She left to answer it while Elliott stared out her tiny window at the red brick building next door where another drone like her worked a sixty-hour-a-week job at the bank. She didn’t know his name and yet she knew a lot about him. He brought his lunch to work, preferred a brown tweed jacket, and tugged at his hair whenever he was frustrated. It made her wonder what unconscious habits of hers he’d picked out. They’d never waved to or acknowledged each other in any way, yet she could see enough personal details about him that she’d know him anywhere.
Not wanting to think about that depressing fact, she returned her attention to the cover proofs piled in front of her. One was for Helga’s next book—the one she’d been working on when she died.
Her phone dinged, letting her know she had a new e-mail.
Sighing, she picked up her BlackBerry and looked at it.
For a full minute she couldn’t breathe as she saw the last name she’d ever expected to see again.
Helga East.
Relax. It’s just an old e-mail that was forwarded by someone else or one that got lost in cyberspace for a couple of days. No need to panic or be concerned in the least. It was nothing.
Still, her stomach habitually knotted as she opened it.
Tell me honestly, Elliott, does it hurt to be that stupid? Really? What part of that heinous, god-awful cover did you think I’d approve of? I hate green. How many times do we have to have this argument? Get that bimbo off the cover and take that stupid font and tell creative to stick it on the cover of someone too moronic to know better.
H.
PS: The title, Nymphos Abroad, is disgusting, demeaning, and insulting. Change it or I’ll have another talk with your boss about how incompetent you are.
She sucked her breath in sharply as she realized the e-mail pertained to the cover on her desk.
A cover Helga had never seen. It’d only arrived that morning. Two days after Helga’s funeral.
Yeah, there was no way it was Helga. Anger whipped through her as she hit “reply.” “Okay, Les, stop messing with me. I’m not in the mood.”
A second later, a response came back.
Les? Are you on drugs? Surely you can’t afford them on your measly salary. I’ve seen the cheap shoes you wear and that sorry excuse for a designer handbag that you think no one will know you bought in Times Square for five dollars. Now quit stalling, stop reading your e-mail, and call down to art and get me a cover worthy of my status.
She looked out her door to see Lesley on the phone, her back to her computer. Definitely not her pretending to be Helga.
But someone was. And they were doing a good job of it too.
Who is this? she typed.
Helga, you nincompoop. Who did you think it was? Your mother? I swear, is there no one up there with a single brain cell in their head?
It couldn’t be. Yet the return address in the header was Helga’s. It was an e-mail addy she knew all too well. [email protected].
Maybe one of Helga’s heirs was messing with her. But why would they do such a thing? Surely they wouldn’t be as cruel as Helga had been?
Then again, maybe it was genetic. Helga’s meanness had seemed to be hardwired into her DNA. It was what the lonely old woman had lived and breathed.
Her heirs wouldn’t be able to see that cover. They have no way of knowing what’s on it.
There was that. No one outside of their publishing house had seen it.
Another e-mail appeared. Why are you still sitting at your desk, staring into space? I told you what to do. Get me a decent cover, you twit.
A chill went down her spine. One so deep that she actually jumped when her cell phone went off, signaling her that she had a new voice mail message. Weird, she hadn’t heard it ring.
Reaching down, she pulled it up and accessed her box.
“I will not stand for that tawdry, disgusting cover. Do you hear me, Elliott? I want it gone, right now. Hit ‘delete.’”
Her heart pounded at a voice she’d know anywhere.
Helga.
“You all right?”
She looked up at Lesley, who was staring at her from the doorway. “I . . . I . . .” Putting the phone down, she hit the 4 button to make it repeat. “Tell me what you hear.”
Lesley put it up to her ear. After a few seconds, she scowled. “Man, I hate those pocket dials where all you get is background noise. What kind of imbecile doesn’t lock their phone?” She handed it back.
Baffled, Elliott replayed it and held it up to her ear to listen. It was still Helga, plain as the desk in front of her. “It’s not a pocket dial. Can’t you hear her?” She held it back out to Lesley.
Again, Lesley listened. “There’s no voice, El. Just a lot of background sounds like trucks on the highway or something, and someone laughing. You okay?”
Apparently not. How could they listen to the same thing and yet hear such radically different messages?
She hung up her phone and gave Lesley a forced smile. “Fine. Stressed. Tired.”
Crazy . . .
Clearing her throat, she put the phone on her desk. “Did you need something?”
“Just reminding you about the marketing meeting in five minutes.”
“Thanks.” Elliott gathered her notes for the meeting while she tried her best not to think about the phone call and e-mails from a writer who was dead. It wasn’t Helga. Some sick psycho was messing with her head.
Or it was a friend with a sorry excuse for a sense of humor.
Yeah, that would be her luck.
It’s not funny, folks. But the one thing she knew from being an editor was that humor was subjective. How many times had Helga written something that she’d rolled her eyes over only to have the billions of readers out there find it hysterical?
Maybe I’m being punk’d.
Could happen . . . If only she was lucky enough for Ashton Kutcher to pop out of a closet.
But there was no Ashton in the meeting. Only mind-numbing details about books they’d already gone over a million times that left her attention free to contemplate who was being cruel and highly unusual to her.
Maybe it’s someone in this meeting.
She looked around at her coworkers, most of whom appeared as stressed-out and bored as she was. No, they were too involved with their own lives to care about harassing her.
Why is this meeting taking so long?
It was hellacious. Surreptitiously, she glanced down at her watch and did a double take. Was it just her or was the second hand making a thirty-second pause between each tick?
By the time the meeting let out, she felt like she’d been stretched on the rack. Oh good Lord, why did they have to have these all the time? What Torquemada SOB thought this was a good idea?
But at least it was finally over. She breathed a sigh in relief as she gathered her things and left.
The moment she was back in her office, she checked her e-mail. There were ninety, n-i-n-e-t-y, messages from her wannabe Helga stalker.
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She deleted them without reading.
Trying to put it out of her mind, she turned around in her chair to look at her “friend” in the other building. For once his office was dark. How strange. He never left early. But her attention was quickly drawn to something that was being reflected in the darkness of her glass. Something someone had attached to the cork bulletin board that she’d hung next to her door.
With a gasp, she turned around to see if her mind was playing tricks.
It wasn’t.
Her heart in her throat, she got up and went to it. As she reached for it, her hand shook.
Someone had taken Helga’s cover and pinned it with a blood-red tack to the board. It had nasty comments written all over it with a black Magic Marker. Worse? The handwriting looked just like Helga’s.
Terror filled her as she ripped it down, then made her way to Lesley’s desk. Lesley paused midstroke on the keyboard to look up at her.
“Who did you let into my office while I was at the meeting?”
“No one.”
“Someone went in there.” She held the marked-up print out toward Lesley.
She frowned. “Why are you showing me that?”
“I want you to tell me who wrote on it.”
Her scowl deepened. “You did, Elliott.”
What? She snatched it back and turned it over.
All of Helga’s writing was gone from it. Now the only pen marks were where someone had approved the art by placing Elliott’s initials in the margins. “I didn’t do this.”
Lesley looked at it carefully. “It’s your handwriting, hon. Believe me, I know.”
But Elliott hadn’t written on it. Not even a little bit.
How was this possible? How?
Her head started throbbing. Without another word, she returned to her office and sat down to stare at the mechanical of the cover sans the nastiness.
“I’m losing my mind.” She had to be. There was no other explanation for what was going on.
The skin on the back of her neck tingled as if someone was watching her. She turned around in her chair to inspect her office.
She was alone.
Still the feeling persisted. And of even greater concern was the prickly sensation that something wasn’t right.
I’m being haunted . . .
Yeah, that’s what it felt like. That uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach. Something evil was in the room with her. It was all but breathing down her neck.
Panicked, she shot back to Lesley’s desk. She needed to feel connected to someone alive.
Lesley gave her an arch stare. “You’re pale. Is something wrong?”
If not for the fear of Lesley thinking her insane, she’d have confided in her. But no one needed to know her suspicion. “Doing research for a book on my desk. You know anything about the paranormal?”
“Not really, but . . .”
“What?”
“I have an exorcist on my speed dial.”
Elliott burst into nervous laughter. Until she realized Lesley wasn’t joking. “You’re serious?”
“Absolutely. My best friend in the world is an exorcist.”
“Who in the world has a friend who’s an exorcist?”
She held her phone up and grinned. “Me. Whatcha want me to check?”
“Um . . . do you think I could speak with your friend?”
Her grin returned to a frown. “Sure. Her name’s Trisha Yates. You want me to e-mail her info to you?”
“Please.” Even though she was still skittish about her office, Elliott returned and closed her door. There was no need for Lesley to overhear this particular conversation.
Out of habit, she glanced to the office across the way.
Her heart stopped beating.
He was hanging from the ceiling, swinging in front of his desk.
No! It wasn’t possible. She closed her eyes and covered them with her hands. It’s not real. It’s not real . . .
But it was. As soon as she opened her eyes, she saw him across the way. Medics were swarming his office, cutting him down.
He was dead.
All of a sudden, both of her phones started ringing. Gasping, she jumped. She grabbed her cell phone. “Hello?”
No one was there.
Same for the office phone. All she heard was a dial tone.
“It doesn’t hurt, you know.”
She spun at the sound of a male voice behind her. It was the ghostly image of the man from the other building. “W-w-what doesn’t hurt?” It was like someone else had control of her body. She was strangely calm and yet inwardly she was freaking out.
“Death. We all die.” He walked through her.
Breathless, scared, and shaking, she watched as he continued past her, to the wall. He went through it and walked back to his cubicle.
No . . . No . . .
No!
As soon as the ghost was over there, the corpse, which was now lying on the floor, turned its head toward her and smiled.
She stumbled back into the door. Terrified, she spun around and clawed at the handle until she was able to open it.
Lesley met her on the other side. “Okay, you are seriously starting to freak me out. What’s going on?”
I’m locked in a horror movie.
She didn’t dare say that out loud. Les would never understand.
Without a word, she headed for the bathroom with her phone. She pulled up the e-mail and then dialed the number.
“Hello?”
Wow, the exorcist sounded remarkably normal. Even friendly. “Is this Trisha?”
“Yes. You are . . .” She paused as if searching the cosmos for an answer. “Elliott Lawson.”
“How did you know that?”
“I’m psychic, sweetie. I know many things.”
Elliott wasn’t so sure she liked the sound of that. But before she could comment, the phone went dead. She growled in frustration as she tried to dial it again.
Nothing went through.
Instead, her e-mail filled up with more postings from Helga . . .
And other authors too. Some of whom she hadn’t worked with for several years.
“Why did you refuse to renew my contract?”
Elliott shrieked at the mousy voice that came out of a stall near her. A woman in her midthirties came out. Her skin had a grayish cast to it and her eyes were dark and soulless.
“Emily? What are you doing here?” Emily had been one of the first authors she’d signed as a new hire. They’d had a good ten-book run before Elliott had made the decision to cut her from their schedule. While Emily’s numbers had held steady, they hadn’t grown. Every editor was held accountable for their bottom line and Emily had been hurting her chances for advancement. So Elliott had decided to move on to another author.
“Why did you do it? I was in the middle of a series. I had fans and was growing. I don’t understand.”
“It was business.”
Emily shook her head. “It wasn’t business. I can count off three dozen other authors who don’t sell as well as I did whom you’ve kept on all these years.”
“Not true.” She always cut anyone who couldn’t pull their weight.
Emily looked down at her arms, then held them up for Elliott to see. “I killed myself over it. After five years of us talking on the phone and working together, you didn’t even send over a card. Not one stinking, lousy card.”
“I didn’t know.”
“You didn’t care.”
Elliott struggled to dial her phone. “You’re not dead. This is a nightmare.”
“I’m dead. Damned to hell for my suicide because of you!” Her eyes turned a bright, evil red as the skin on her face evaporated to that of a leather-fleshed ghoul. She rushed at Elliott.
Screaming, Elliott ran for the door.
The handle was no longer there. She was trapped inside.
With Emily.
“Help me! Please! Someone help me!”
Emily
grabbed her from behind and yanked on her hair. “That’s what I begged for. Night, after night, after night. But no one answered my pleas either. I spent two years trying to get another contract and no one would touch me because of the lies you told about me. All I ever dreamed about was being an author. I didn’t want much. Just enough to live on. Two books a year. But you couldn’t allow me to have that, could you? You ruined me.”
“I’m sorry, Emily.”
“It’s too late for sorry.” Emily slung her through the door.
Elliott pulled up short as she found herself back in her office. Only it was hot in here. Unbearable. She went to the window to open it.
She couldn’t.
When she tried to turn the radiator down, it burned her hand. It whined before it spewed steam all over her.
She turned to run, only to find more hateful notes from Helga.
Suddenly laughter rang out. It filled the room and echoed in her ears.
She spun around, trying to locate the source. At first there was no one there. No one until Lesley appeared in the corner.
Elliott ran to her and grabbed her close, holding on to her like a lifeline. “I need to go home, Les. Right now.”
“You are home, Elliott. This is where you spend all of your time. This is what you love. It’s all you love.” Lesley pulled out her chair and held it for her. “Go ahead. Reject those books. Crush more writers’ dreams. You’re famous for not pulling punches. For telling it like it is. Go on. I know how much you relish giving your honest, unvarnished opinion.”
A thousand crying voices rang out in a harsh, cacophonous symphony.
Your writing is amateurish and pedestrian. Do not waste my time with any more submissions. I only give one per customer and your number is up.
If you can’t take my criticism, then you’ve no business being a writer. Trust me. I’m a lot kinder than your readers, if you ever have any, will be.
While I found the idea intriguing, your writing was such that I couldn’t get past the second page. I suggest you learn a modicum of grammar or better yet, stick to blog posts and Twitter feeds for your creative outlet.
Over and over, she was inundated with rejections and comments she’d written to writers.
And for once, she realized just how harsh they were.
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