Ghostwriter

by Travis Thrasher

  HE WILL HELP YOU IF YOU LET HIM.

  Dennis wondered who the “he” on the sign referred to. Surely God. God will help you if you let him.

  Come on, he thought. I’m looking for something a little more clever.

  Hank was oblivious to the sign. He looked over and grinned. “That concussion feeling any better?”

  “Yeah, thanks.”

  He will help you if you let him.

  But Dennis wondered how “he,” how anybody, could help him now.

  October 25, 2009

  He stands in the kitchen, the hatchet in his hand.

  Bob is ready.

  Nobody will know. It will be like it has always been.

  Shock followed by quick action.

  He wears rubber gloves over leather gloves. His boots are wrapped in plastic bags. Things can get quite messy, especially with a hatchet.

  He shuffles across the floor, past the island, toward the stairs.

  No.

  He looks toward the dining room masked in darkness. The glow of eyes stare at him.

  Not yet. Not now.

  Bob waits, listening, wondering what the voice wants.

  He will hurt you. It can’t be here.

  Bob nods.

  Suddenly a black mass darts across the floor.

  Bob watches the cat as it finds a resting place on the couch nearby.

  He waits to hear the voice.

  Go ahead.

  He approaches the unsuspecting cat.

  Animals have always loved Bob.

  But he’s never loved them back.

  The Picture

  1.

  The line on the screen blinked. He stared at it, at the white, at the single sentence.

  How long had he been in his office simply staring at the screen? An hour? Longer?

  The line thumped. On, off, on, off. Waiting. For something. Anything.

  Wind rattled the screen. It was cold in his office. He’d left the window cracked.

  Dennis went to close the window. The clock told him it was after midnight. He’d spent a good portion of the day with Hank, hanging out and wasting time. He’d spend another good portion trying to write, but doing no writing at all.

  As he surveyed his backyard, he instantly noticed the figure.

  It stood upright, facing him, staring blankly into the window.

  It was Cillian. He smiled and waved.

  Dennis didn’t wait to see if he was imagining this. He sprinted down the stairs and tore out the back, past the deck and onto the grass.

  But outside in the dark, nobody was around. Dennis stood there, looking all around, sucking in breaths. He kept turning to make sure Cillian didn’t grab him from behind. He hated when they did that in the movies. It was so obvious and so stupid. But there was no one.

  He heard a train in the background, the tracks rattling, a horn blaring. As Dennis started back toward the house, he saw a silhouette in the window of his second-floor office.

  Once again it was Cillian, waving, grinning, taunting.

  Dennis closed his eyes for a long time, then reopened them. Cillian was still there.

  He can do that because he’s a ghost, Dennis.

  But Dennis had hurt him, had knocked him down, had felt his blood against his knuckles. How could Cillian be a ghost?

  If he is a ghost, that means he can’t hurt you.

  Dennis ran back into the house. He knew where to go.

  Enough’s enough.

  Dennis went into the garage and found it. It was on the bottom shelf inside a locked toolbox. Only he knew the combination to the lock. The metal toolbox had a few tools in it but also something else.

  The gun felt strange in his hand.

  He had bought it after the first crazed fan had been found in his house. After that Dennis knew anything was possible. Some kid could come dressed in black with mayonnaise smeared in his hair and a lollipop in his mouth and Dennis wouldn’t be surprised. He’d bought the .38 just in case.

  In case of something like this.

  But you didn’t think of something like this, did you, Dennis? How about a cross and some garlic and a wooden stake?

  But he wasn’t dealing with a vampire. He wasn’t sure what he was dealing with, besides someone who was clearly crazy. He ignored his thought as he checked to make sure the gun was loaded. It was.

  He climbed the stairs, expecting to find Cillian in his bedroom.

  Is it possible to kill someone twice?

  All he wanted to do was scare him away. And scare him for good.

  Or maybe find out what he wants with me. What he really wants.

  But inside his office there was nothing. For a few moments Dennis played cop as he walked through the house holding the gun. He probably looked as ridiculous as he felt.

  Lucy would have a field day if she saw you now.

  After twenty minutes of looking and listening, Dennis went back into his office. He sat in his armchair and leaned back, the pistol resting in front of his keyboard.

  He stared at the dark metal of the gun. It hypnotized him. The silence bothered him. He was about to try writing when an instant message crossed his screen, startling him.

  What’s it like to wait? To wait hour after hour, day after day?

  Dennis quickly typed back. Wait for what?

  Wait for inspiration. Wait to see what’s next. Wait to hear from your daughter. Waiting for Godot.

  He shook his head.

  What do you want from me?

  The long reply came quickly.

  I’ve told you time and time again what this is about, but you never listen, you never learn. Why does it have to be about anything? Why does there have to be a point, Dennis? Is there a point in human suffering and sadness and death? What’s the point in that? Nothing. Nothing but emptiness.

  How full are you feeling?

  It’s after midnight, and do you know where you are? Where is your daughter? Where is your wife? Where is your mind? Why do you have a gun in front of you? Are you going to use it? Do you ever think of using it on yourself to join your wife? Don’t tell me you haven’t thought of that, even ever so briefly.

  Dennis quickly typed back a hate-filled curse.

  My, my, Dennis, such profanity. What a fraud. You can curse at me, yet you don’t dare put such juicy adjectives in your books. Don’t want to offend people, now, do we?

  What do you want? Dennis asked him again.

  This—this—all this—it’s exactly what I want.

  What? You want me to lose my mind? Good. Great. Done.

  Can you hear me laughing, Dennis? Because I am. I couldn’t care less about you losing your mind. I lost far more. And I want you to understand that.

  Dennis typed heavily, his fingers beating the keys. Understand what? What is there to understand?

  Dennis waited.

  Well???? he typed.

  Finally the screen in front of him turned black, as though he had slipped in a DVD.

  He saw himself, standing in the walk-in closet, then staring at the rows of clothes. His knees buckled, and he found himself cowering on the carpet beneath those very clothes. His cries were silent, ragged, ripping. His hands balled into fists as he fought with himself, weeping and shivering.

  Dennis watched this, his hands shaking, then reaching out and slamming the iMac away from him.

  But even on the floor, it continued to play the scene.

  And then he heard the arrival of another message. He went over to read it. Even though the computer had shut off, Dennis could still see the text on screen.

  It’s one thing to curse at the critics or blow off your fans, Dennis. But you cursed God. And don’t think he didn’t hear you either.

  Do you want to know something?

  God abandoned you.

  He took your wife and then left you both.

  Now there’s something terrifying to write about…

  And with that, the computer went dead.

  2.

 
A hatchet lay on his bed.

  It was bloody.

  Dennis looked around the room, approaching the walk-in closet and turning on the lights, careful to make sure nobody was going to jump out at him. But nobody was there. At least nobody in flesh and blood. He went to the bed and picked up the short, heavy instrument.

  He stared at the edge of the blade. There was blood and wet clumps, as if it were—

  Don’t even go there.

  But he couldn’t help it. It looked like small chunks of flesh and even dark hair were caked on the edge of the hatchet.

  He held it out as if it might have a virus attached to it.

  This isn’t imagined. This is real. This weapon I’m holding is real.

  The wooden handle had a black marking that looked like a roughly drawn H. I’ve seen that before.

  But even as he was thinking about it, almost ready to place it, he heard a door open and shut downstairs. He cursed and ran downstairs.

  At least now he held a weapon.

  You just were holding a gun and look what good it did you.

  At the bottom of the stairs, Dennis could see the front door still open. He noticed a shadowy mass in the doorway.

  Looking closer he knew what the dark ball was.

  It was his cat, Buffy.

  And the fur matched the hair that was on the hatchet.

  Whoever did this had decapitated the fluffy, black animal.

  And I know exactly who did this.

  Dennis winced and stepped over the dead cat, heading toward the driveway.

  What if you did this? a voice asked him. What if everything that is happening is happening in your mind and really you’re the one, you’re the killer?

  But this wasn’t a movie-of-the-week. There wasn’t going to be a double twist ending: he writes horror novels because he lives them out (cue the menacing laughter). He didn’t kill the cat, and he wasn’t a killer.

  The question wasn’t whether he was losing his mind.

  He was losing his patience. And on the driveway, in the middle of the night, having just stepped over the cat his daughter had given him that now missed its head, holding a bloody hatchet in his hand, Dennis started to scream.

  “Where are you? Show your face if you’re brave enough! Show yourself. You coward! You weakling! Why don’t you try to do that to me? Huh? You pitiful little ant! Come show your face! Step up and face me.”

  But Dennis found himself screaming at the air, at the enveloping night, at the shadows on the driveway, at nobody. His voice was hoarse and his head spun and he knelt down on the driveway and bent over.

  He didn’t know what to do.

  He didn’t know what the ghost wanted.

  And he was afraid that time was going to run out before he found out.

  3.

  —Go ahead, open it.

  —I’m afraid.

  —Why?

  —Ever since you got me the car, I’m afraid of what you’ll get me next.

  —Just go ahead, Lucy. Open it.

  —Okay, fine.

  —Be careful.

  —What is it?

  —Keep opening.

  —Oh. Wow.

  —That’s what heaven is to me. That picture. I found it and I just—I wanted to give it to you.

  —It’s beautiful. Look at them. They look like they’re just passing the time away.

  —They’re in Venice. I bet they’re both ninety years old.

  —Thank you.

  —Look at the back. Turn it around. I gave the piece a name.

  —“Us and Them.”

  —Yep. Us and the rest of the godforsaken world. That’s heaven. That’s my wish.

  —Thank you, Dennis. It means… I can’t tell you…

  —You don’t have to. You never have to because I know. I’ll always know.

  4.

  Dennis woke up.

  His forehead and cheeks and neck and chest were coated with sweat.

  He reached over, hoping he would find her there, that this whole dreaded, horrible thing would be just a dream. But there was nothing but space and emptiness next to him.

  He swallowed, and his throat felt dry.

  The memories won’t go away, and they never will.

  He remembered giving her the color photograph a few months before she passed. It had been a special gift and a special moment.

  Why couldn’t I have more of those?

  He had blocked out the picture and that memory just like he had blocked out so many other memories. He was good at blocking things out, at compartmentalizing. But when your life was falling apart, things got messy.

  He could see her smile so vividly even in the darkness. He could hear her voice so clearly.

  God, I miss you so much.

  He thought of the picture and remembered what happened to it. The memory stung as he tried to let it go. But it had nowhere to go, so it stayed at his side.

  And sleep wouldn’t come for a long time.

  October 26, 2009

  Bob sees the yellow sports car parked with the top down. He can’t see the driver’s face but notices that he hasn’t moved for some time. The trees hide him as he moves toward the lone car in the dark parking lot, the river bleeding out in front of them, the moon peeking through clumps of clouds.

  The metal pipe in his hands is all he found in his truck. It will do the trick. It can dent the hood of a semitruck, and he knows because he has done it. A soft, fleshy head and a pliable skull will be no match.

  Bob steps onto the pavement, his feet silent, his form barely noticeable in the murky shadows.

  He will have to dispose of the sports car as well.

  The river ahead provides a possibility, but he doubts that will work.

  His hand tightens around the pipe as he approaches.

  It will be quick, probably only four or five blows.

  A gust of wind slides by.

  And then suddenly he hears footsteps.

  Numerous footsteps.

  They’re not ordinary steps. The clicking sound is different, the pace hurried and frantic.

  They’re approaching him.

  He turns and sees only glowing eyes.

  The beasts slam against him and he falls, dropping the pipe, his cheek and jaw pounding off the pavement. Something tramples over his back, his hand, his head, something heavy and wild. He looks up as some beast pounds against him, sending him falling back again.

  In darkness with his eyes closed, he grasps for the pipe and finds it, lashing out. But it doesn’t hit anything.

  Bob gets to his knees and looks toward the outline of the sports car. Several long-legged animals stand between him and the vehicle.

  As if they’re protecting it.

  He licks his lip and tastes his own blood. For a moment he considers attacking them, breaking their pretty heads, filling the car with their limbs.

  Then he stands and sees the pack, knows it’s too much. He turns around and walks back into the woods.

  Shadows in the Darkness

  1.

  Dennis hadn’t done something like this in years.

  It didn’t matter that it was October and not, say, May. The temperature was in the seventies. It would probably be in the fifties and stormy by the time Halloween rolled around—it always was. He sat in Lucy’s yellow Porsche Boxster with the top down, his fourth beer in his hand, looking out at the river sliding by, the music turned up loud.

  He could remember the spring of ’77, a sophomore in college hanging out with his friends at University of Illinois in Champaign at some forest preserve, drinking beer and smoking weed and listening to this album. He hadn’t listened to Animals all the way through for years, and he found himself appreciating it even more now than he had back then.

  Back then when I didn’t realize how sacred and special and swift life could be.

  He’d experimented with his share of drugs in the old days. He could remember taking acid the first time he went to see the Floyd, how it change
d his life. He didn’t really remember that much of the show, but he could still remember how alive he felt. How the music seemed to be playing inside of him, how the lights and the sounds all vibrated and bubbled over and made him feel like an astronaut and an explorer and a conqueror even though he was still a pimply faced, long-haired college student.

  Now Dennis listened to music and drank and tried to wash away the burn of the memories.

  This was where he proposed to Lucy.

  This tranquil location set off next to the river, surrounded by large trees and now a park and a garden and even a small atrium. Back then it had been more simple. You could park and walk through the forest and look at the river. He hadn’t wanted something grand or ornate. He wanted a peaceful place where Lucy could be herself and he could surprise her with the ring.

  And it had worked perfectly.

  Twenty-five years ago.

  He needed a lot more beer to drink to that. To drink the memories away.

  He shouldn’t be here, separated, isolated. She should be here with him. Or she should be here instead of him.

  It’s always the same. Always the same.

  He hated reminiscing because the same old thoughts always filled him. She should be here and he should’ve been the first to go and cliché after cliché.

  The reality was that life happened and life sometimes sucked and life couldn’t be avoided.

  He drained the rest of his beer and turned up the music, but it didn’t help.

  Do you see me, Lucy? What would you say? Get on up. Get going. Stop sludging around.

  But Dennis knew he had done the best he could during the last year, getting up and getting going. He’d done it so well that it had brought him here.

  I’ve tried and I’ve done everything but I can’t erase the memory of us.

  Nor did he want to. She would be with him forever, and he wanted it that way. Take away any other memories of childhood or college craziness, but don’t take away the family memories. Not Lucy and Audrey.