by Brian Keene
And then we were done.
It’s human nature to go back to doing what one was doing before, but I didn’t. Instead, I became preoccupied with death. What happens after this, you know? Is there really an afterlife? Does our consciousness—our spirit or soul—continue after it leaves our body, or do we just become worm food? Is there a God, Allah, Krishna, Cthulhu, etc.? Is there a Heaven or a Hell, and if so, where would I go? I don’t know which scares me more—that there is an afterlife and I might end up in the bad part of town, or that there’s nothing after this and that all of life’s struggles are ultimately pointless. What if everything we know, every person we’ve loved, every kiss we’ve shared, every tear we’ve shed, fight we’ve had, breath we’ve taken, every laugh and shout and orgasm and idea and everything else that constitutes life just doesn’t fucking matter the moment our heart stops beating and our brainwaves go flat? Which is it? Where is the proof? I’ve thought about this all year, and I’m no closer to an answer. All I know is that I don’t want to die. I think I might have developed a death phobia. I’m terrified of dying.
There’s one more occurrence to write about. One more example of the weirdness that has infected my home and my life. The incident with the baby monitor. That’s the biggie, and once I’ve written about it, we’ll be all up to date.
But I still have no idea what it all means. It turned out I didn’t have a brain tumor after all, so if these things are hallucinations, then they’re being caused by something else. In truth, I suspect they aren’t hallucinations, which takes us back to the beginning—and means that I’m either being haunted, or I’m crazy.
Before we tackle that, though, I should write about the baby monitor.
Tomorrow. Sleep now. Tired. Mid-life crisis, maybe? Feel old. Feel older every goddamn day. Creeping toward an ultimate end.
A sense of finality seems to hang over everything I do.
ENTRY 14:
Haven’t worked on this in quite some time. Caught in the perfect storm of deadlines and a cash crunch, I fucked off to the wilderness and got some things done before I snapped and started shooting motherfuckers. Cassi was the one who suggested that I do this. It was a week before Thanksgiving and I was under a lot of stress. A Gathering of Crows was three months overdue, and although my editor, Don D’Auria, was being incredibly gracious and understanding in regards to the missed deadline, I felt like I was letting him down. Don is one of the few editors who has always been straight with me, and it bothers me to think I might disappoint him in any way (and I’m sure it bothers him that his superiors owe me a bunch of money for previous novels—novels for which the deadline wasn’t missed).
But it wasn’t just one missed deadline. I’d have been able to cope with that. In addition to A Gathering of Crows, I owed Maurice Broaddus a story for an anthology called Dark Faith, a novel synopsis to Bantam, two issues of The Last Zombie to the guys at Antarctic Press, a television treatment that I knew wasn’t going to go anywhere, two comic book pitches that I also suspected would go nowhere, and assorted other things. Gak was waiting on me to finish The Wanderer. I owed Full Moon Press a novella of some sort that I couldn’t even remember signing a contract for. Wrath, Bev Vincent, Steven Shrewsbury, Tim Lebbon, Bryan Smith and Jim Moore were all waiting on me to finish my collaboration with Nick Mamatas so that I could work on the collaborations I’d promised that I’d eventually do with them. Plus, there were signature sheets to be signed, introductions to write even though I keep telling people I don’t have time to write introductions, three months’ worth of email to answer, a message board to keep up with, weekly installments of Earthworm Gods II: Deluge (lest people bitch about it not being updated), and somewhere in-between all of this, trying to be a father to my sons, a friend to my friends, and a husband to my wife. It had also been six months since anybody had paid me. Oh, they all wanted their manuscripts on time, but when it came time to send me my fucking check, that was a different fucking story.
I’d also become distinctly aware that a number of people who I’d thought were my friends were my friends only because of who I am and not because of who I am. There is a distinction there, and I bet Stephen King, Dean Koontz, or Richard Laymon would have commiserated. But I wasn’t going to ask King and Koontz for advice on shit like that, simply because I know how overwhelming it is when people do it to me. And Dick Laymon wasn’t around to ask anymore. I considered trying to contact him via an Ouija board or a medium. Ask him for advice on how to deal with all of the users and abusers and hangers-on in my life, and “Hey, Dick, while we’re at it, what can you tell me about the afterlife? Because I’ve got to tell you, my old mentor—I’m fucking scared of dying.”
Oh, did I mention there were more tumors that needed to be removed?
I was stressed. That’s an understatement. In truth, I’d reached the breaking point. Cassi caught me applying for a part-time job at Walmart, and she sat me down and said, “You are going to the family cabin in West Virginia and you’re not coming back until you clear your head.”
“I can’t,” I told her. “It’s almost Thanksgiving.”
“I don’t care. All we’re doing for Thanksgiving is going to my parents’ house, and they make you uncomfortable anyway. I’d much rather you went off to the cabin and got some writing done and felt better about life.”
So I did. I took the dog down to our cabin in West Virginia and I stayed there for ten days and all I did was write and eat and sleep.
When I returned home, I was a different man. No, scratch that. The Brian Keene who had gone to the cabin was a different man. When I came home, I was me again. Reborn. Refreshed. Rejuvenated.
But there was still one thing left unfinished.
The baby monitor story.
* * *
Here is an example of how I cannibalize real life for use in my fiction. I’ve said in interviews that everything is fodder for my muse, and I’m not kidding when I say that.
The following scene is from A Gathering of Crows. I wrote it after the real-life incident with the baby monitor:
Artie Prater slept, which was exactly what he’d been afraid of. His wife of five years, Laura, was out of town. She worked for the bank in Roncefort, and once a year, all of the bank’s employees went on a mandatory week-long retreat. This year, they were in Utah, enjoying steak dinners and attending seminars about things like team-building and synergy. Artie liked to tease Laura about these things, but only because he was secretly jealous. He’d been unable to find work for over a year, and it bothered him that he couldn’t provide for his wife or their new son, Artie Junior. The upside was that while she was at work every day, he’d been able to stay home and take care of Little Artie. Laura reciprocated by getting up with the baby at night, which relieved Artie to no end.
Artie had always been a deep sleeper. His mother had once said that he could sleep through a nuclear war, and that wasn’t far from the truth. He’d slept through 9/11, waking up in his college dorm room later that night and wondering why everyone was staring at the television and crying. Since becoming a father, Artie’s biggest fear was that the baby would wake up crying, perhaps hungry or in need of a diaper change or shaking from a nightmare, and he’d sleep through it. That’s why he was grateful when Laura was there to get up with Artie Junior at night, and that’s why he dreaded these rare times when she wasn’t home.
They had a baby monitor in the house. A small camera was mounted above Little Artie’s crib. It broadcast a signal to the monitor, which was plugged into the bedroom’s television. With Laura out of town, Artie had turned the volume on the television all the way up, filling the room with white noise and the soft sounds of his son’s breathing. Then, bathed in the glow from the screen, he’d sat back in bed with his laptop and played a video game. It was early—too early to sleep, but Little Artie had been tired and cranky, and Artie knew from experience that he should rest when the baby rested. He promised himself that if and when he got tired of the game, he’d sleep lightl
y.
Except that he hadn’t. He fell asleep playing the game, barely having the presence of mind to sit the laptop aside before passing out. He slept through the power outage, and did not wake when both the laptop and the television shut off, as well as the baby monitor. He slept through the howling dogs and the terrified screams and the numerous gunshots. He slept through the explosion. He slept as his neighbors were murdered in their homes and out on the street. He slept, drooling on his pillow and snoring softly as two shadowy figures entered his home. He slept, unaware that in Artie Junior’s nursery, a large, black crow had perched on the edge of his son’s crib. He slept as the crow changed shape. He remained asleep as the bedroom door opened and a shadow fell across him, as well.
He didn’t wake up until the baby screamed, and by then it was too late.
The last thing he saw was the figure in the room with him. The baby’s screams turned to high-pitched, terrified shrieks. Artie bolted upright and flung the sheets off his legs, but before he could get out of bed, the intruder rushed to the bedside and loomed over him. The man’s face was concealed in darkness. It shoved his chest with one cold hand and forced him back down on the bed. In the nursery, the baby’s screams abruptly ceased.
“W-who…?”
“Scream,” the shadow told Artie. “It’s better when you scream.”
Here is the real-life version of events:
Brian Keene slept, which was exactly what he’d been afraid of. His wife of seven years, Cassi, was out of town. She worked as a corporate trainer for a large commercial real estate company (because her husband’s income was unreliable), and once a year, all of the company’s employees went on a mandatory week-long retreat. This year, they were in Utah, enjoying steak dinners and attending seminars about things like team-building and synergy. Brian liked to tease Cassi about these things, but only because he was secretly jealous. He hadn’t been paid by his publishers in over six months, and it bothered him that he couldn’t provide for his wife or their new son.
Brian had always been a deep sleeper. His mother had once said that he could sleep through a nuclear war, and that wasn’t far from the truth. Since becoming a father for the second time around, Brian’s biggest fear was that the baby would wake up crying, perhaps hungry or in need of a diaper change or shaking from a nightmare, and he’d sleep through it. That’s why he was grateful when Cassi was there to get up with the baby at night, and that’s why he dreaded these rare times when she wasn’t home.
They had a baby monitor in the house. A small camera was mounted above the baby’s crib. It broadcast a signal to the monitor, which was plugged into the bedroom’s television. With Cassi out of town, Brian had turned the volume on the television all the way up, filling the room with white noise and the soft sounds of his son’s breathing. Then, bathed in the glow from the screen, he’d sat back in bed with his laptop and worked on a television treatment for a show that he was pretty sure would never get off the ground. The production company for a very popular sitcom actor had asked Brian to write a treatment for a post-apocalyptic zombie sitcom, and even though Brian thought that was the stupidest fucking idea he’d heard in quite some time, he did it because his family needed the money. It was early—too early to sleep, but the baby had been tired and cranky, and Brian knew from experience that he should rest when the baby rested. He promised himself that if and when he got tired of working on this stupid TV pilot, he’d sleep lightly.
Except that he hadn’t. He fell asleep writing, barely having the presence of mind to set the laptop aside before passing out. He slept, drooling on his pillow and snoring softly—until voices began coming from the television speakers.
The first thing he became aware of was a burst of static. This was followed by a soft, feminine voice. The woman was speaking, forming distinct syllables and words, but he couldn’t tell what they were. She paused, and his son, not quite two years old, answered her with baby talk. As he woke fully, it simultaneously occurred to Brian that a) this wasn’t a dream, and b) the voice was originating from his son’s bedroom.
Brian bolted upright, flung the sheets off his legs, and stared at the television screen. There was his son’s room. The baby was awake, and standing up in his crib. He wasn’t crying. Wasn’t scared. He was babbling, as if his mother or father were in the room with him. Except that that was impossible, because his mother was in Utah and his father was watching from bed.
“Hi,” the baby said. “Hi! Hi! Hi!”
The baby jumped up and down in the crib, grinning happily as he repeated it over and over. Each joyful exclamation was punctuated with a wave of his little hand.
Brian started to get out of bed when he saw something that…
Well, okay. Enough of that third person nonsense. You get the idea. That’s a nice example of merging real life with fiction. Here’s what happened next.
I started to get out of bed, but then I saw something on the screen that absolutely stunned me. It was an orb, about the size of a softball. It seemed to be composed of solid light, and it was hovering next to my son’s crib. The baby was standing up and waving at it. The ball hung there for a moment, as if suspended from a string. Then it zipped out of the camera’s eye and vanished from my sight. I knew it was still in the room, however, because the baby was still watching it. He turned his head, following its movements.
I got out of bed and ran across the house, yelling—I don’t know what I was hollering. It was just nonsense-words. Panic-speak. The language of fear.
As I ran down the hall, I spotted Sam. He was sitting outside of the baby’s room, unable to get through the door because of the security-gate we have placed in front of it. His back was arched and his ears and tail were flat. He wasn’t barking or growling. Instead, he was whining—a fearful, pitiful sound that scared me even more. This wasn’t a fucking hallucination, because the dog and the baby were all experiencing it, too.
I opened the gate and Sam pushed past me and barreled into the room. I was right behind him. The baby looked at us, smiled and then clapped his hands.
“Hi, Da-Da! Hi, Dog-Dog! Hi!”
The room was empty and dark, save for the night light glowing on the dresser. There were no orbs of light, hovering or otherwise. I shivered, and then realized that I was cold. No, it wasn’t just me. It was the room. My son reached for me, and I bent over and picked him up. He snuggled up against me, lovingly, trying to burrow into my chest. Normally, that’s one of the most wonderful and sweet feelings in the world, but this time, it barely registered with me. Sam nosed around the crib, sniffing furiously, his Beagle genetics working overtime to catch a scent. Holding the baby tight, I checked the little thermometer hanging above the changing table. Sam began sniffing the rest of the room. According to the thermometer, it was fifty degrees in the baby’s room. That couldn’t be right. I had the heater set to seventy-three throughout the house. As if to confirm this, it kicked on while I stood there staring dumbly at the wall. Warm air blew out of the floor vent, bathing my bare feet. I carried the baby (who was now wide-awake) out of the room and checked the thermostat in the living room. The house was at seventy-three degrees.
We walked back down the hall, and I shut the door to the baby’s room. Then I sat him down on the floor in the kitchen to play while I got some things together. I grabbed his diaper bag and changed his diaper there on the floor. Then I got dressed and rounded up the baby and the dog and took them both out to the car. I strapped the baby into his car seat. The dog sat next to him, tongue lolling, his ears back up, his eyes wide with excitement. Sam loves to ride in the car, but a midnight ride with the baby in tow was something new for him. I started the car and left the engine running so that it would warm up inside. I went back into the house.
When I walked through the door, I gasped. The baby’s train was singing “Chugga chugga, choo choo, spin around. Every letter has a sound.”
Next to it, the baby’s Elmo doll was chattering in that all-too-recognizable-to-all-parents high-pi
tched voice, asking me for a hug. And beneath the sound of both, I heard that phantom cell phone beeping in my son’s room.
“What do you want?” I shouted, staring around the living room. “What the fuck do you want from us?”
“Can you give me a hug, please?” Elmo asked.
“Chugga chugga, choo choo, spin around. Every letter has a sound.”
My hands curled into fists at my sides. “You leave my fucking son alone! Do you hear me? Get the fuck out of here and leave us alone!”
Everything stopped.
Somehow, that was even more frightening.
I grabbed the cat (she was hiding beneath the coffee table and when I picked her up, I felt her little heart hammering against my palm). Then I carried her outside, put her in the car with the dog and the baby, and we drove around for the rest of the night. The baby fell asleep. The dog and the cat rode in silence. I listened to Coast to Coast AM with George Noory and a Howard Stern replay and tried to keep my hands from shaking.
Near dawn, I pulled into my parents’ driveway. It was their day to watch the baby, but normally, I don’t bring him to their house until 8am. It wasn’t even six yet. When Mom asked why we were there so early, I told her that he’d had trouble sleeping and I’d resorted to driving him around all night. It was as close to the truth as I wanted to get.
