Alive…
She laughed. And he felt something deep, scraping at his insides, peeling away at him.
That sound. The way her cheeks glowed, her lips circled, the lines under her eyes wrinkled.
It took his breath away.
It took his breath away because this wasn’t real, she wasn’t real, her laugh wasn’t real.
She wasn’t alive.
Rather than wake up from this dream, he stayed here. Gazing at her.
She’s not real, and this isn’t real. Nothing is real, not like that anymore.
He pictured her so vividly.
God did he miss her.
So much time had passed; yet he could still see her clearly, could still hear her perfectly, could still be with her like this.
Dreams like this had been few since Lucy’s death.
But not anymore.
2.
So far Dennis had not heard from Cillian. It had been eight days and nothing. No e-mails or phone calls, no dead animals or pages from his books strewn across his lawn. Nothing.
The same could apply to his writing. Every day he heard more accolades about Empty Spaces. Sales were excellent and reviews were excellent and everything about it was excellent. Meanwhile its author spent the day searching the Internet, watching CNN and ESPN, reorganizing his office—doing everything he could except write. And it wasn’t like he hadn’t tried. The words just did not want to come. And they certainly weren’t there to find.
He drove downtown through the crisp early October air to get his mail. To waste time instead of writing, a voice whispered. It was true. Sometimes morning drives did wonders for his creativity. But he was beyond help at this point. The writer’s block had turned into a fortress.
The sign on the church that morning provided no levity. “If you’re headed in the wrong direction, God allows U-turns.”
Dennis shook his head. Part of him wanted to ram his SUV into the church sign. How about that for a freaking U-turn? The sign wasn’t amusing. It was ignorant.
At the post office, he picked up a stack of mail and thumbed through it. Some reader mail, some junk mail, a few random things from his publisher.
Nothing from Cillian.
The absence only heightened Dennis’s tension. He knew the young man wasn’t going to leave him alone. What was he doing? Finishing his Great American Novel for Dennis to read? Perfecting the opening chapter of his magnum opus?
For what?
He turned onto State Street and headed toward Randall. He needed to get a few supplies at Home Depot. Traffic this morning seemed heavier than usual. He eventually pulled into the parking lot with a dozen or more vehicles scattered across it. As he walked toward the large entrance to the hardware store, he glanced at the midmorning sky. It was coated with soft clouds, not puffs but clouds that filled the entire sky, like a blanket. It made the sky and everything a little darker, not in an ominous way but in a subdued, gentle manner.
He walked through the sliding glass doors, past the carts. Dennis thought about getting one, then realized he was only here to purchase some lightbulbs and take a look at snowblowers. His acted up last winter, and he had procrastinated till now to buy a new one. With a long driveway, there was no way he could go through another winter without it.
Dennis passed multiple signs and the returns desk. He didn’t see anybody behind the counter even though the light for the section was on. The aisle opened up, and he found himself surrounded by lawn mowers. To his right was the garden center with doors leading outside, to his left lay most of the rest of the store. He didn’t see anyone as he found the lightbulbs, picking up a couple four-packs.
The overhead music amused him. The speakers piped out old Genesis when Peter Gabriel sang lead, before he walked out of the group and made Phil Collins an international pop star. The music seemed unusually loud. He couldn’t hear anything else.
He looked around and still didn’t see any other customers—or helpful employees.
That was unusual. And the number of cars in the parking lot meant there should be a good number of shoppers here.
He turned down one aisle. Nothing. Another. Still nothing. The music continued to rail on, the guitars and drums pounding and piercing.
Suddenly it broke, and a prerecorded message started. “We here at Home Depot would like to ensure that—”
It broke up, crackled for a minute, then came back on. “—your children are safely secured to the—”
Another screech and whirring. Dennis stopped, looking around for someone to laugh with, but there wasn’t anybody else.
Then the music changed.
It started playing an old song with a harmonica.
“You gotta be kidding,” Dennis said.
Again he turned, but nothing.
The song was “Moon River,” the original recording with Henry Mancini. He knew it well. It was the song Lucy and he danced to at their wedding. Not unusual for Muzak, but still.
Just as the singer was about to start, the speakers creaked again. The crackling continued for a minute, then silence.
Deathly silence.
Dennis strained to hear feet moving, carts shuffling, voices talking.
There was nobody around.
He walked down a plumbing aisle, paying no attention to the sinks and the faucet settings. Everything was still. The music hadn’t come back on. He seemed to be the only person in the whole store. And yet, for some crazy reason, Dennis felt like he was being watched.
He could never remember a Home Depot this empty.
The aisles towered over him, the echoes of the massive ceiling bringing nothing but the tapping of his shoes against the concrete fl oor.
“Hello?” His voice withered away.
He shook his head, feeling stupid for calling out, knowing he’d eventually find someone.
A song began playing. “Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This)” by Eurythmics. At least the eighties synth-pop song pepped up the mood in this tomb of a building.
Dennis walked toward the security mirrors, and as he passed underneath one, he looked up at it, seeing the long aisle behind him.
A figure bolted past, far down the aisle. He turned, but couldn’t see anything.
“Hello?” he called out again, but the music quickly covered his voice. He kept walking, passing a display mirror with a gaudy gold frame. The reflection showed a figure behind him. Approaching. It was a woman wearing jeans, a white sweatshirt, something smeared all over her clothes and face.
Something red.
Her face was covered in blood, especially around her open mouth.
And for a brief, wrenching second, Dennis had a crazy thought. I’ve been here before, and I know what happens.
The figure started running toward him, and as he turned she ran into him, over him, the collision knocking both of them to the hard ground.
As the song disappeared, crackling off, he heard her sickly cough, then a scream. It was unholy and unearthly. It sounded like something shrieking from the bottom of a well, her mouth clogged but her rage fierce. As the woman’s mouth and eyes widened, droplets of blood splattered over him.
Dennis shoved the woman off him and jumped up, landing on one of the boxes of lightbulbs. He sprinted down the aisle past the doors and windows section, through the lumber, and past the tools.
The wailing woman followed.
I’ve got her blood all over me.
Just as he started toward the front of the store to get help, a burly stranger stepped in front of him, blocking his path. The man’s hands were wet with blood. The stranger looked like he had just come from an all-you-can-eat rib buffet where they served human ribs. He had not worn a bib, nor had he used his nice and handy moist towelette.
The man screamed and lunged at Dennis.
This is not real. I’ve seen this before, and this is not happening.
But the tower of toolboxes he knocked over felt real. The gash against his chin felt real. And the piercing screams of two
zombie-like figures felt real.
So why am I wondering whether I need to cry out in horror or laugh?
Dennis took off back to where he came from, rushing down a long aisle that cut through the store. He turned over displays as he ran, trying to fend off his attackers. Down the plumbing aisle, he saw two more figures dart their heads in his direction, then start running toward him.
He made it to the lawn equipment where he picked up a rake. The woman got to him first, and he waved the rake at her, suddenly realizing it wouldn’t do a bit of good. He saw the racks of shovels and picked one up, hurling it at her. He missed. He tried again, this time landing the edge of the shovel against the woman’s head. She howled and went down to one knee.
Get out of here, Dennis. Now.
The hulking figure in the jean jacket bolted toward him. Dennis grabbed an ax, quickly prying off the plastic piece attached to the blade. It was a lightweight ax with a sharp, wide blade. The man charged him, so Dennis swung, hitting the man once, then twice, then again, and again.
When the figure finally collapsed to the ground, Dennis took two more axes off the rack and bolted toward the entrance.
Get out and you’ll be fine. Just get out.
Someone grabbed him, and he used the handle of the ax to crack the man’s face. Another figure started running down an aisle at him, so Dennis chucked one of the axes toward him to scare him off. It didn’t do any good.
He made it to the entrance, but the sliding glass doors wouldn’t open. He cracked open the glass with the last ax, kicking out a hole big enough to pass through. Just as he kicked for a final time, warm and sticky hands wrapped around his neck, the figure’s mouth opening wide.
He’s trying to bite me.
Dennis grabbed the ax by the center of the handle and hammered the blade into the top of the man’s head. He didn’t watch the rest. He heard the young man hit the floor as he scrambled out of the building.
“Thanks for shopping with us!” a sign said in the parking lot.
Dennis ran toward his car, clicking the unlock button on the remote. His shaking hand dropped his keys, scrambled to pick them up. Finally he lurched inside the car, locking the doors and revving the engine. For a minute he just sat there, his hands bloody, his body shaking.
For a long time, he just stared at the front doors to Home Depot. Waiting. Waiting for the zombies to come out. Waiting for them to attack.
The knocking on his window jolted him, making him jerk and try to get the car into drive. Then he saw the woman’s face, her quizzical smile.
“Are you okay?” she asked through the glass.
Dennis shook his head, nodded, then looked toward the front of Home Depot.
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah,” he said, surprised to hear his own voice talking so naturally. “What’s wrong?”
The woman looked baffled. “You tossed a rake in my direction, then ran off. I just—it seemed like you were running away from somebody.”
Dennis stared at the front of the store. The glass doors opened and closed. Couples and families walked in and out. The glass hadn’t been broken. Zombies weren’t piling out. This woman didn’t have blood around her mouth.
Dennis held up a hand. “No,” he said. “Just, uh, just didn’t find what I was looking for. Sorry about that.” He nodded and watched the curious woman walk away. Then he noticed his hand.
It was bloody.
His pants and shirt were speckled with blood.
He couldn’t breathe. His mind spun. He didn’t want to know if the blood was his own.
He was too scared to know.
Dennis jammed the Volvo into drive. Even with the heat on and the doors locked, he couldn’t stop his body from shaking. And even though he gripped the steering wheel as hard as he could, his hands still quivered.
3.
The first time had been the girl by the bridge. But he could blame the long day of watching football and drinking too much before driving Hank home that rainy night.
This was different.
This was crazy.
Dennis had taken some Tylenol for his headache, but it wasn’t working. He drank a glass of water and sat in his kitchen, his hands still shaking, his mind still reeling.
What is happening to me?
The experience in Home Depot was another scene that came directly from one of his novels. The book was Scarecrow, his zombie novel. Yet he couldn’t remember the story being as terrifying and as real as his experience today.
He needed to talk to someone, to make sure he wasn’t losing his mind.
He’d never talked to a shrink, not even after everything with Lucy. People who went to shrinks needed someone else to control them, to guide them along, and Dennis wasn’t one of those people.
Why that book? Why now?
He hadn’t picked up Scarecrow since it came out three years ago. He had forgotten about that scene early in the book. Why had it come back to mind now?
Dennis sucked in a breath, then drained the water and stood up.
He refused to go batty. Whatever happened in Home Depot—whatever his mind had experienced—could be held at bay.
All he needed was to get his writing motor running again, and then everything would be back in its right place.
4.
The doorbell tore him out of his sleep.
Dennis jumped up, looking around the family room, the clock saying it was close to midnight. This wasn’t unusual, falling asleep on the plush love seat as he watched a game on ESPN or read a book. He had been reading Ken Follett’s latest and feeling envious of how the author made it seem so easy when he had drifted off. The beer and the day had worn him out.
For a second, he thought about grabbing something—a baseball bat, a knife, the pistol he stored in the garage.
But instead he rushed to the door, the doorbell continuing to ring.
Maybe one of those bloodsucking zombies from Home Depot would greet him with “Trick or treat!”
But there was nobody.
A brown cardboard box tied with string sat on the welcome mat on his doorstep.
Dennis scanned the area, walking outside and down the walk toward the driveway to see who might have done this. He knew, of course. He didn’t need to see Cillian’s face to know this was from him.
The guy was too scared to face Dennis like a man. He was too scared of what Dennis might do to him.
“Why don’t you come out of the shadows?” he shouted.
But nobody stepped out.
Dennis stared at the box for a moment, then picked it up.
He already knew what was inside without opening it. He could tell because of its weight, because of the bulky way it shifted in his hand.
Inside he locked the front door, double-checking to make sure. He brought the box into the kitchen and found scissors to snap the string.
For a second Dennis wondered if he should continue. Cillian was playing a game with him. Why, he wasn’t sure. To get under his skin perhaps. To make his life a nightmare before the real reason came out: extortion, blackmail.
Opening this would just continue the game.
But Dennis needed to, even though he already knew what the contents were.
The first thing he saw was the orange paper. A thick stack of orange pages bound by a rubber band.
What was with Cillian and orange paper?
Then he saw the typed words on the cover page of the manuscript.
Brain Damage
A Novel By…
Dennis glanced over his shoulder before touching the manuscript. He wondered if somewhere outside in the darkness Cillian watched him.
“A novel by…” Very cute. Very smug.
This was an entire manuscript.
He checked the back.
There was even a finish with the words The End.
An entire book, right here.
Just like a year and a half ago when he found the manuscript from Cillian in his closet.
He’s toying with me. Playing. Enticing.
But why?
For a long time Dennis stood there, staring at the manuscript, wondering what secrets lay inside.
And every second that passed, a low deep murmur in his soul whispered back at him.
You’ll never be able to write again.
5.
The constant rattling of the wind outside was the only sound. He swallowed, his mouth dry. The bottle of scotch was on the table in the family room, and he found himself pouring another glass, then draining it. His eyes watered from the shot, his skin warm, his nerves blazing.
The pages he had read lay in front of him, resting on the table like a pulsing heart.
All twenty of them.
Chapter One.
Dennis wanted to go back to an hour ago and throw those pages in the garbage along with the rest of the novel. Or better yet, find a match and burn them. He wished he had not read them and wished no one else would ever read them.
The chapter made him feel dirty.
His legs felt locked in ice, his breathing unsteady. He was about to have another glass of whiskey when he noticed his hand trembling and decided he needed to get up and go to bed.
“But it’s not going to be that easy, is it, Dennis?”
He could hear Cillian’s voice, the way he emphasized his name as though it were a curse word.
Why is he getting to me?
But Dennis knew why. He closed his eyes, and his mind wandered. That was the beauty and the horror of the creative conscience. It wasn’t always about what a writer showed. Often it was what he didn’t show that terrified the reader.
And in this case Dennis could only imagine what would follow the twenty pages he’d read.
The manuscript was close to four hundred pages long.
He couldn’t understand where Cillian was coming from— how he could create something so—so ugly.
I’ve written some harrowing stuff, but nothing ever remotely like this.
An image crossed his mind. Bloody feet, bare and slender, running over a gravel road.
It made him sick, the image, what was happening, what would happen.
It’s vile and something’s seriously wrong with this young man.
The rape that opened the story was not just graphic. It was disturbing in its frankness and depravity.
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