All Dark, All the Time

by Brian Keene

  I drove to the newspaper’s office, which is located in downtown York City, told the girl at the door who I was, and then went downstairs to the archives. Things hadn’t changed since my previous visit (I’d last been there about a year and a half ago, doing research for an aborted non-fiction book on powwow magic). A few staffers recognized me, and I exchanged pleasantries and made small talk. Then I got to work.

  It took me about twenty minutes to find what I was looking for. I pulled out a file, flipped through the clippings till I found the date, and there she was.

  The girl on the glider.

  Staring up at me from the past.

  Her family had provided the newspaper with her senior photo. In it, she was smiling. I wondered what she was thinking about when it was taken. All of those possibilities that lay ahead on the road of life? The future must have seemed wide open. Little had she known, when the picture was snapped, that the road of life detoured into an embankment at the top of my driveway just a year later, and that none of those dreams or possibilities would ever come to pass.

  We go through the days thinking we have our whole lives ahead of us. We put off things until tomorrow. We spend time consumed with work and obsessed with making enough money to provide for our loved ones, but in that pursuit, we sacrifice spending time with the very people we’re working to support. I spend all of my days writing. That’s all I fucking do. From eight in the morning until five or six at night. Write. Write. Write. Hope someone sends a check on time. Write. Write. Write some more. And at what cost? Sure, my family has a roof over their heads, but if I found out tomorrow that these tumors are no longer benign, and I only had a week to live, would it have been worth it? Would I then contact Mike and Nate and tell them that, instead of finishing whatever stupid novel is left on my computer, they spend time playing with my son instead, because I didn’t have time to finish doing that either? Would I ask them to pay more attention to my wife for me, because I’d been unable to do so?

  There are things I want to do in life. I want to have hobbies again. I want to become a backyard astronomer and take up amateur photography and fish in my trout stream more often. I want to ask my kids how their day was and rub my wife’s feet every night and take the dog for a long walk each and every day, rain or shine. I want to spend more time with my parents, and tell them that I appreciate them and that they are loved. I want to do all of these things, but I never do. I put them off until tomorrow, so sure that I’ll get them done ... eventually.

  But eventually doesn’t always happen. The girl on the glider had dreams, too. She had things she wanted to do. I stood there, flipping through the file. There were three articles about the accident. The first simply recounted the accident details, including statements from the State Police and the County Coroner. The second was the follow-up article that I was reading. The third was her obituary. I read them all, and got to know her. I learned about her dreams and wishes and desires. She’d put them all off for whatever reason, figuring they’d happen eventually ... and then she died unexpectedly at the top of my driveway.

  After I’d finished, I put the file away and left the building and came back home. The sky was overcast and gray. Death Storm 2009 was approaching. I wondered what I should do next. I couldn’t very well go to her parents, could I? Just show up and knock on their door and say, “Hi, I’m Brian Keene. The guy who writes those books? I’m sorry to bother you, but your daughter has been haunting my house this past year, and I was wondering if you could ask her to stop? I think she might not know that she’s dead. She seems to be trying to contact someone. Have you received any weird text messages lately?” They’d have me arrested. Or shoot me. Or both.

  I decided to do a little magic. I’ve written enough about it that I know the basics. The most important part of magic, regardless of which discipline you’re practicing, is the act of naming. Names are power. If you know something’s true name, it gives you power over it.

  I walked to the top of the driveway. The sun had just gone down and the road was extremely dark. There was very little traffic, on account of the impending snowstorm. I stood there, shivering, hands in my pockets, and stared at the spot where the accident had occurred. Without really knowing what I was going to say, I began to speak out loud.

  “Hi. My name is Brian. Now you know my name. I know your name, too. I found it today. Your name is ___________. I’m really sorry for what happened to you. I’ve got this theory that maybe you’re feeling a little lost. Maybe a little lonely? Maybe you’re not sure where your friends went? Maybe you keep texting them, but nobody is calling you back.”

  I paused. The wind rustled the trees.

  “Did you ever watch The X-Files? I don’t know, maybe that was before your time. Maybe your parents dug it, though. I was a big fan of the show There was this one episode where Agent Mulder is hiding out on an Indian reservation, and one of the characters quotes an old Native American saying: ‘Something lives only as long as the last person who remembers it.’ I’m not sure how that applies to this situation, but I’m certain that your parents and your friends remember you.”

  I paused again, glancing around to make sure that no one was listening. I didn’t need one of my neighbors going, “Oh, look. Keene is standing at the top of the driveway talking to imaginary people.”

  When I was sure we were alone, I continued.

  “I think you were sent here to teach me something. I think maybe that’s why you can’t pass on. See, I’m an agnostic when it comes to all of this spiritual stuff. I’ve tried Christianity and Buddhism and every other kind of ‘anity’ and ‘ism’ but at the end of the day, I lack faith—and faith is what is required of any belief system. I want to believe that there’s something after this. I want very badly to believe in an afterlife, but I haven’t been able to. Until now. I don’t know what you are. You might be a ghost or a spirit. You might be conscious. You might just be an echo of time—a psychic after-effect. Or maybe you’re just in my head. I don’t know. But I know that I now believe. So I want to thank you for that. You’ve shown me that a part of us—some vital part of what makes us who we truly are—lives on after our death. I don’t have to rely on a literary legacy of books for people to remember me after I’m gone. I don’t have to bust my ass cranking out one pulp novel after another just to insure that I live on. Something lives only as long as the last person who remembers it. If I get my shit together and change my ways, I’ll live on in the memory of my kids and my grandkids and those whose lives I’ve touched in some way.”

  I reached up and wiped a tear away. I hadn’t realized I was crying until just then.

  “I’m forty-two. I used to think, ‘Well, I’m only in my early forties. I’ve still got plenty of time.’ But I bet you thought that, too, right. And you were only nineteen. You were only nineteen and then suddenly, it was over before it had ever even really started.”

  I ran out of words. My last sentence seemed to hang there in the cold air, just like my breath was doing.

  “I’m not sure what happens next. I’m going to go back down to the house and start living. Try to save my marriage. Try to be a better father. Maybe you should look around for a light or something. They say there’s supposed to be one on that side. I don’t know. If you can’t find one, I guess you’re welcome to stay here. Anyway, thanks again.”

  My shoulders slumped. I suddenly felt very silly. I walked back down to the house, went out to my office, and turned off my computer. My Blackberry was flashing at me, informing me that I had voicemail and unanswered text messages. I turned it off without reading or listening to them. I stayed long enough to pat Max on the head and show him a little extra attention. Then I went inside the house.

  Cassi and the baby were in the living room. The dog and cat were lying on the couch. The baby was playing with his train. He looked up, saw me, and smiled.

  “Hi, Da-da!”

  “Hi, buddy. How are you? What are you doing?”

  “Choo-choo train. Da-
da push!”

  So I did. I pushed him all around the living room, and sang along with the toy as I did.

  “Chugga chugga, choo choo, spin around. Every letter has a sound.”

  ENTRY 16

  There was over a foot of snow in the driveway this morning, and when I went outside, I saw footprints in the snow. They started at the top of the driveway, came down to our house, circled both our cars, came up onto the porch, and then went back up the driveway again.

  My neighbor told me later that he saw what made them. It was a stray dog. A Husky, with a collar on. We’re going to try to catch it later, and find it a home.

  Just a dog. Nothing more.

  No dreams last night, and no work today.

  I’ve got more important things to do.

  I’ll work when I’m dead.

  STORY NOTE: The Girl on the Glider was originally published as a limited edition hardcover from Cemetery Dance Publications. It also appeared in my collection A Conspiracy of One. Both books are long out of print. My plan was to let it stay that way—simply because of the very personal emotional connotations the story holds for me—but so many readers lamented not being able to read it, so I finally decided to re-release it in digital form, and then include it in this collection (for more on that, read the Foreword).

  I think it fair to say that this is my twist on the traditional ghost story—a meta-fictional mash-up of M.R. James and Hunter S. Thompson. Although I don’t usually care for my work after I’ve finished writing it, I’m proud of this one. I honestly think it’s one of the best things I’ve ever written. But it’s also the saddest. I wrote this as a last ditch effort to save my troubled marriage—a marriage that had been mostly good up until the pressures of writing for a living began to impact it. Those pressures, slow to build but oh-so-fucking-heavy, are detailed here.

  Since its initial publication, people have often asked me which parts of The Girl On The Glider were true, and which parts were fiction. Honestly, ninety-nine point nine percent of this was true. All of the behind-the-scenes angst and drama and fuckery that was going on—I didn’t make that shit up. That’s exactly what it’s like to make your living as a mid-list horror novelist. There is no 401K. There is no health insurance. And publishers never pay you on time. The other stuff was true, too—everything from Coop fishing a dead body out of the river to the image I saw on my son’s baby monitor. A girl really did die at the top of my driveway, and she really did teach me an important lesson.

  Sadly, the lesson came too late. I said above that ninety-nine point nine percent of this story was true. The part I made up... the part that was fiction? Well, that was the happy ending. In real life, the story didn’t end so well. I finished writing this novella in December of 2009. Three weeks later, in January of 2010, my wife of eight years, a woman who I’d been with for sixteen years, asked me for a separation...and eventually a divorce. And she was right to do so. She was absolutely right to do so. The lessons that the girl on the glider taught me came too late. I didn’t realize that then, but I do now. At the time, I blamed everyone around us. But the blame lay elsewhere...

  Several years have passed, and my ex-wife and I remain best friends. Indeed, I think we get along better now than we ever did during those past sixteen years. We’ve both grown a lot. So has our son. Our son is healthy and happy and has two parents who love him. And I still don’t blame her. Not one bit. Nobody should have to live with the guy in this novella, the guy who is chained to such an unforgiving and unhealthy job, but can’t do anything else. A guy who is trapped by his muse, trapped by who he is, trapped by what he is...a guy who will never escape those things. A guy who is a writer.

  When things go bad in life, it’s easy to blame others. We blame our employers, our teachers, our spouses, our friends, our neighbors, our churches, our political leaders, our police, and our enemies. We blame God and Krishna and Buddha and Allah. We tend to believe that there must be a conspiracy against us. But the only conspiracy is what we do to ourselves. In the end, the blame is a singular thing, best viewed in the mirror.

  KEEPSAKES

  Cole put down the action figures and eyed the stuffed purple dragon. “Who’s that?”

  “Binky?” Emery frowned. “Everybody knows him. Haven’t you ever seen the Binky show?”

  “No.” Cole lowered his head. “We never had TV.”

  “We’ve got one,” Emery said. “Mom and Dad let me watch it once a week. Any more than that and we’d run the generator down. But since you and your dad are here, maybe they’ll make an exception.”

  They were in Emery’s room, one of four such rooms in the bunker. The sounds of adult conversation drifted under the door. Cole heard his father telling Emery’s parents about what they’d gone through outside. His dad mentioned Cole’s mother, and began to whisper. Cole wished he wouldn’t do that. He didn’t remember his mother, other than an old photograph that Dad carried in his pocket. Dad rarely talked about her. Cole wished he knew more.

  “How does it work?” he asked. “The TV?”

  Emery shrugged. “You pick a movie, put it in, and watch. I’ve got a bunch of them. But let’s not watch Binky. He’s for little kids.”

  The boys sat quietly for a moment. Neither was used to having a playmate.

  “What’s it like out there, anyway?” Emery asked. “I’ve never been outside. Dad says I can’t help him scrounge until I’m older. What are the other people like?”

  “Hungry,” Cole said. “Dirty. Sad.”

  “Where did you live?”

  “Underground.”

  “Like this?”

  Cole shook his head. “No. It was smaller. Dad said it used to be a maintenance shop for the subway. I’m not sure what that means, though.”

  “You guys lived in the subway tunnels?”

  Cole nodded. “Until they flooded. Then we had to leave. And then some people were hunting us. You know, for food?”

  “Sick!”

  “We killed a few but then more came, so we ran. Slept in an old car for a few weeks until it got cold. Eventually we met your Dad, and he invited us back here.”

  “That surprised me,” Emery admitted. “We’ve never let anybody in before. I hope we don’t run out of food.”

  Cole fell silent, and picked up another action figure.

  “Not that one,” Emery said, reaching for the toy. “It’s my favorite. I don’t want you to break it.”

  Cole slowly looked around the room. He’d never seen so many toys. Action figures, trucks, blocks, puzzles, a wooden train set, games—Emery’s room was filled with them. The only toys Cole had ever had were a small metal car with chipped paint and a plastic figurine that his father had told him was a character from something called a video game.

  But it wasn’t just the toys. Emery’s clothes were clean and didn’t have holes in them. His hair was washed and cut. He had food, and water to drink. Clean water, no less. Cole hadn’t heard Emery’s stomach grumble once since they’d arrived. His room was dry and warm, and there were soft pillows to lay on, rather than cold, hard concrete. There weren’t any spiders dropping down on him while he slept or rats squeaking in the corners and rushing out to bite and nip. He had television and movies and medicine and electric light. He even had a mother.

  He especially had a mother.

  Cole moved quickly, listening to the adults talking in the other room while he choked Emery to death. When at last he removed his hands from around the other boy’s throat, he had everything he’d ever wanted.

  Almost.

  He’d just have to kill Emery’s father next.

  STORY NOTE: The idea for this story came to me out of nowhere, and appeared pretty much intact in my head. I wrote it longhand during a blizzard, while I was snowed-in at my ex-wife’s house, and then typed up a revised draft when I finally made it back home to my computer. It was made available to backers of a Kickstarter campaign for an omnibus edition of my zombie comic book series, The Last Zombie.


  FETISH

  After you were gone, I cleaned the house. Maybe it was desperation on my part. Desperation to do something—anything—other than just sitting there feeling sorry for myself and drinking whiskey and crying until my eyes burned and I couldn’t breathe. Maybe it was desperation to stifle the thoughts inside my head, to focus on something else for a while other than the absence of you. Maybe it was a desperate need to escape your gravity, the pull of which I could still feel, like a black hole in our bed and on the couch and at the little kitchen nook where you used to sit and drink your tea. Maybe it was desperation in the form of a ritual. An exorcism, of sorts. You were gone from my life, gone from our home, but your stuff was still here, taking the form of a thousand different ghosts, all haunting the place. Everywhere I looked, in every room of this three-story farmhouse we’d once shared together, I saw reminders of you. Maybe I was just desperate to rid myself of those memories.

  So I cleaned. No, that’s not right. I didn’t just clean. Anyone can clean. I deep cleaned. I took an entire weekend and engaged in some heavy duty spring cleaning, even though it was the middle of winter. On Friday night, I boxed up your books and your movies. I emptied the closet of the clothes and shoes you’d left behind (how a woman could own so many pair of shoes is beyond me, and I swear I never saw you wear half of these in the three years we were together). The refrigerator and cupboards were full of things you liked—butternut squash soup and organic bean sprouts and other stuff I’d never eat. I swept tubes of make-up, nail polish, lipstick, and hair care products from the top of the dresser, and packed up your jewelry box, too. In the bathroom, I boxed up your hair dryer, curling iron, body lotions, bubble bath, scented votive candles, toothbrush, hair clips, and all the tampons and other feminine care products you’d left behind. I got rid of your ceramic tea kettle and that little sushi set you bought on our first vacation and the unicorn statue I bought you for our first Valentine’s Day. Our walls were full of empty nails after I took down all the pictures of you. In the attic, I found a box of cards and letters you’d given me over the last three years. They had to go, too. It wasn’t enough that they were hidden from sight. Just knowing they were here in the house was too painful to contemplate.