"What did you like about it the most?" Scott asked.
Debra hesitated. Actually, she hadn't read his last book. "I liked how the main character changed as the novel progressed."
"Which main character was that?"
She smiled. "You know, Scott, the one who was on the most pages."
Scott was doubtful. "You mean Lucifer, the robot? I guess he did kind of change." Scott chuckled. "When he blew up."
"That's what I mean, yeah, exactly. You blew him up and his whole perspective changed." Debra paused. "Scott, I'm working on a short story for an anthology of major horror writers and I'm stuck." She batted her long brown lashes, knowing she could look pretty sexy to a struggling author. "I was wondering if you could help me get unstuck?"
He was interested. "What's the problem?"
"It's kind of unusual," she began. "My main character's a famous author and she has this troll for a muse...."
It took Debra almost an hour to tell her story. She hesitated to leave out any detail for fear she might skip over the weak point in Sam's armor. Scott listened intently, as if she were telling him a real-life dilemma, which just happened to be the case. When she was done, he sat thoughtful for a moment.
"This story isn't like any of your others," he said finally.
"Tell me about it," she muttered.
"I'm not saying it's not clever. It's just that it's not as based in reality as most of your work."
"That may be why I'm having trouble resolving the main conflict. But you know what they say, if you don't take chances sometimes, you'll never know you'll never know ..."
"You'll never know what?"
Debra blushed. She had been about to make up a saying, but of course she couldn't think of what to say.
"Never mind. Can you help me? How can my character get rid of her muse?"
"Does she still want to keep him as her muse? Or just put him back in the closet?"
Debra shook her head miserably. "At this point I think she'd be happy just to have him out of her life."
"How strong is this troll?"
"Pretty strong. Stronger than she is. Why do you ask?"
"For the obvious reason. Why can't she just buy a gun and kill him?"
"Believe me, she's thought of it."
"And?"
"She's not a killer—she's a writer, remember?" Debra added, "But if she were sure she could pull it off, and not get hurt, she might consider it."
"But the preferable ending would be to get the troll back in the closet and once more help your main character write her stories?"
"Yes."
"You mentioned that the troll said he was telepathic. Can he read the woman's mind?"
Debra had considered that point. For the most part, except when they were working together, Sam seemed unable to tune in to her thoughts. For example, the day before she had decided to cook them both vegetarian lasagna for dinner. But he had exploded when she served him the food. He needed meat, he yelled, didn't she know better?
"He's sensitive to the woman's thoughts," she said carefully. "But I don't know if he can read them, at least not all the time."
"But it would be better to distract him just before striking the decisive blow?"
"Yes. Definitely. But how is she supposed to distract a troll?"
Scott smiled. "I'm surprised it hasn't occurred to you, Debra. His weak spot is obvious. He's intelligent but insecure in his relationships with women. He worries he's unattractive. What we need your main character to do is pretend to seduce him, and then just when they're about to go to bed, she can ask him to get contraceptives from the closet. He'll be so excited he'll do anything she wants. The moment he steps inside, she can slam the door shut and lock him in."
Debra was appalled. "But she can't pretend to seduce him. Just being around him makes her nauseated."
"But she has to pretend. She has no choice."
"What makes you think he's interested in her?"
"Is she attractive?"
Debra brushed her hair with her hand. "Well, yes. She's pretty cute, I think."
"Then he'll be interested. It sounds like they have a love-hate relationship as it is."
Debra was shocked. "She can't stand to be in the same room with him. How can you say she loves him?"
Scott waved her objection away. "That's also obvious. The way they carry on together. There's got to be some attraction there, on both sides."
"No way."
"It doesn't matter. She just has to get him in the closet and lock the door. Now, if she wants to keep him as her muse, she has to give him some incentive while he's there. Perhaps she should have a phone installed in her closet. Then if he keeps helping her write, she can tell him, she'll keep slipping fresh fan letters under his door and pay for his AT&T bill."
Debra brightened. "That's interesting. He loves talking on the phone. It's practically his only pleasure in life, besides eating." She nodded. "You're pretty good."
"Thank you. You're not too bad yourself."
"Yeah." She glanced down the hall toward his bedroom, feeling a sudden chill from that direction.
"Scott?"
"What?"
"Where do you get your ideas?"
He laughed. "You must get asked that question all the time. You know the answer as well as I do. I don't know. They just come to me." He paused.
"What's the matter?"
She tried to hear if there was any other sound in the house. A pair of ugly feet scampering about in a closed space, for example. But there was no one about except the two of them.
"Nothing," she said softly. "I was just wondering."
At first Sam greeted her idea to go to a play with her that evening with suspicion. But when he saw she was serious, he did an about-face and got all excited, and even said a few kind words to her about her writing. It had been part of her plan to suggest he go out and buy himself a new outfit to wear on the date—so that she could have time to prepare the closet—but he beat her to the mark by bringing up the idea of new clothes. He promised to be back by sunset and jumped in her Mercedes and was gone. She immediately got on the phone to a handyman, telling him it was an emergency. He said he'd be right over.
Debra wanted two modifications made to the clos et. Besides having a separate phone line installed, she instructed the man to add a sturdy dead bolt to the door. Once she had Sam inside, she swore to herself, she was not letting him out. The handyman worked quickly and was in and out in less than an hour.
She made a reservation for the play and dressed with care for their date. The trouble was, she didn't know what turned a troll on. She had to think back to what the naughty girls in her books wore to get a guy's attention and realized that probably with Sam, less was more. She put on a mini skirt from her high school days and let her thick brown hair hang down her back. Sam was true to his word and was back before sunset. He took one look at her, let out an obscene whistle and hurried off to one of the bathrooms with his collection of Nordstrom bags. She managed to keep him away from the master bedroom with the excuse that she needed to use it just this once because the lighting was better to finish her makeup. He was in such a good mood he didn't argue with her.
She had said a play and not added dinner because she didn't want to be seen with him too much since she did have to live in the town. But Sam insisted they get a bite to eat before going to the theater. He took her to a French restaurant downtown. He had on a dark gray suit and a white shirt with a very chic green silk tie. She didn't know how he'd had them fit to his size. He wore oversize sunglasses to hide as much of his face as possible, and was somewhat successful with the maneuver. The maitre d' acted as if she was with a dwarf who'd just had skin grafts.
"To a long and successful partnership," Sam toasted when the wine arrived. He raised his glass and added with a wink that was visible even through his sunglasses, "To a deeply satisfying relationship. Cheers."
She smiled and raised her glass and tried not to vomit. "Cheers."
"Ecstasy."
Sam was in heaven. "My favorite. How did you know?"
"It's sensual. You're sensual." She blushed. "I just thought the two would go together."
He continued to stroke her leg, but he studied her as well. "What brought about the sudden interest, Deb —Debra?"
She shrugged. "I don't know. I guess it was spending time with you and seeing how brilliant you are. Nothing turns me on as much as intelligence." She paused, wanting to get a grip on just how much he could read her mind. "You should know that about me."
He grinned. "Opposites attract."
She nodded. "Ain't that the truth."
"Ain't? Isn't that poor grammar?"
She clasped his hand under the table and gave it a warm squeeze. "Tonight, for once, let's forget grammar. Let's use all the naughty words we want."
Sam licked his chops. "Jesus," he said.
Their meals came. Debra had halibut, Sam steak, a thick cut as rare as the health department allowed. Briefly she wondered how he had survived in her closet for so many years without food but assumed eating was a pleasure with him and not a necessity. She wouldn't be feeding him once she had him locked away.
The play turned out to be a nightmare. They sat in the back in the dark, and Sam couldn't keep his hands off her. Her pushing him away seemed to get him more aroused. She took in so little of the storyline that she couldn't have said what it was about. Her nerves were frayed. What if he escaped? What manner of revenge would he take? She thought of all the tortures the villains in her books had inflicted on her characters. All inspired by Sam. She could not fail, it was as simple as that
He started to kiss her the moment they returned home. Or tried to—he was too short to do more than stick his face in her bosom and slobber on her blouse.
He had brushed his teeth and gargled but his breath still stank. He dragged her toward the bedroom. With bile rising in her throat, she went with him. He wanted her to undress in front of him with the lights on.
"Do it slowly," he said, his big yellow teeth chattering with excitement. "Not like they do it in teenage books. Like you're onstage."
She forced a smile. "Shouldn't we lower the lights? It's so much more romantic." She didn't want him getting too good a look at the closet when she steered him in that direction. He shook his head.
"I want to see you, Debra. See what you've got. I've waited a long time for this, you know."
She kicked off her shoes and began to unbutton her blouse. "Have you now?
But you must know, Sam, that you can't tell what a girl's got until you've got your hands on her. And then it's so much better without all this artificial illumination." Sighing with pleasure, she removed her top and let it drop to the floor. Sam's big green eyes bugged out of his head. She crooned, "Something about the dark really turns me on.
"I'll get the lights," Sam panted. He tried turning off the lamp but his hands were shaking so badly he ended up having to yank the plug out of the wall to kill the light. The room was plunged into darkness. She could still see him, though, his phosphorescent eyes moving toward her. "Love me, baby," he whispered as his stubby arms went around her waist. He tried to press her down onto the bed. She stroked the top of his head and leaned over and spoke in his ear.
"You've got me so hot, Sam. I want to do it with you again and again. But I can't get pregnant. You understand. A baby would spoil everything we've got going here. You've got to wear something."
Sam's voice came out disappointed. "But I didn't buy anything."
She giggled mischievously. "Don't worry. I've got something in the closet, on the bottom shelf. You go get it and I'll help you put it on."
He let go of her and slapped her on her butt with pleasure. "That's my girl!
Always thinking of the details. I'll get it and just pray it fits. Let me tell you, Debra, you haven't had a man until you've had your muse."
"Hurry," she whispered at him. Her eyes had adjusted to the dark somewhat, and she could see his short squat outline as he walked to the closet and poked his head inside. She took a step toward his back, but just then his glowing green eyes turned her way. She froze.
"I don't see them," he said. "Maybe I should turn the light back on."
"They're in the corner," she said quickly. "Keep looking. Please don't turn on the light. It will spoil the mood."
"Not for me." He snickered, turning back to the closet. "I'm always in the mood."
"So am I," Debra muttered.
Suddenly she was sick of the charade, of having to constantly kiss his ass. She had planned to wait until she had talked him all the way into the closet before she struck, but now she couldn't wait a second longer. In two long strides she moved up behind him. He heard her approach; once more his green eyes turned in her direction as she raised her bare right foot and planted it firmly on his mid back. But even at that late a moment, he didn't realize his peril.
"Oh," he moaned with delight. "That feels good. Do it harder."
"My pleasure." She gave him one hard shove and he toppled forward into the closet. He might have hit his head on the far wall, she wasn't sure. She heard a loud bump followed by a soft thud. In a flash she grabbed hold of the door and slammed it shut, twisting the bolt counterclockwise as the handyman had instructed her. Hardly had she set the lock in place than he began to bang on the door.
"Debra!" he shouted. "Let me out!"
She laughed. "You didn't say please, Sam. If you had said please, I might have considered it. But now it's too late."
He threw his whole body against the door, but it was sturdy and didn't budge an inch. "If you don't let me out right now, it'll be the end of Melissa Monroe.
There'll be no more warped teenagers. No more alien vampires. You'll be writing self-help and diet books for the rest of your life. You'll have to do talk shows to sell copies."
Debra couldn't stop laughing. "You say that now, Sam, but you're going to get pretty bored in there with nothing to do. Especially after your taste of freedom.
I know you—you love your horror. Soon enough you'll be giving me stories again."
"Never!"
"Never say never."
He continued to pound on the door. "Let me out, you bitch!"
"What did you call me Sam? The B word? Golly, I don't know if that's allowed.
I'll have to check with my editor and get back to you. We might have to cross that out."
"Debra!"
"That's my name. Be sure you don't forget it. Oh, by the way, I had a phone installed in the closet this afternoon. If you behave yourself and continue to help me on my stories, I might slip you a letter from a hot fan to call every now and then."
He stopped pounding. "Can I call long distance?" he asked.
"Only if our latest book makes The New York Times list."
Sam considered. "Can't I come out on weekends?"
"No way. I'll never get you back in the closet."
He sounded kind of sad. "Was all of tonight just a sham to lock me up?"
"I'm afraid so, Sam. You're just not my type."
He was curious. "Where did you get the idea to do this?"
Debra grinned in the dark. "I'll let you figure that one out."
A week later Debra stopped by Scott's house to thank him for help with her story. She was surprised when a short mole of a woman with a wide hat and thick sunglasses answered the door. Because the woman stood in the shadows, and it was bright and sunny outside, Debra couldn't get a good look at her. But she could have sworn the woman had purple hair.
"Can I help you?" the woman asked in a deep sober voice. She sounded like a cannibal might after a late-night dinner—the simile just popped into Debra's mind. Her thick red coat covered most of her squat figure. She wore black satin gloves and kept her right hand on the edge of the door.
> "Yes," Debra said. "I'm here to see Scott. Is he at home?"
"Scott doesn't live here anymore." The woman started to shut the door. "Have a nice day."
Debra shot out her arm. "Wait a second. What do you mean he doesn't live here? I visited him here last week. Who are you?"
The woman stared up at her with her dark glasses. There was something wrong with her skin. It looked burnt, peeling, while at the same time it was ashen.
Debra couldn't help noticing how large her hands were, bigger than Sam's for that matter.
"A relative," the woman said.
"Where has Scott moved to? Do you have a forwarding address?"
"No."
"Do you know why he left so suddenly?"
"No."
Debra frowned. "If you see him would you tell him Melissa Monroe stopped by."
"The writer?"
"Yes, that's me."
The woman seemed to grin. Yet the expression was hard to classify as a simple smile because there was gloating in it. As if the woman were still hungry after her late snack and wanted dessert. Her tone took on a false note of sweetness.
"I love writers," she said. "Would you like to come in, dear? Maybe for some tea? We could discuss books."
Debra swallowed and took a step back, feeling a strong sense of deja vu. "No thank you. I have an appointment in half an hour. I really must run. But please, remember to give Scott my message."
The woman nodded. "It will be my pleasure."
"Thank you," Debra said. As she turned toward her car, just before the woman closed the front door, she thought she heard someone pounding on a wall somewhere deep in the house. She paused to listen closer, but just then the woman shut the door and she heard nothing more, not even the woman moving inside.
"Must have been my imagination," she muttered to herself.
Yet as Debra Zimmerer, New York Times Best Selling Author, started her car and pulled out of the driveway, she wondered if she wanted to stay, in the writing business, even if Sam continued to help her. She had the feeling that being a horror author was a lot more dangerous than it was cracked up to be.
*****
Jean laughed out loud as she finished reading her last line. "I like how Scott got put in the closet, too. It appeals to my ghoulish nature. But you know, Debra, it also makes me nervous about where I get my ideas." Jean paused to wipe away another tear. Her voice became softer. "But you might know that—
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