She stood to leave.
“Don’t—hey, let me just call one of my friends. I have a buddy who’s a cop.”
“No thanks. I’ve dealt with them enough in my life.”
“Can I get you anything?”
“Yeah. You can give me the name of the guy who did this to me.”
“So you can report him?”
She laughed, a low, maniacal laugh that made Dennis’s skin crawl.
“I don’t want to report him,” she said. “I want to kill him.”
Dennis watched as she opened the front door and glanced back at him. A wave of prickles washed over his skin as he noticed her smile.
It was the kind people wore when they were dressed in their Sunday best, lying on their backs in a casket as mourners passed by.
4.
“I couldn’t get her to stay.”
“Did you want her to stay?” Ryan Cummings asked as he sipped from the cup of coffee Dennis gave him.
“Not exactly. But I didn’t want her to go either.”
“She drive here?”
“She walked down my driveway toward the road and disappeared. I didn’t hear an engine start.”
Ryan gave a wry smile. “Maybe she was a ghost.”
“That’s funny,” Dennis told the deputy.
Ryan had been a friend since years ago when he professed to be a big fan. Ever since Breathe broke out and became a bestseller, Dennis discovered more and more self-professed fans everywhere, from the grocery store to his dentist’s office. Ryan was a nice guy, the sort of cop who probably wouldn’t write you a ticket if he pulled you over for speeding.
Dennis met the affable young man after the garage incident—the second since Dennis’s launch into fame. The first and more harmless incident, the one the media found out about and reported, involved a high school girl who showed up at his house in the middle of the night to get an autograph. He had laughed it off, but it had shaken Lucy up pretty badly.
The garage incident happened months later, and the only people who knew about it were the local authorities. Dennis hadn’t even told his wife or daughter.
“You don’t think she’s talking about Sonny, do you?”
“Sonny Jacobs? No way. That guy’s still in a nuthouse over in Tinley Park. He was harmless. Sonny would never hurt a girl. And a girl would never talk to Sonny.”
Sonny Jacobs was the bipolar, alcoholic fan Dennis found in his garage one afternoon, holding a loaded gun, talking about cowriting a book with Dennis. The gun turned out to be empty, but nevertheless it was a scary experience. Dennis had called the cops and a host of them had swarmed his house.
It had luckily been when Lucy and Audrey were spending a weekend in downtown Chicago.
“What do you think I should do?” Dennis asked.
Ryan wasn’t dressed in his uniform since he was off today. It wasn’t unusual for Dennis to see the deputy when he was off. Dennis used Ryan as a resource for his novels. The young guy with the crew-cut hair and boyish looks enjoyed assisting Dennis in his writing projects.
But there hadn’t been a writing project in some time now.
“You wanna report it?”
“I’m not sure what I’d report.”
Dennis had told Ryan everything. Well, almost everything. Everything except the girl’s accusation that he had stolen something.
Dennis kept that comment to himself.
“She didn’t take anything, did she? Did you threaten you?”
“No.”
“Then there’s nothing to do.”
“What if she really was raped? What if the story is true?”
“Then she needs to report it. You said she lives in Chicago, right?”
“That’s what she said.”
They were in the same room that Dennis and the girl had been sitting in, a separate room right off the entry to the old mansion. The house had been built in 1895 and renovated several times since, the most recent right after Dennis and Lucy moved in seven years ago. The rooms had high ceilings and intricate woodwork, especially around the fireplace in the living room.
“She didn’t look like she was lying,” Dennis said.
“Think she’s on anything?”
“I don’t know. She didn’t act like it. But I’m not a good judge of that.”
“Want to file a report?”
Dennis shook his head. “No. The last thing I want is press. I got enough of that last time. I think it only breeds more intruders and craziness.”
Dennis went to the kitchen to get a bottled water. Ryan followed him and took in the view of the backyard. The deputy stared out at the sunlight beaming off the river behind the house.
“You have quite a view.”
“That’s what sold us on the place. Lucy always wanted a house by the river.”
Ryan looked back at him, a sad smile on his face. “Last time I saw you was at the funeral.”
“Yeah. Saw a lot of people that day.”
“Sorry.”
“Me too.”
“Where’s Audrey?”
“Took her to college a few weeks ago. All the way in southern California.”
“Where’s she going?”
“Biola. She got a scholarship there.”
“Never heard of Biola.”
“It’s a Christian college.” Dennis rolled his eyes. “That’s something she takes after her mom.”
“How’s that going?”
“Her being at college or me being here alone?”
“Both.”
“Well, Audrey’s loving it. And as for me, despite the visit from Little Miss Spooky, things are normal.” Dennis shrugged. “Ask me in a month.”
“Okay.”
Dennis scanned the lawn and its crisscross pattern. He peered through a window that could use cleaning, looking out toward the river that never stopped and never died.
The deputy patted his back. “Don’t look so worried, buddy. Maybe she’ll get some help.”
“Yeah, maybe.”
But for some strange reason, Dennis didn’t think so. And all he could hear were the words she had said in that frightening, unnatural tone: “The book cannot come out. It can’t be released. Ever.”
Dennis did his best to make small talk with Ryan about his books and writing and the fact that Ryan’s aunt so-and-so just read all of his books and eagerly awaited the new one.
The new one that must not be published.
Dennis soon found himself telling the deputy good-bye, wondering if he had imagined the whole thing.
Things like that only happened in the pages of books and on the movie screen. This was real life, which consisted only of living, breathing human beings you could see and touch. That’s all.
Just because he wrote bestselling novels about the supernatural didn’t mean he believed in them.
5.
At four that afternoon, the doorbell rang again.
Dennis was half asleep, watching ESPN. He bolted off the couch toward the door, hesitating as he grasped the handle. He knew it was the girl again. It had to be her.
He wondered if he should call the cops.
Finally he opened the door, surprised to see a tall man in a brown uniform.
“Hello, sir,” the UPS driver said, asking him to sign for a package.
He didn’t need to open the box to know what was inside. For a long time he just stood there, staring at the package.
Eventually he opened it.
The new book had arrived.
2002
A week’s worth of rain had kept the streets wet; the leaves stuck to the sidewalks. The afternoon was windy and over-cast. The tall figure, twenty-one years old by ten days, walked down the deserted avenue toward the brick building on the corner. One of the only windows—small, circular, and painted black—had one crimson word scrawled on it: Bookstore. A nondescript door opened to a long, narrow interior that used to serve as the local watering hole. Remnants of the old place still remained, includin
g the bar itself, which now served as a checkout counter.
Inside was the smell of incense, the colors of Halloween. Lamps were kept dim, draped with black linens or lit with dark bulbs. Exotic music played softly along with other background noises—chimes, running water, even birds. The smells and sounds were not those of a typical bookstore, but this store on the north side of Chicago was known for more than its books.
The man browsed for a few minutes but hadn’t come here for that. He had called ahead. A woman—big all over, including her hair that looked like a bad wig, her meaty arms and hands, and her eyes that seemed to look everywhere without seeing anything—sat behind the counter smoking a cigarette. She didn’t appear interested in asking him whether or not he needed help.
“I called about the book on deaths. Last name is Reed.”
The woman seemed bored as she looked him over. “Cecil or something like that?”
“Cillian Reed.”
It took her a moment to get off the stool she sat on. She disappeared through partial drapes and returned holding a hardcover book with a Post-it note attached to it.
“The Visual Guide to Death. That the one you’re looking for?”
He nodded. The woman didn’t appear fazed in the least. She put the book on the counter, checking the front for a price. She found the tag on the inside, and for the first time her face took on some expression.
“They tell you it’s fifty-seven dollars?”
He nodded and took three twenties out of his wallet. This obviously surprised the woman, though she didn’t seem easily surprised.
“Not sure why this book is so expensive. It’s in pretty bad shape too. But hey, I don’t price ’em.”
She took his money and gave him back his change. He wasn’t interested in small talk. Not here, not with this woman dressed all in black, with the tattoos on her arms and neck.
She studied him. “You a fan of horror novels?”
He wasn’t about to tell her that yes, of course he was, and that yes, he was writing his very first novel.
All he did was nod, staring at a trio of jars near the cash register that contained animals suspended in liquid. A coiled-up snake, what appeared to be a mutating squid, and a floating monkey head.
“Like those?” the woman asked again, prying. “Got a guy who comes in every few weeks with more.”
The big woman reached behind the counter and produced a hardcover book. “Here—I have a few of these. I just finished it. You might like it. You paid enough for that book.”
He looked at the all-black cover, the ghostly white letters spelling out Breathe.
“If you like Stephen King and Dean Koontz, check this guy out.”
He nodded at her but didn’t bother saying thanks. He doubted he would read much of the novel.
Cillian Reed had very discerning tastes.
The Stranger
1.
“Where do your ideas come from?”
This was the question he feared the most, the question he least wanted to hear, the question that was always asked. Perhaps it was prompted by the fact that he was one of the country’s premier writers of horror. “How do you come up with such terrifying tales?” people always asked, obviously hoping to get some sort of response like, “I was abused as a child” or “I met the devil when I was seven.” He had his standard quips and comebacks, and usually it was all in good fun. But nothing about this trip to New York was fun. Answering that question when it came up this time would be impossible.
And Dennis knew exactly why.
Walking back to the hotel, feeling light-headed from the wine shared with his agent over dinner, Dennis felt watched. Everyone he passed seemed to be staring at him. And not because he had a recognizable face. All sorts of celebrities walked this part of New York all the time. It was as if these people knew.
At least that’s what his imagination made him think.
It had been this way during the whole trip. They watched him. Strangers in the terminal. Their leery faces followed him as he walked past or sat reading or boarded the airplane. People on the street and in passing cars and through store windows.
They all watched him with eyes that knew.
Dennis spotted the glowing red sign that signaled his hotel in this part of Gramercy Park. It was a small boutique hotel that probably cost the publisher some ridiculous amount. Nestled amidst a lush park, Hotel 42 was new and certainly impressive, feeling like a cross between a modern art exhibit and an Asian painting. Lucy would have hated it, all its ornate excesses and its cold, dark colors.
Entering the lobby, stepping on crimson carpets with patterns that swooped and showcased the hotel’s emblem, Dennis noted that this hotel was a perfect reflection of this trip.
New York felt different.
The cab drivers seemed crabbier, the drivers more dangerous, the streets more crowded, the busyness more annoying. It had been almost exactly a year since his last visit. A year ago had been the last trip Lucy and he ever took together. Nothing much had mattered then except staying in the moment with her. But the moment was gone now, and Dennis was stuck by himself in a big city he’d be happy never to see again.
If only he could have persuaded Maureen and James and the rest of them that he didn’t need to come here for the launch of his new novel. But the advance buzz on the novel and the news about the loss of his wife a year ago made the trip necessary. Dennis had spent a career saying yes, and this would be no exception. He’d play the game and go through the motions and ensure another home run. But secretly he hated being here, hated answering the questions, hated being treated like he was special. Lucy was special. He was just a guy who made up strange stories that spooked people.
Dennis stepped into Hotel 42 where a man in a suit stood behind a small desk, the wall behind him adorned with a massive-sized image of a Kyoto-style woman gazing sadly off to the side. The man simply nodded, acknowledging that Dennis could pass. The sound of bells echoed as he walked down a narrow hallway lined with wallpaper that looked to him like rivers of blood.
Mystique and expense aside, Dennis couldn’t figure out why they had put him here versus the Marriott or the Hilton or one of the big guns. He wondered how expensive it was for one night’s stay and felt glad that he didn’t have to pay for it himself.
Money hadn’t been an issue for a long time. But that was just one of the many things Dennis had been left with after Lucy passed away.
He entered the elevator and punched his floor number. It was close to ten o’clock, and he had a very full day tomorrow, starting with his annual visit to The Today Show early in the morning, then a host of shows before his late afternoon book signing at Barnes & Noble. Just like his usual September visits, except for two things: Lucy wasn’t there and that other thing.
That other thing.
He pushed the thought out of his mind. He was good at that. Like when he started to dwell too much on Lucy’s absence. He had mastered the art of not thinking about her. At least he liked to believe that.
As he approached his hotel room, Dennis slowed down on the brand-new black-and-white plush carpet. He could see the door to his room was slightly open, light peeking from inside.
Dennis edged the door open, looking to see if someone had come to turn down the bed perhaps, give him a special late-night treat. In a place like this, it might be a fortune cookie dipped in blood with a fortune that said something like, “He who steals is he who dies.” But as he entered the room that looked like a scene from the Renaissance, with its deep rose and mahogany colors and its ornate but uncomfortable hand-made furniture, Dennis couldn’t find anyone.
“Hello?” he asked.
The room felt cold, silent. It didn’t look like anybody had been in here. And the only thing worth taking—his laptop, nestled in his faded leather carrying case—was still there.
Dennis checked the bathroom, the closet, but found nothing. And as he finally sat on the edge of the velvet bedspread, staring at a painting of a g
irl running from some unseen attacker, the sky above her ominous with its gray swirls of clouds, he finally noticed the small envelope next to him.
It was a white envelope with Dennis Shore scrawled across the front.
He opened it up and read the short card, immediately tossing it to the ground, jumping off the bed, and searching the room again, checking under the bed and in the closet and anywhere someone might hide.
Nobody was there. But that didn’t mean they hadn’t been there earlier.
The note was clear enough.
He read it again, then shivered as he tore it up and flushed it down the toilet.
2.
“Lucy was the one who told me to write a ghost story,” Dennis said to the interviewer. “After my first two books came out and sold nothing, she encouraged me to write in a genre she’d never actually read. She knew my penchant for telling a good ghost story and how I enjoyed watching and reading them. So I tried it. I guess it worked.”
He had told that story before, but now the anecdote carried more weight. He was a New York Times bestselling author of nine novels, soon to be ten. His first bestseller, Breathe, was a simple little ghost story about a mother and father who lost their only child and started being haunted by her. The fact that Lucy, now gone, had told him years ago to try something that had turned into huge success—that was the story, not the fact that Dennis was here in New York hawking another book.
So during the day, starting with the fine folks at The Today Show, Dennis obliged his interviewers with personal stories. He’d rather talk about Lucy then about the newest book, Empty Spaces. Of course, the interviewers always felt like they needed to focus on the book at least a little, but Dennis did his best to veer off the subject as quickly as possible.
Hovering in the background all day were two very important people: his agent, Maureen Block, and his editor, James Wilcox. They had remained through the interviews and a fine-dining lunch and now watched the mob that filled the Barnes & Noble bookstore in Greenwich Village. People of all ages filled the bookstore, from teenagers to seventy-year-old men and women.
Ghostwriter Page 2
