Point Pleasant (2 page)

A town-wide curfew went into immediate effect; children were urged to stay indoors at all times, which meant that most of them did everything within their power to go outside even if it meant sneaking around.

This was how Ben and Nicholas came to slip out of the latter’s house on Whaley Drive at two o’clock in the morning. Caroline was visiting family in Ohio and had taken Ben’s older sister, Kate, with her. Ben’s father, Andrew, was at a medical conference in Charleston.

Caroline had arranged for Ben to stay with the Nolans for the week, much to his and Nicholas’ delight. She left town the day before Dr. Lewis’ attack and had called Ben an embarrassing number of times since out of concern that something would happen to him. Nicholas’ mother, Leslie, had assured Caroline that the boys were behaving themselves and not going outside.

The idea of investigating the old factory for the
truth
about whether or not a giant bat-man lived there presented itself as an intriguing proposition, one that even Ben had become enraptured with since Jack Freemont had waved his wrinkled, sunburnt arms around in Duvall’s two weeks beforehand.

Nicholas had scoffed at the idea of such a creature; he had always been more levelheaded than Ben. For as much as he loved black-and-white Bela Lugosi flicks at the Marquee every third Sunday of the month, Nicholas was never one to fantasize too much about the things that go bump in the night. He left that to Ben, whose overactive imagination was matched only by his foolhardy curiosity to explore the unknown. They made a good team.

Caroline would be home the next day with Kate, and Andrew would return from Charleston as well, which meant that night would be Ben and Nicholas’ sole chance to venture off under the cover of night to discover the truth behind the Mothman legend. It was far easier to evade two parents, as opposed to four, after all. Nicholas’ father—one of the town’s four deputies—was working overtime in the Sheriff’s Department, so Mrs. Nolan was the
only
parent they would need to dodge that night.

Ben knew that when his parents returned, they would most likely join in the general panic of Point Pleasant’s unofficial Mothman Abduction Prevention Program. Ben’s summer of adventure would be over, and he would be on lockdown until school started in September.

It was thus with Nicholas’ shrewd sensibilities, Ben’s macabre inquisitiveness, and their combined boldness that they climbed out of Nicholas’ second-story bedroom window, hopped on their bikes, and cycled the three miles out to River Bend Road to the edge of the forest.

Ben and Nicholas hid their bikes behind some dense shrubbery and hiked into the dark woods, each bearing a flashlight. They never made it all the way through to the factory, though. The boys did not find the legendary Mothman that night; it found them.

As Ben ran through the dark woods at Nicholas’ side, he could only think of how his mother would blame herself if he ended up breakfast for the winged boogeyman of West Virginia.

BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS

October 2012

The Exquisite Corpse
had sold over 500,000 copies, and Preston James sat at a small table autographing what felt like the half-a-millionth title page at the event hosted by his publishers.

Preston James was just a pseudonym, of course. And a damn good persona as well. Andrew Wisehart had made it abundantly clear that his family’s name was
not
to be used on the ‘trashy novels’ his son penned. Inspired by a feeling of rebellion against his father, Ben opted to use an amalgamation of the names of the people who had always appreciated and supported his storytelling skills, starting with his mother’s maiden name. Ben Wisehart became sweater-vest-and-tie-wearing bestselling author Preston James.

In 2002,
The New York Times
had reviewed Ben’s first novel,
The Blue Tulip
, as “one of the most promising pieces of contemporary fiction of the year despite its alignment with the horror genre.” As if ‘the horror genre’ was a dirty phrase used to describe a temporary blip on an otherwise auspicious start to a literary career.

To Ben’s knowledge, Andrew had never read any of his son’s five published novels—or the three that had been rejected by his publishers—regardless of their success, or in the case of Ben’s third effort,
Gray Area
, their failure. He had never even asked about Ben’s chosen pen name; all he cared about was that the Wisehart name was not associated with ‘pointless drivel.’

Andrew was always quick to note the stark differences between his two children. “Katie, at least, has a
real
job. I don’t have to worry about her the way I worry about you, Benji.”

Kate received a full ride to Harvard when she graduated high school; her grades and test scores had been stratospheric. She had attended law school and then moved to New York City where she had established a solid career in a reputable law firm.

Ben rarely saw Kate since she moved to New York, but they spoke frequently. The last time he talked to his sister over the phone, Kate had made partner at her firm. Ben had wished her sincere congratulations, and Kate—in her familiar
mocking-you-but-I-love-you
tone—had asked, “So when can the world anticipate the next installment of the
Fear Street
saga, Mr. Stine?”

“Fuck you, Katie,” Ben had said, though there had been a dark edge to his laughter. He was sensitive about his career. Andrew refused to acknowledge Ben’s work as a writer, and Kate enjoyed mocking it with tender affection, but she still read every book. Ben was sure his mother, who was not only his personal head cheerleader but also his high school English teacher, would have appreciated his novels, but he would never know for sure; Caroline had died the spring after Ben turned twenty.

Ben did not tell Kate, but he was uncertain of his latest novel just before its publication.
The Exquisite Corpse
had done well, though. Very well, in fact. Which was why Ben was stuck at the confining event on a Monday evening and surrounded by stacks of his own books and the fans of it who were desperate for his John Hancock. He could understand why they wanted his autograph; it made the book special to them. His autographed copy of Kurt Vonnegut’s
Slapstick
inspired the same sentiment; if his apartment ever caught fire, Ben would not think twice about running into the flames to save the book.

Ben, however, was no Vonnegut. He would never understand what elaborate ruse he had pulled to make people love his work.

Of course, there were the fans that loved to tell him exactly how his ruse had worked; the ones who told him his writing tapped into something ‘primal’ and ‘visceral.’ The ones who asked if he had experienced a horrific encounter of his own that he used to channel his stories through.

Ben never liked to answer these questions, though. Not because he was emotionally scarred or triggered by the idea of having to recount his own personal horror story. No, he simply did not want to ruin his carefully crafted mystique. Preston James was Ben’s identity to these people. Preston was an effective tool used to sell books and give people a fright when they wanted one. They did not need to know about Ben’s twelve-year-old self running through a forest at dawn or how he and his best friend narrowly escaped that encounter with their lives.

Ben—or rather,
Preston
—always met these enquiries with the same teasing response: “Maybe I’ll use it in my next book, and you can find out then.”

The dapper smile he summoned after delivering this line always made his female readers giggle. On one occasion, it earned him a shy grin from a bespectacled man with a beard as well, but their brief flirtation did not extend past this encounter. After that particular signing event, Ben had kicked himself for not thinking to write his cell phone number underneath his autograph.
Oh well
.

The Exquisite Corpse
seemed trite to Ben’s sensibilities; it felt like he had lost touch with the kind of sentiment he wanted to expose. Ben was in a slump. A productive slump, but a slump nevertheless. His publishers and the majority of his readers, however, did not share Ben’s disenchantment with his fifth published novel.

Ben mused over the irony that his most successful book to date was one he thought of as tired and derivative.
The Blue Tulip
had been a critical success because of its gritty—perhaps even naïve—narrative.
The Corpse
, as Ben liked to call it with little actual humor, seemed formulaic. The book felt like the same thing he had tried to hash out in his previous novels but
less
.
Somehow less.

Ben could not pinpoint
why
he felt this way, but he wondered if a change of scenery might help to clear his head. He needed a new place, a new experience, a new
something
to help him focus his thoughts so that his next effort, whatever that might be, was meaningful.

He toyed with the idea of traveling abroad. A friend in New York had recounted his recent journey to Thailand. Ben had started to consider a trip of his own. After Boston, the publicity circuit for
The Corpse
would be over, and Ben could take some time for himself.

Alone, of course.

Ben was always alone. He had entertained his share of romances; some women had occupied the other side of his bed over the years, and some men had as well. Ben had long since come to terms with his sexuality in that respect. Despite his relative openness to new relationships and his tentative desire to someday find himself as a solid part of one, Ben never found that connection. He thought he had it once, but it had been entirely one-sided on his part.

Ben knew that no trip to Thailand, or to anywhere else in the world, would cure his loneliness.
Maybe you just need to get laid, Benji
. It had been a while. Eight months, in fact; a new record for him.

Peter, Ben’s last partner, stuck around for a few months after the start of their fling. They met at a mutual friend’s birthday dinner. Their attraction had been immediate. They had coffee the next day, which ended in an impromptu fuck back at Ben’s apartment. It had not been rushed or frantic despite their obvious gravitation toward one another. Instead, it had been slow and intentional. Ben had sprawled across the foot of his bed with his head hanging off the edge as Peter prepared him with lube and steady fingers. Without warning, Peter had leaned in and seated his cock fully inside of Ben. It had been glorious. Peter had kissed Ben and pushed himself in as far as he could go while his tongue examined every inch of Ben’s mouth. Ben had felt wholly possessed.

As the line of autograph seekers grew slim, Ben fantasized about his apartment. Weeks had passed since he had been able to sleep in his own bed, to prepare a grilled cheese sandwich—just like his mom used to make—in his own kitchen, and to enjoy it in front of his own television while watching his favorite guilty pleasure,
Ghost Hunters.
Ben knew his TiVo would be stocked with the recent episodes he had missed during his travels, and he thrummed his fingers against the table as his thoughts wandered to a night on the sofa and a catch-up marathon.

The final autograph seeker approached the table, and Ben glanced up at the woman when she offered him a book. It was not
The Corpse,
though; it was
The Blue Tulip
. And a tattered, well-read copy of it, no less. Ben took the book and offered a bright smile.

“You’re the first person to bring along a copy of this one in ages.”

“Really?” the woman asked, her accent a heavy Bostonian brogue. Ben noted that she flustered as she reached up to smooth down her black hair. “It’s my favorite. I just love Carmine.”

“I shouldn’t say this because I wrote it, but so do I.”

The woman laughed, and her nervousness seemed to lessen at Ben’s easy demeanor. “It’s a wicked good book,” she said, but she faltered when she noticed one of the organizers looming close to the table as if he was preparing to shoo her away so that Ben could go home.

Ben waved at the man to say it was fine and returned his attention to the woman. “Sorry about that. Thank you. To whom do I make this out?”

“Caroline,” she said with a smile.

Ben grinned. “What a beautiful name. That was my mother’s name.” He would not normally give away such a personal piece of information, but the woman was so earnest in her admiration for the book that Ben did not think to withhold.

A nervous laugh escaped her lips as Ben began the inscription. “Thanks. So, Carmine. Is it true the character was originally a man?”

Ben stopped mid-scrawl and raised an eyebrow. “Ah, were you at that talk?” he asked, recalling a speaking engagement that had been arranged in his honor the year before at Boston University.

She beamed and gave a slight but prideful nod. “I was on the front row. I think it’s interesting, actually. That you had to change your vision to suit the publishers, I mean.”

“It happens more often than you’d believe,” Ben said. “But, in a way, I’m glad they made that suggestion. I kind of based Carmine off someone I once knew. One of those million-years-ago kind of things, you know? And it just didn’t seem right to have him be so exposed even if he’d never read the book.”

“Why wouldn’t he read it? I’d read something I knew my friend had published, especially if it was so well-loved.”

“You’re a good friend,” Ben told her, but he gave nothing more away.

Caroline bit her bottom lip. “I didn’t like
The Exquisite Corpse
that much.” Her words spilled forth in a rush as if she worried she might lose her nerve if she waited any longer.

“Neither did I,” Ben replied, his tone just as frank.

Caroline continued to chew her lip. “It seemed to lack your usual poignancy,” she said. “Like maybe you got burnt out.”

“Yeah, maybe so,” Ben said, uncapping and re-capping the lid of his pen as he considered her comments. “You’re the first person to tell me that. It’s what I’ve been thinking since before it went to print.”