A: Oh puh-LEASE! We’re not going to get into this old question again, are we? Okay, if we are, I’ll just say this: if somebody did something really good after reading one of my books, I wouldn’t get any credit, so why should I get blame if somebody does something bad? It’s ridiculous.
Q: So you wouldn’t be just a little flattered?
A: Hey, if it sells a few more books … seriously, if I said I was flattered, then that would mean I’m agreeing that my books somehow inspired this nut to kill.
Q: Would you ever consider killing someone in real life?
A: Well, there was this one editor… (evil laughter, then) I have considered it - but haven’t we all?
He calls her the next day.
He’s surprised when she answers on the second ring, even more so when she tells him she wondered what happened to him.
If she wondered, he asks, then why didn’t she call him?
‘Because,’ she replies, ‘I didn’t have your number.’
The wave of simultaneous relief and disbelief and frustration that passes through Lee ends with him dropping to his couch, his knees to weak to support his weight any longer. ‘So you’re … you know, okay?’
‘Christ, Denny, if you’d been any gentler I would’ve been dressed in diapers. You know, you’re not very much like your books.’
He pushes his fingers into his lank hair, pulling. ‘They’re fiction, Claudia.’
‘Oh, now they’re just fiction? What happened to the guy who told an interviewer he’d considered killing someone?’
‘You’ve read that too.’
‘Yes.’
‘I don’t understand. Why would you want me to be like Jed, or the Creek, or—’
She cuts him off. ‘I don’t want you to be like them, Lee. For one thing, you’re too smart, and you’re not big enough. And I don’t think you’re from some backwoods place like the Ozarks.’
‘I was born in Chicago.’
‘Right. I figured.’
A long pause, followed by his question: ‘So what is it you want from me?’
‘Maybe I’m just trying to figure you out.’
Fair enough, thinks Lee. I’m not exactly Joe Normal.
‘Let’s go out again.’
Some part of Lee’s mind screams No!, she can’t be trusted, she’ll get too close, she’s maybe even dangerous. But the thought also excites the reptile brain, and before he can stop it he hears himself answering, ‘Fine.’
She tells him she’s busy for the next two nights, but Thursday should work. This time she’ll pick him up, about 8 pm. He tells her to pick him up in front the coffee shop, and she laughs at his caution, but agrees.
He hangs up, nervous but excited. He thinks about the conversation, and reassures himself about the upcoming date: This time I’ll control it.
Then he puts up his feet and jerks off.
Marty’s collection is growing - he’s got eight of them now, all neatly laid out and trussed up in the second-storey bedrooms. ‘Course two of ’em are about done for, so he figures he’s really closer to six, but that’s not so bad, either.
He thinks about fucking one of ‘em, but he’s nearly dried up, he’s already done so much of that. He wanders into the kitchen, thinking maybe he’ll fix himself something to eat when he opens the utility drawer and his eyes happen to fall on Pappy’s corkscrew, that big ol’ spiral thing he used to open his cheap bottles of red wine with.
Marty gets an idea, and he’s so excited about it that he forgets all about food. He takes the corkscrew and rushes up the stairs. He’s heard about lobotomies, how they calm down the loudest patients in the state loony-bins, and he’s getting mighty tired of having to constantly re-tie that one in the back bedroom, the one with the short brown hair and the small ass.
Sure enough, when he comes into the room she’s rolling around, trying to get the ropes loose again. He lays the corkscrew down where she can’t see it, then he ties her tighter, enjoying her little whimpers. Then he gets a board and a roll of duct tape; as her terrified eyes roll in her head, he slides the board under her head and duct-tapes her head to it, giving her almost no leeway. Then he holds up the corkscrew triumphantly, and feels positively God-like at the look of stark, over-the-edge-of-sanity horror on her pretty face. He doesn’t really know anything about lobotomies, so he just puts the point between her eyes and starts turning.
At first it’s hard to get the point in (he remembers Pappy always struggled a little with this part too), then the corkscrew bites down (into the skull, he figures), and the turning becomes easier. Soon she stops struggling. He’s surprised at how little blood there is - until he removes the corkscrew. Then it gushes forth, a bubbling spring of red.
And the girl is dead.
He’s disappointed, mainly because of the work of burying her now … but then he remembers he’s still got seven more.
And a world of billions outside the house.
When she picks him up, she compliments him for being on time.
‘So,’ he asks as they speed away from the coffee shop in her car, ‘dinner and a movie this time?’
‘Oh, I’ve got something much better in mind. Just wait.’
She turns up the radio, blaring a thrash metal song by a band he doesn’t know, and he wonders for the first time how much younger she is. When the song ends, they’re entering the downtown area, a bewildering array of one-way streets and towers that block the sky.
‘So what is the plan for tonight?’
‘It’s a surprise.’
He nods, and feels that gnawing uneasiness inside again. He realises he has no chance of controlling this situation - or, probably, of controlling any situation with her. In fact, the truth is: he fears her.
They emerge on the other side of downtown into a desolate industrial district. Even the streetpeople don’t cluster here, in these blocks of rusting corrugated metal buildings with broken windows and cracked-pavement yards.
His stomach twists, the unconscious association taking another instant to materialise in his mind: oh Christ. This place looks like something out of my books.
‘Claudia, where are we going?’
‘I told you, it’s a surprise. Something I’ve been working on the last few days.’
She pulls the car up before a chain-link fence and leaves the engine running while she runs out to take the broken padlock from the chain holding the gate. She swings the gate wide, then returns to the car. She drives down a short way, past one outbuilding to a large, battered warehouse.
There’s light coming from one of the dust-laden windows.
He almost decides to tell her he’s not leaving the car, or that he’s walking out of here. He truthfully is not sure how far it is to a bus stop, or a phone, but at this point a hundred miles through this constructed desert seems preferable to what he’s beginning to fear is in that building.
Then she’s opening his door, excitedly urging him out of the car.
‘Claudia
‘Come on, Lee. I’ve worked really hard to make this special for you.’
She seems sincere, he thinks. Maybe I’m wrong.
So he allows her to pull him from the car, to take his hand and lead him to an ancient metal door, creaking slightly on rusty hinges. She uses a flashlight to find their way, first through a long-abandoned office, filled with splintered desks and the remains of a 1973 calendar still fluttering on a wall, then through some sort of medical station, with large signs pointing out the location of the eye wash, which looks like a metal drinking fountain with the spout pointed straight up. There’s a strong chemical stench pervading the place, even after nearly thirty years of disuse. Lee starts to wonder why it hasn’t been torn down, and then realises there’s simply no reason to build anything better here.
Then they walk through a last doorway and out onto the main floor of this place, and Claudia turns off the flashlight because there are two propane lanterns spilling light onto a work bench a few feet away.
&n
bsp; A work bench where a woman is tied down.
At first he thinks she’s dead; she’s not moving, and she’s so silent that Lee can hear the tiny hiss of the lantern flames. Then, as if reading his thoughts, Claudia dances forward and steps behind the bench.
‘She’s not dead, Lee, if that’s what you’re thinking.’
Lee’s feet won’t carry him closer. ‘What is this, Claudia?’ he asks, knowing how stupid he sounds.
‘You know what it is.’ She picks something up from a table behind her, and Lee sees it’s covered with small objects: tools, saws, knives. And books.
It’s a book she’s picked up. She flips it open to a page she obviously knows well.
The book is Stumpfuckers.
She begins reading: ‘“By the time he arrived at the factory, the woman had passed out. That was fine with him; in fact, it was better. It made it easier to carry her in, strap her down on the table, carefully cut away her clothes—”‘
Lee cuts her off. ‘You don’t have to read any more.’
Claudia sets down the book and holds up instead a small knife. ‘You can use this. I’ve got scissors, too, just in case.’
‘And then I’m supposed to saw off her leg, I suppose.’
Claudia waves the knife and smiles. ‘Not with this, of course.’
Lee finds his legs now, and he walks forward to look from the table to the unconscious woman. ‘How did you get her here?’
‘Oh c’mon, don’t you remember, in Slit Thing he uses that tranquilliser on the woman? Your research was good - it worked just like you said it would.’
Lee thinks he might vomit, but he works to hold it back. He thinks absurdly of another line he wrote in Slit Thing, a line one victim repeats over and over: This can’t be happening.
He looks at the proposed victim. She’s young, probably about Claudia’s age, dressed simply in a blouse and skirt she might have worn to work that day, before she stopped by the bar on her way home, before she let the friendly woman with crimson hair buy her a drink …
‘Okay, Claudia. This was fun. Now cut her loose and let’s go.’
Claudia barks a short, disdainful laugh. ‘Cut her loose? I can’t cut her loose, Lee. She’s seen me.’
Oh God.
‘This is not going to happen.’
Claudia looks at him for a moment, then, frustrated, says, ‘I don’t get you. You write this stuff all the time, but when somebody gives you a chance to experience for real, you shy away. This could take your writing to the next level.’
‘I write fiction, Claudia. I don’t need to live it to write about.’
‘In other words, what you write is all fake. Isn’t it, Lee? It’s all completely phony, isn’t that what you’re telling me?’
Before he can answer, the woman on the table moans and rolls her head slightly.
Lee’s horror escalates to panic, ‘If we cut her loose and drop her off where you found her, she might not even remember you—’
The woman opens her eyes.
‘Too late, Lee - she’s seen you too, now.’
The woman struggles to focus - and then she begins to scream.
In all the screams he’s described in all of his novels, Lee Denny has never imagined anything like this. The scream is impossibly loud, ragged on the edges, as if torn from some part of this woman. Lee wants more than anything to make that sound stop. He bends over the woman, ridiculous in his attempt to calm her. ‘It’s okay, you’ll get out of this—’
He pulls at her wrists and discovers Claudia has bound her with duct tape, yards of the stuff. He looks around and sees the knives on the table behind him. He reaches for one, but the woman screams even louder when he turns back to her. ‘No, it’s okay, I’m just going to cut you loose—’
And then Claudia is behind the woman, with the small knife held to the woman’s jugular. She stops screaming, afraid to move even the smallest part of her throat.
‘You see? I know more about how all this stuff works than you do, Lee. You don’t really understand people. In fact, I think I could be a much better writer than you. You’re not willing to take that final step, are you?’
Lee backs away, his hands shaking so that the knife he held drops to the ground, the small clink sounding like a cannon roar in the echoing stillness of the cavernous space.
‘Oh Jesus, Lee, are you really crying?’
He is. He didn’t even know until she told him.
‘What a loser. No wonder your books suck.’
She bends over the woman with a fresh determination. And Lee runs.
He runs, regardless of door frames he bashes into, of jagged metal that reaches out to tear his clothing, trying to shut out the screams behind him.
He makes it out of the warehouse and down the driveway, out of the fence and down the dark street. He runs, hoping he’s heading-towards something like a phone or a taxi or even another sign of human habitation. He runs until his out-of-shape body betrays him and he has to double over, gasping for breath. Then he does vomit. When it’s done, he falls back for a moment, depleted.
He begins to think now: should he call the police?
And what they’ll find: a madwoman, a bloodied victim - and everywhere, his books. His fingerprints on a knife. Her testimony that it was his idea, that he was a partner until he chickened out.
He forces himself to move again. After another block he comes to the end of the industrial section and sees what he needs: a bar. The Tender Trap.
He heads for the bar and goes in. It’s a dive, regulars with missing teeth and callused hands lined up on the dozen stools, a few more clustered around the tables and the fifteen-year-old pinball game. Lee makes sure his order is memorable - two shots of their best tequila. He spills one on the foul-smelling senior next to him and barely evades a fist light. He asks what time it is.
After an hour in the bar - all he can stand, and then some - he leaves. On the way out he trips and knocks over a chair, drawing more curses and hoots.
He’s sure they’ll remember him now. He’s got an alibi.
He finds a phone outside and calls his friend. Luckily he’s home, and Lee tells him roughly where he thinks he is. His friend manages to find it after forty minutes; Lee tells him only that he got stood up by a date. His friend laughs and sympathises.
Lee doesn’t sleep that night; instead, he finds an internet radio channel that monitors police broadcasts. He listens until 2 pm the next day, but there’s no mention of a murder in the industrial district. He realises it could be a very long time before the body is found.
Maybe he’ll sleep in the meantime … but he doubts it.
Lenny was haunted by the ghosts of his own regrets.
At twenty-nine, he thought he was too young to feel this old. The burden he carried felt like a thousand years of life, not the quarter-decade he’d been conscious. It didn’t show to the outside world — they saw only a sandy-haired, slightly introverted young man, who spent most of his days painting - but inside Lenny could feel his own spine cracking from the weight. He couldn’t imagine going on another fifty or sixty years. He tried to understand how he had come to this, and his mind always came back to one thing:
It had started with her.
Lee’s first novel of ‘non-extreme fiction’ isn’t going well.
He started it just yesterday, something to take his mind off that night, now two weeks ago, but his heart’s really not in it.
He’s read the newspaper every day since, but he’s never seen a report on a murder in that area. He guesses it could be weeks, even months before the body is found.
After another frustrating bout with the new book, he decides to check his e-mail. There’s an unusually large message from his publisher. Sometimes the publisher passes fan letters on to him; sometimes fans even send him photos or artwork. This e-mail has a file attachment, a graphic; the publisher’s brief note says only that this was sent to him, with a note asking that it please be forwarded to Lee Denny. The file atta
chment reads ‘sceneofthecrime.jpg’.
Lee opens the photo.
It shows Claudia, in the warehouse, laughing in the bluewhite glare of a camera flash. And sitting beside her, an arm around her, laughing, is the ‘victim’.
Lee stares at the photo on his screen for a moment, then promptly closes and erases the file. He drops a note back to his publisher, asking him to please not forward any more mail to him. Then he takes the last two weeks of the newspaper into the bathroom, places them carefully in the tub and sets fire to them. Inspired by the last few glowing embers, he repeats the action with every copy he owns of every one of his books. He deletes the files from his computer, including the new novel.
Then he grabs a bottle of beer, turns on the television, settles back into the couch and tries desperately not to think about the next fifty or sixty years.
Lisa Morton lives in North Hollywood, California. Her scriptwriting work includes Meet the Hollowheads (aka Life on the Edge), the Disney Channel’s Adventures in Dinosaur City (aka Dinosaurs), the TV movie Tornado Watch, and sixty-five episodes of the cartoon Disney series Toontown Kids. For the stage she has adapted and directed Philip K. Dick’s Radio Free Albemuth and Theodore Sturgeon’s The Graveyard Reader, and she has also written and directed her own one-act plays. Her short stories have appeared in Dark Terrors, The Museum of Horrors, Dead But Dreaming, Horrors! 365 Scary Stories, Dark Voices 6, The Mammoth Book of Frankenstein and After Hours, while an illustrated chapbook entitled The Free Way was published by fool’s press. More recently, her first non-fiction book, The Cinema of Tsui Hark, was published by McFarland & Company, and she is currently working on The Halloween Encyclopedia. When asked about the preceding story, Morton replied: ‘I think I’d better just keep my mouth shut on this one!’
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A Long Walk, for the Last Time
MICHAEL MARSHALL SMITH
As it turned out, the morning was bright and sunny. When she passed the coat she’d put ready in the hallway the night before, May smiled. She wouldn’t be needing that.
Dark Terrors 6 - The Gollancz Book of Horror - [Anthology] Page 27
