by Kevin Lucia
Copyright 2018 Crystal Lake Publishing
All Rights Reserved
Cover Design:
Ben Baldwin—http://www.benbaldwin.co.uk/
Interior Layout:
Lori Michelle—www.theauthorsalley.com
Edited by:
Monique Snyman
Proofread by:
Amanda Shore
Tere Fredericks
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
WELCOME TO ANOTHER CRYSTAL LAKE PUBLISHING CREATION.
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Welcome to Crystal Lake Publishing—Tales from the Darkest Depths.
OTHER CLIFTON HEIGHTS TITLES BY KEVIN LUCIA
Things Slip Through
Through a Mirror, Darkly
Devourer of Souls
OTHER COLLECTIONS BY CRYSTAL LAKE PUBLISHING
The Ghost Club: Newly Found Tales of Victorian Terror by William Meikle
Ugly Little Things: Collected Horrors by Todd Keisling
Whispered Echoes by Paul F. Olson
Embers: A Collection of Dark Fiction by Kenneth W. Cain
Visions of the Mutant Rain Forest, by Bruce Boston and Robert Frazier
Tribulations by Richard Thomas
Eidolon Avenue: The First Feast by Jonathan Winn
Flowers in a Dumpster by Mark Allan Gunnells
The Dark at the End of the Tunnel by Taylor Grant
Where You Live by Gary McMahon
Tricks, Mischief and Mayhem by Daniel I. Russell
Samurai and Other Stories by William Meikle
Stuck On You and Other Prime Cuts by Jasper Bark
Or check out other Crystal Lake Publishing books for more Tales from the Darkest Depths.
As always, thank you Abby for your love and support. I couldn’t do any of this without you. Thanks also to Skip Novak, who continues to offer the perfect antidote to my terminal case of Conjunctivitis. And my eternal gratitude to those readers who long for the odd streets of Clifton Heights. May you someday find what you need there.
Most importantly, thank you to the One who wrote—and is still writing—the Greatest Story of All. My mere scribblings are but a pale imitation of Your Great Tale.
Out
Of a great need
We are all holding hands
And climbing.
“A Great Need” by Hafez
* * *
The things
we need most
dwell darkly
in our innermost
cracks
we dare not look
too long,
for fear
of madness
over which
we cannot reach.
“Need” by Jeremiah Bassler
The Nameless Hunger
1.
How’d I end up here?
It’s a long story. That’s the thing about life, though. Never can tell how it’s going to go. As Woody Allen once said: “Want to make God laugh?
“Tell him your plans.”
Anyway, I certainly didn’t figure on this being my life’s work. But it is what it is. If you’re interested, I can share how I got here. To start the story right, though, so you can understand my perspective better, I need to ask: You ever get fed up?
Y’know, your job sucks. The spouse is a pain. The kids are sucking your life away. Finally, one day, you blow your fuses and think: Hell with this. I’m out of here.
Ever feel that way?
Sure you have. Everyone gets fed up eventually. Unless you’re a robot. Or a Vulcan, or a Zen Buddha Hare Krishna Weirdo, and those guys have to get fed up sometime. You show me a Zen-bot who never gets fed up and I’ll show you someone with a few interesting ways of blowing off steam.
Me, I was lucky—or at least I told myself so. In my old life, I never got fed up because I was always on the move. Living out of my suitcase. Spending most my time in rental cars and motel rooms.
Which suited me fine. I lost my parents when I was young. Until recently, I couldn’t even remember their faces. Anyway, before I graduated high school I moved from one foster home to another. I got used to always moving, so you could say my career—what I used to do, anyway—was a perfect fit.
See, in my former career I visited high schools along the East Coast, conducting magazine drives for fundraisers. Public schools booked me to raise funds for proms, class trips, and post-prom parties. Private schools usually ran drives to raise funds for their tuition assistance programs, which aided their less-affluent students.
It wasn’t bad. At least, not in my prime. I was one of the best East Coast Representatives for Mass Media Sales Incorporated. I visited high schools and performed a song and dance about school spirit, community, and working together. A kind of motivational speaker, I guess. Instead of motivating them to accomplish big things, however, I was motivating them to sell magazine subscriptions.
After my opening spiel came the presentation of the “prizes” they could win, based on their sales. Smaller prizes for “Sellers of the Week.” Cheap trinkets, honestly. Likewise cheap trinkets for “Highest Sellers of a Brand.” For example, say one kid sold the most Ladies Home Journal subscriptions? A cheap prize for their troubles.
The Sellers of the Month got slightly better prizes, not as cheap as Sellers of the Week, but still lame. Sellers of the Year usually got a cash prize, but I always noticed the kids who won that were from rich families where Mommy and Daddy probably sold magazines for them.
Of course, that wasn’t any of my business. I was the Vanna White of magazine drives. Showing the goodies which could be theirs, if only they put a little muscle into their hustle. I had no say in how they earned those prizes. Long as I reached my subscription quota per school, I smiled, danced, handed out their prizes, and moved on.
How’d I get myself into it?
It was only supposed to be temporary. I’d graduated college with a Bachelor’s Degree in Advertising. I was aiming to be a big shot at an advertising firm in New York. And believe it or not, after two months of unemployment, writing freelance ad copy for a handful of AM radio stations to keep a roof over my head, I still entertained those dreams. Wouldn’t be much longer, I told myself, and one of those big firms I’d sent resumes to would call me for an interview. I’d run through their hoops with a winning smile, and then I’d be in the game with the big boys.
Five months later with no calls and my freelance jobs drying up, I was less optimistic about my prospects. So when I saw an ad in the paper about an opening for “creative individuals willing to go an extra mile,” I jumped. I was a creative individual, right? And the way things were going, I was willing to go more than the extra mile. Hell, I’d go several h
undred.
You can imagine my dismay when I discovered Mass Media was basically offering the position of traveling salesman. They said lots of things, however, which made it sound great. Imagine, they told me, what a couple years in sales will do for your resume. Not only will you have field experience, you’ll know—firsthand—what sells and what doesn’t.
They said lots of other things, too. Buttered me up real good. Told me how beneficial my education in Advertising would be. I could be an integral part of the process. Develop advertising strategies for each magazine campaign. Give feedback that would shape future campaigns.
Integral part of the process my ass. They sent me already finished brochures, flyers and ad copy, with little sticky-notes reading, “What do you think of the border color? Does it clash with the text?” or “This is our slogan. Any thoughts?” and “Is this font too distracting?”
Yeah. I was real integral.
Why’d I stick around?
Well, wanting to eat and keeping a roof over my head proved powerful motivation. But why’d I stay with Mass Media all those years? Why didn’t I jump ship, aim for those stars, as I’d planned when I’d graduated college?
Honestly?
You get accustomed to living within a certain budget. A year or two into the job I started thinking it was nice having steady cash coming in, plus bonuses when I exceeded my quota. It was also nice not getting harassed by my landlord for rent (even if I was spending more time in my car and motels than I was my apartment), and hey: Mass Media paid for the rental cars, hotels, and meals when I traveled. I still wanted to make something bigger of myself, but I’d be lying if I didn’t admit I enjoyed knowing when my next meal was coming.
Five years down the road I was still sending out resumes, sure. But I was on the road so often, even if I’d landed an interview, I wouldn’t have had time to keep it. By then my savings was fattening a little, so I bought some Mass Media stock options, thinking, “What the hell?” I’d open a 401k, too.
Don’t ask me how the next ten years passed. They simply did. One year after another. On the road, all the time. New state, new city, town or village. New school, new fundraiser. And then one night, drinking alone in some little bar in a small town, I realized something. My edge had been sanded away. It wasn’t coming back. I couldn’t make it in New York Advertising if the best job was offered on a silver platter.
Doesn’t sound fulfilling, does it? But it wasn’t awful. The travel and the same pitches got a bit monotonous, but I had it down to a science. It wasn’t hard, and truthfully, the kids did all the selling, not me.
Sure, I had to get them energized. I had to be organized and give a slick presentation, but mostly it was out of my hands. Either the students were into the sale or they weren’t. Either folks in their town were buying, or they weren’t. It was a big crapshoot. I’d visit a school to kick off their magazine drive and then a few months later returned to close it. They either did their thing or didn’t. I got paid, either way.
I never fell under my quota, you understand? Never. Every magazine drive of mine always sold the minimum amount of subscriptions because I was one of the best. I couldn’t account for schools where the kids didn’t give a rat’s ass (and believe me, those schools abound), but when I hit a school where the kids were even halfway into it, I cleaned up. Had them eating out of my hands. I knew how to talk. Still do, I guess.
I never believed half of what I said, of course. I was selling magazine subscriptions, for Pete’s sake. To raise money for the prom. Or the senior class trip, or to save the whales. Whatever the cause, I could sell it. I put on a good show. I came out with the microphone, smiling and yelling, “Good Morning Townsend High!” or “How’s it going, Ridgeview Academy! You ready to make some MONEY?!” The kids would be screaming—most of them, anyway—the teachers appeared only half-bored, and the administrators were smiling with that hungry expression they all get when they sense money rolling in.
I cleaned up.
Usually.
As I said, it was a dice roll. Maybe the school was full of stoners. Maybe it was a little podunk high school out in the middle of the sticks. A country school full of kids taking shop and Home Ec classes, or kids who couldn’t care less about raising money for this school event, or for that cause. Maybe they had no school spirit.
Other schools?
They loved it. They got the job done. I made my quota, got my bonuses, kids raised the money they needed, and everybody went away happy.
So when you total things up, it wasn’t bad. And, as I said, I was always on the move, so I didn’t have to worry about getting fed up because, hell—I was always leaving. Half the time, I only got back to my apartment three or four days a month.
Say I had to hit a high school in Montrose, Pennsylvania on Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday. Then I worked a gig up in Syracuse at the end of the week. Maybe I made it home to my apartment for the weekend, maybe not. Most likely, I had to head down to Elmira the following Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday, so Mass Media would put me up in a crappy motel in nearby Horseheads for the weekend. Maybe afterward I was scheduled to swing down to a Catholic school in Pittsburgh, or to a little hick school in York, Pennsylvania. I was always on the move, from school to motel to school.
It was okay, I guess. The scenery changed, at least.
A little.
I mean, the motel rooms didn’t change much. Once you’ve seen one motel room you’ve seen them all. Also, the bars were the same. A dimly lit joint with a counter, rows of liquor bottles behind it against a mirror no one wants to look into, a gruff bartender and a few hardcore drunks. Maybe a 30-year-old lush gal (who may or may not be older), with peroxide hair and tight clothes that didn’t quite fit anymore.
I’d be lying if I didn’t admit to having occasionally enjoyed the overnight company of Ms. Maybe-I’m-30-But-Probably-35. Of course, when I was younger, she was Maybe-I’m-27-But-Probably-30, so I suppose she changed some, but mostly she remained the same, too. Tired, with slightly glazed-over eyes, desperate for something better, too much make-up caked on her slack face, tight clothes holding in the rolls, over-teased hair, and a vapid, loose grin.
Thing is, she aged to Maybe-I’m-40-But-Probably-45-or-Maybe-Even-50 almost overnight. Sometimes after a few shots, if the place was dark enough and I was lonely enough, that was okay. But toward the end, it wasn’t. Near the end of my run I wasn’t exactly in my prime anymore, but I sure wasn’t wearing Depends. When the bar hounds started looking more like toothless alley cats than cougars, I got choosier. There’s lonely and willing to be flexible, and then there’s desperate. I didn’t want to be the latter.
There were strip clubs, of course, and most of those motels had free WiFi, so I suppose there was porn, too. But I avoided strip clubs, especially out in the sticks. In those backwoods clubs, two kinds of girls worked the pole: Ms. Maybe-I’m-45-But-Probably-50, and Ms. Underage-Jail-Bait. The first category was barely acceptable under dark lights and through beer goggles. Seeing them remove their clothes (with their same glazed-over eyes and vapid grin) crossed way over the line in desperate.
The second category? The underage girls swinging their thing around a rattling pole? Given my profession, spending all my days in high schools and how my livelihood depended on my reputation, you can see my concern. That’s why I always hit bars several towns away from the school I was working. You don’t piss in your own pool, right?
As for internet porn . . . well, seeing naked women having sex (and doing other things) on a computer is interesting the first few times. After a while, however? It makes you want the real thing. All porn did was make me thirsty for drinks I couldn’t afford anymore.
See the thing about sex . . . not to make you uncomfortable, because this probably ain’t the story you wanted to hear . . . you know the old saying, “If you don’t use it, you lose it?” Believe it or not, that’s how it was for me. As options got less desirable, my urge kinda disappeared. Not completely, of course. Sometimes,
I decided nighttime company was worth lowering my standards, or occasionally I got lucky and nabbed a Maybe-I’m-35 (they were never much in the looks department though).
For the most part, toward the end, after working a gig I went to a local bar outside town, had a beer or two, enjoyed some wings, watched the game on the big screen, then headed back to my motel room alone.
Don’t get me wrong. I didn’t think of myself as lonely. Actually, sitting at a bar alone was a relief. I spent my days pretending to be enthusiastic, positive and friendly, so sitting in a dark bar, ignored by everyone, was sorta nice.
Especially toward the end. When I started wondering if there was anything more to life. Wondering if I was going to someday quit in the middle of a gig. Tell a gym full of students where to shove their damn magazines. Walk out, get into my car, and head for parts unknown. Or if one night I’d go back to my motel room, sit on the bed, drink a bottle of JD, and then calmly pull out the .38 I bought a few years before (for protection, I’d told myself), stick the muzzle into my mouth and pull the trigger.
I know.
Funny how things work out. I finally got fed up. But there wasn’t anything for me to drive away from because that’s all I ever did: drive away.
So there it is. My life before this. To be honest, I’m still not sure which option I would’ve chosen. I’d prefer to think the first one: I’d drive to my bank, withdraw all my cash and disappear. Maybe get a part-time job in some city working at a bookstore or something. It’s a nice thought and I think a probable option. On my worst days, though, I wonder.
I wonder.
Because that’s why I’m here. No matter what I want to think, the muzzle of my .38 was a lot closer to my mouth than I care to admit. In fact, the day I stepped into Handy’s Pawn & Thrift, I’d say I was two steps away from giving my .38 that long, last kiss goodbye.
2.
It was my first visit to Clifton Heights Junior/Senior High School. Right from the start, I thought Clifton Heights was a strange town. Nothing obviously wrong with it. Not on the surface, anyway. Place was the same as any of the hundreds of towns I’d visited over the last twenty years. Homey little department and hardware stores, restaurants, and knick-knack shops. A town hall, three churches, the requisite small town diner and two high schools. A library, a lumber mill, and a little creek running past the town, with a bridge over it called Black Creek Bridge.
