I poured myself a drink and moved to the other email, which I assumed would either be more of the same, or another reporter, unwilling to quit sniffing until I threw him or her a bone. The email address was [email protected]. The subject line read, simply, "You."
Intrigued despite myself, I opened it.
On the first pass, the words meant nothing. More idle praise from some faceless fan. Then I read it again, and again, until I was left going over and over the last line of the message and my nose was almost pressed flat against the screen, my eyes seeing nothing but faint black smudges on large snowy plains.
Her name was Karen Pike.
We'd met at the convention.
She lived for my work.
Just ate it up, in fact.
Anyone who doesn't is a loser.
And she'd signed her note: "With raw red smiles, Karen"
* * *
Despite a promising lead from their number one suspect, the investigation into the murder of Walt Neumann's death continued for another eight months before going cold. Karen Pike was questioned, but insufficient evidence meant they couldn't hold her. After all, a sign-off line on an email to her favorite author combined with an appearance at the convention in which a man she didn't know had been murdered were hardly grounds for a conviction. Even I knew that. So in the end I was left with my suspicions, and the terrible knowledge that if I was right, then not only was Karen Pike still out there, but she might also know who had put the police on to her.
On the rare nights that sleep came for me, I dreamed of abandoned theaters in which the movies still played, and Goth girls with black eyes and bleeding grins force-fed me the products of my own twisted imagination.
* * *
Kelly came back eventually, but didn't stay long. She quit her job at the school, and I quit writing.
Then we quit each other.
I never found out if my paranoia about what she'd been doing in my absence had been justified, but the summer after our divorce I drove by her mother's house and saw her on the porch, laughing with some guy I didn't know. He was good looking, the kind that in the more insecure moments of our marriage I'd pictured as the type she should have been with. He could have been a plumber, or some distant relative I'd never met. It could have been her ex for all I know, or just a neighbor, but I'd be lying if I said seeing her with him didn't break my heart.
She left me the house, and everything in it that wasn't hers, which meant she left it empty. I'd always only thought of it as the cathedral—a larger space for me to pace when my imagination demanded it. It had never been a home, not even for Kelly. In December of that year, I sold it and moved to a small apartment back in Brooklyn.
It's not the same, but my first check is still there when I look up, still tacked to the wall.
What you're reading now is the first thing I've written in years, and will probably be the last, inspired by Kent Gray's last words of advice to me, via email, almost fourteen months before he died from a brain tumor. If you're frustrated by questions unanswered, then maybe you can understand a little of what my life to this juncture has been like. Call me self-involved and egotistical, and I won't argue. I am, I was, for a while a writer, and so I can claim those negative attributes as a requirement of the job. All that's behind me now, so I guess it's time at last to find out who or what I really am, to attend those midnight premieres with a more open mind and less fear, and to finally ask my father if he's been shaking his head all this time for me, or for himself. To see if he, like Kent Gray, was nothing more than a mirror for my own self-loathing and fear.
I leave you here then, with this account from an unreliable narrator.
It may be nothing more than a mild diversion from the real world for you, but obviously, being its creator, I hope that's not the case.
As the late great Mr. Gray once said, "The last one should be the one you want to be remembered for."
###
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Born and raised in Dungarvan, Ireland, Kealan Patrick Burke is an award-winning author described as "a newcomer worth watching" (Publishers Weekly) and "one of the most original authors in contemporary horror" (Booklist).
Some of his works include the novels KIN, MASTER OF THE MOORS, CURRENCY OF SOULS and THE HIDES, the novellas THE TURTLE BOY (Bram Stoker Award Winner, 2004), VESSELS, and MIDLISTERS, and the collections RAVENOUS GHOSTS and THE NUMBER 121 TO PENNSYLVANIA & OTHERS (Bram Stoker Award-Nominee, 2009).
Kealan also edited the anthologies: TAVERNS OF THE DEAD (starred review, Publishers Weekly), BRIMSTONE TURNPIKE, QUIETLY NOW (International Horror Guild Award Nominee, 2004), the charity anthology TALES FROM THE GOREZONE and NIGHT VISIONS 12 (starred review, Publishers Weekly, British Fantasy Award & International Horror Guild Award nominee).
A movie based on his short story "Peekers", directed by Mark Steensland (DEAD @ 17), and scripted by veteran novelist Rick Hautala (Bedbugs, The Mountain King), is currently scheduled for screening at a variety of international film festivals.
He recently played the male lead in Greg Lamberson's film SLIME CITY MASSACRE, the long-awaited sequel to the cult classic SLIME CITY.
Visit Kealan on the web at http://www.kealanpatrickburke.com or visit the author's Amazon page for more titles.
Midlisters Page 8