Ghostwriter (18 page)

Ryan wrote the name down on a business card he found in his pocket.

“I can see if he has a record, do a background check. But, Dennis—”

“Don’t even say it.”

“What do you think I’m going to say?”

“You’re going to say I’ve got a lot of eccentric fans.”

“Well, I wasn’t going to use the word eccentric. I’d say more like bizarre. Twisted.”

“It’s one thing for him to threaten me, but this—this is too much.”

“Yeah. I understand. Look—there’s a situation that’s been going on—our department is searching for a missing girl. Her name
is Josie Davis. She disappeared from NIU about a week ago, but her family is from this area.”

“What do they think?”

“They’re not optimistic. But nobody’s saying that of course. Not yet. It’s too soon. But that’s got everybody’s attention.
A twisted fan—you’ve had these before, you know.”

“And that’s why I don’t want—why I don’t need you to say anything, okay? Just check up on it when you can. I’ll owe you.”

“No problem.”

“Yeah,” Dennis answered. “Hopefully.”

Only ten minutes after Ryan left, the phone rang. The caller ID read, “Unavailable.” Dennis let it go, waiting for a message.
But none came. Instead the phone rang again. This time Dennis picked it up.

“Yeah?” he growled.

“You shouldn’t have done that.” The voice was fl at, lifeless, without emotion.

“Where are you?” Dennis shouted.

“That was foolish.”

“No, putting the box on my doorstep was foolish. This isn’t a game.”

“I never said it was.”

“Are you watching my house?” Dennis asked, taking the cordless phone and looking out the windows to his front lawn.

“Are you scared, Dennis?”

“This is over. No more e-mails and no more calls and no more threats, you got that?”

“Then you’ll force my hand, Dennis.”

“Go ahead—tell the whole world, I don’t care. I really don’t. Nobody will believe you. And nobody will care.”

“They will care. Just like you do.”

“Go ahead and try me. I just want you to leave me the hell alone.”

“What does hell have to do with it?” Cillian’s voice was hushed, unemotional.

“You stay away from me and my daughter.”

“Answer my question,
Dennis.
What does hell have to do with it?”

“Stay away from me.”

“You don’t believe in hell, do you? Which is such irony, especially for you who makes a living writing about the darker side
of life.”

“You don’t frighten me.”

“I’m not trying to frighten you, Dennis. There are other things to be frightened of. I’m the least of your worries. Of your
daughter’s worries.”

Dennis gritted his teeth. “You listen to me—stay away from her, do you hear? I swear to God—”

“Ah, there you go again. What does God have to do with it? You say these things, but you really don’t mean them, just like
your popcorn prose, just like your clichéd stories.”

Dennis opened the door and stepped outside. “Where are you? Huh?”

“Have you already forgotten our discussion of your top ten scary movies, Dennis? Did you not see the movie
Se7en?”

“What are you babbling about?”

“Remember what Brad Pitt finds at the end of the movie? In the little box? Do you, Dennis?”

And then Dennis connected the list with the box. And he recalled why Se7en disturbed him so much the first time he saw it.
Gwyneth Paltrow reminded him in many ways of Audrey, of what Audrey might become when she grew up. And the end of that movie
shocked him and made him want to guard his wife and daughter with his life.

Dennis cursed into the phone.

“That’s right, go ahead—say your profanities, Dennis.”

Dennis clicked off the phone and cursed as he found Ryan’s cell phone. He called quickly.

“Yeah?”

“He just called me.”

“Who did?” Ryan asked.

“Cillian. He’s watching me. He knew you came over.”

There was a pause.

“He threatened Audrey.”

“Are you sure?”

Dennis cursed again. “Yes, I’m sure!”

“Okay, okay, okay. Just—just hold on. If he’s here, then he’s far away from your daughter, right?”

“This has to stop.”

“And it will. There are a lot of laws about harassment. Just give me a minute. Call Audrey and make sure she’s safe. Tell
her to be careful. We’re going to want to get this guy on tape. Or get an e-mail from him. Anything. Just—look, I’m almost
at the station. I’ll call you back in a few minutes. Just take it easy and don’t do anything, okay?”

Dennis pounded the phone back in its cradle, then found himself staring at the box that had arrived that morning. He picked
it up and flung it across the room.

He felt watched.

And paralyzed.

The phone jolted him awake. It was late afternoon, but he had been dozing at his desk after drinking a couple beers to loosen
up. All they had done was make him more tired. He rubbed his eyes and looked at the phone on his desk, alive and wailing,
screaming to be answered.

It’s him again.

He had already spoken to Audrey twice today. He had told her to be careful—not alluding to anything, not saying anything like,
Hey, by the way, there’s an aspiring writer who’s been watching and stalking and harassing me who left a photo in a box and
referred to the climax of Se7en so hey, have a great day.

Audrey had to persuade him not to get on a plane and come out to see her.

If he didn’t think his stalker might follow him, Dennis would be on a plane now.

The phone continued to ring. He finally picked it up, clicking it on without saying anything.

“Hello?” The voice allowed him to breathe. It was Maureen. “Dennis? Is that you?”

“Yes. Hi, Maureen. Sorry, I’m just up here in my office.”

“Figured I’d check in with you. Can you talk?”

“Sure.”

“I was going to write you an e-mail but thought I’d just give you a call and let you know my thoughts about the chapters you
sent.”

“About what?” Dennis asked, having no idea what she was talking about.

“The first few chapters—the ones you e-mailed me a couple days ago. For
One of These Days?”

He paused. Didn’t breathe. Just listened, wondering what she was talking about.

“I didn’t realize you had changed the title.”

He sat up.

“Changed the title?”

“Yes.
Brain Damage,
huh? Interesting title. It works.”

“It does?”

“Sure. And I have to say—it was quite… well, it was quite dark.”

“Dark?” he repeated, not knowing what else to say, too numb to speak.

“It seems very different from anything you’ve written.”

“Really?” He knew what she was talking about. But…

Did I send her those chapters? Did I somehow do it when I was dreaming? When I was in a fog?

“Different, but in a good way. It’s extremely disturbing.”

“Disturbing—in a good way?”

“More disturbing than anything you’ve done before,” Maureen said. “But—it’s also quite remarkable. It has a visceral edge
to it. And it even has more of a literary feel.”

He forced a halfhearted chuckle. “Yeah.”

“Dennis, are you okay?”

“Sure,” he said.

You just received several chapters of another book I didn’t write, in an e-mail I didn’t send.

“You don’t sound very excited. This is good, Dennis. You’re making tremendous progress. I’m sure this sort of story isn’t
particularly easy to write, especially the violence—”

He didn’t hear anything else she said.

Dennis could make out words on the other line, could hear himself answering them, but nothing connected.

Nothing except that somehow Cillian had gotten to her.

But then he heard her final thoughts.

“Dennis—I don’t think you understand me. This might be the most important book you’ve ever written. It’s disturbing, but it’s
also—well, frankly, I think it’s profound.”

He swallowed, fighting the feeling that he was falling off a skyscraper. Because he was. Free-falling.

And sooner or later he’d land.

Dennis couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this drunk. But several pitchers of beer with wooden-leg Hank could do that
to the best of them.

He’d met his friend in a small bar tucked away off Batavia’s main street, a middle point between both of their houses. Hank
liked cheap beer and jukeboxes. He had chosen the sound track for the night: a selection of Pink Floyd’s greatest hits.

Dennis didn’t have the heart to tell his good-natured friend he would rather not hear any Floyd. He wasn’t in the mood. It
reminded him of his writing, and Dennis wanted to think of anything except his writing.

Hank had spent a lot of the night talking about his job at the Firestone auto shop close to his house. He hated the manager
but could do his job in his sleep. Dennis liked the fact that Hank rarely asked about his writing. Hank got it—his friend
was a bestselling author, blah, blah, blah. That actually didn’t earn Dennis any respect in Hank’s blue-collar world. Dennis
was just glad they’d made movies out of some of his books so Hank knew what he’d written about.

After enough beer, Hank started talking about his ex, Julie. It would take a lot to get past that conversation.

“She called me the other night.”

“What for?”

Hank cursed. “To tell me she loved me.”

“Are you serious?”

“As a heart attack.”

“She just called out of the blue?”

“Nah, I’d tried calling her. A few thousand times. So she called me the other night and I was wasted and she got crying and
all this, and then she ended up telling me she missed me but this was the way things had to be, you know? And I told her something
about how it doesn’t have to be that way, that things are only absolutely done when you die, like for Lucy and you, that’s
the only time when final is final, you know, man?”

Dennis nodded. Hank was jabbering a little too much.

“And she said she loved me but it had to be this way and I had to stop calling her and then—yeah, just a whole big pile of
nothing.”

“Maybe it would be good to stop calling her.”

“Yeah. And it would be good to stop breathing too, you know? It ain’t gonna happen. I wish I could eject my heart, but that’s
not going to happen either.”

It was time to change the subject. Dennis stood up to go to the restroom.

The combination of the loud music from the small, suffering speakers surrounding him and the dim light in the bar and the
dank smell in what used to be a smoking establishment before they banned smoking everywhere all made Dennis dizzy. For a second
he wobbled on his legs. Hank laughed at him.

“Look at you. Lightweight.”

“Shut up,” Dennis said. He passed the jukebox playing a familiar song and felt a headache coming on.

Is it possible to feel hungover before the morning comes?

He didn’t know. He felt hungover by a lot of things in his life, first and foremost by the young writer who kept taunting
him.

Next time I see that guy I’m going to scare him away. He’s going to know that I’m not playing games and no one, and I mean
no one, threatens my daughter.

Before getting to the dingy bathroom, Dennis checked his cell phone. And sure enough there was a text message waiting for
him.

It was his third horror novel and the first to take a critical beating. He had tried doing a sci-fi horror thing, a homage
to the movies
Alien
and
The Thing.

He tried to text back but couldn’t. There was no phone number to reply to.

I’m losing my mind.

He shoved the phone back in his pocket and vowed to drink enough beer tonight to forget Cillian’s name and face and anything
else about the creepy kid.

Hopefully the nightmares would stay away too.

“They’re coming.”

Dennis had briefly shut his eyes. He knew it was time to go when he was dozing off at the table with half a pitcher of beer
staring back at him.

Dennis couldn’t understand the words coming out of Hank’s mouth. The Pink Floyd celebration had stopped, and now random songs
blared out of the jukebox.

The song playing now sure didn’t seem random, however.

It was The Cure’s “A Forest.” He loved the early Cure, the strange, simple songs from an English band breaking out of the
punk movement and helping start what would later be known as goth.

The music seemed louder.

Hank mumbled something.

“What?”

Hank’s face was grim, haunted. The red-haired guy was almost physically unable to look menacing, yet there he was, a shadow
over him, his eyes heavy and his lips tight.

“They’re coming,” Hank said.

“What are you talking about?”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“What’d you say?”

“I said don’t you lie to me.”

“You’re drunk.”

“You know they’re coming. Don’t lie to me.”

“Hank, what’re you talking about?”

Hank reached over and grabbed Dennis’s forearm. Hank was a big guy, one you wouldn’t want to get into a fight with. Somebody
who worked on car engines all day had a little more strength in his hands than somebody who spent all day at a keyboard.

Dennis winced and jerked his arm away. He cursed. “What’s your problem?”

“Tell me,” Hank said.

“Tell you what?”

“Are you one of them?”

Dennis stood up. “Hank, man, come on. I think it’s time to go.”

“You can’t go.”

“Yeah, I can go, and you’re going to go too.”

“You can’t go,” the deadpan voice repeated.

Dennis had seen Hank do a lot of things while he was drunk—he’d seen the guy throw up, topple down a flight of stairs, get
in a fight with four guys—everything except this.

He’d never seen this dark side of Hank.

Dennis walked over to grab Hank’s arm, but instead his friend took the half-full pitcher of beer and slammed it against Dennis’s
face. Dennis went sprawling across the wooden floor of the bar. Thankfully the pitcher was plastic, but it still carried a
wallop.