Authors: Joseph Rubas
You know, I been thinking: Maybe I’m overreacting a little. Maybe this whole situation has me too paranoid for my own good. That "snowball" could have come off a tree, though I don’t particularly remember one overhanging the path, and that coon…well, who’s to say a possum didn’t get a
hold of it? Cycle of life, right?
Dec. 1, 1971-No, I was right; there
is
someone out there. I saw him earlier, just a fleeting glimpse through the underbrush, so I can't say much except that he's small and thin.
It was nine or so, and I was following that same deer path from the other day up this little hill. I had my face straight forward, staring dead ahead. I was just about to hop over this little gully-like fissure when I caught something in the corner of my right eye. I spun around, and just missed him stepping behind a tree.
I let out a shocked cry, my heart skipping a long beat.
"I said leave me alone!" I finally shouted.
A rabbit jumped across the path, startling me.
About a mile later, I just happened to look back, and saw a blurry something
dart off the trail.
My stomach lurched and my blood turned to cold sludge. I didn’t even have the courage to yell at him this time; I got the hell out of there, watching my back more than my front.
It's near midnight now, and I'm too scared to sleep. He's still out there, and I think he’s the one making those noises.
Dec. 2, 1971- This time it’s a chipmunk nailed to a tree.
I’m moving on as quick as I can.
It’s
four hours later and I’ve seen who it is. It's a woman. She was behind me all day like some kind of phantom, always just...standing there, watching me.
The first time I saw her, I was moving along and just happened to glance over my shoulder, and there she was, ten feet back on this huge snow bank naked, her dirty, mottled flesh stretched tightly across her boney ribs, her eyes liquid black and her listless hair matted and tangled.
My heart sputtered and my stomach tightened. I spun around to face her, and…just froze in place…paralyzed.
For a long time neither of us moved, and then she gave out an awful wail, and I broke and ran. Every time I looked over my shoulder she was there, always five feet away, always standing still with her arms limp at her sides. I finally lost her, and a mile later collapsed and almost passed out.
It might sound crazy, but I don’t think she’s alive…
Dec. 3, 1971-
It’s late afternoon and I’m in a cave. I didn’t see her today. I’m starting to wonder if I'm losing my mind.
Dec. 4, 1971- I’m back in the cave. I rolled a huge rock in front of the entrance, and now I’m sitting here with my gun, ready to blast anything that tries to get in.
She's real. I'm sure of that now. It's crazy, yeah, I know, but she's real, and she isn't a ghost. She touched me. She fucking touched me.
It was half past nine, I think. I was fumbling down the path, looking over my shoulder with every other step, and just as I was passing this huge bush, she reached from the depths and grabbed my wrist, her sallow hand hard and cold like a block of stone. I screamed so loud that my vision grayed and went crazy trying to pull away. Her face, framed in dead snarls, was white and sunken, her eyes inky black and her cracked teeth yellow and brown. She tried to draw my arm to her mouth, and I hit her with the butt of the gun, shattering her nose and stunning her. Her grip loosened, and I yanked back, overbalanced, and tumbled to the ground.
I was on my feet in a flash. Somehow, she was free of the bush and shambling toward me like a robot with outstretched arms. I pulled the trigger twice. The first bullet caught her in the throat and spun her
around, the second hit her in the back of the head. She collapsed to the ground like a frozen side of beef, and I ran all the way back here. I looked over my shoulder only once: she was way back there, standing in-between two more of them, both men and both as dead as she.
Dec. 5, 1971- One tried to claw his way in; there were maggots squirming in his left eye socket. I shot him in the forehead, and he just hissed at me, pure hatred on his face. I shot him again and again, and finally he pulled back.
Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ. This can’t be happening. This can’t be happening. It can’t. It fucking
can’t
.
D671 Six of them now, all trying to come in, snapping and gnashing, screaming, fucking wailing. I can’t hold them off much longer. They-
FBI note: There is no forensic evidence linking the tape-recorder to the Cooper case. The possibility of an elaborate hoax by a member of the public is the most likely explanation. The bloodstains on the ground, the walls and the roof of the cave were most likely left by the hoax perpetrator. Recommendation: No action to be taken.
Blessed
are the dead, eyes forever shut. Damned are they, as I, who ride the night and moan to the moon, cast into dense thickets far from the sphere of men. We are cold, hollow creatures banished to hardscrabble limbo, damned to haunt midnight graveyards with large mouths and eyes. We know not the bewitching allure of evil, only the hot need that drives us to drag our icy brethren from the ground. But how I yearned to be back among life, color, warmth, love and friendship. One particular night I was on the bank of a mighty river, reflecting on my damnation. My despair would always drive me to an isolated spot where I would sit for hours and weep or brood.
I had passed several travelers on the road, and had been given a taunting glimpse back into human life. I kept my head down, and was able to hear a bit of conversation as they passed. A young man and woman would be married soon. I don’t know why overhearing this so affected me, but soon I was consumed with black melancholy, a gnawing tempest so great that I contemplated throwing myself into the water and letting it fill my lungs.
I had just decided to go back to my horrid countrymen when my ears were tantalized by a sound that I at length recognized as the voice of a woman singing, warm, light and airy, like a summer breeze.
I was
captivated, the spirit of the song dragged me to my feet and goldenly beckoned me. I picked my way through the underbrush along the shore, my tread concealed by the soft, cold mud carpeting the riverbank.
Soon, through the tangles, a small speck of flickering light appeared. I followed it
and found myself in a clearing near the river. A lantern hung from a twisted tree hunched over the water, and in its light I beheld a young maid in a dress and kerchief, collecting water in a bucket and lowly cooing to herself:
My love, my love, where art thee?
My kni
ght, my knight, where could thee be?
Hath mine Lord set thy soul free?
She regressed to humming and dragged the bucket over the river’s still surface.
She stood and in the light I saw her slim, German beauty. Full pink lips, proud cheeks, and honey hair, a spill of which curled above her right eye. I watched longingly as she retrieved her lantern and started away from the shore, humming the entire time.
“Your voice,” I was aghast to find myself rasping in a long disused voice, “
it is beautiful.”
Without a sign of shock, as if she had known I was there the whole time, the girl stopped and turned to me, holding her lantern aloft. She was too far away to cast any light upon me, but I fell back a step anyway.
“Thank you,” she said in an even, girlish tone.
“It is like that of an angel,” I gushed awkwardly, the words clumsy on my cold lips.
“I’ve been singing since I was a little girl,” she said, a smile in her voice. She took a step forward. “Who are you? What is your name?”
For a moment I believed I had forgotten. “Rudolph Goring.” The name was half-remembered, as though I had once heard it on the lips of a fleeting stranger.
“Like the poet,” she said with something like wonder.
“Yes,” I replied. “Have you read him?”
“He is my favorite,” she beamed, “I own all of his works.”
“Even Outlaw
Ballards?” I asked incredulously.
“Even, but I much prefer Spring Jubilee.”
She moved closer. “Come into the light so that I may see you.”
“No,” I almost gasped, a bit of fear creeping in. “I…I wish to remain in the dark.”
“But why?” she asked innocently, and came forward yet again.
I turned and ran then. To spare the angelic creature my putrescent sight, I fled through the woods, falling headlong over warped roots and slipping in mud
, back to my despised brethren.
Her voice, like the starry sky, followed me as I rushed back the way I had come.
Hurt, like a bride watching her groom flee into the night, she called my name, the name of a poet long dead, the name of a monster. My words remain golden, while my body remains putrid.
June
17, 2014 – Is this a dream? I’ve been asking myself that all day, even though I know it’s not. The warm sunshine on my skin and the cool, salty breeze against my face is too vivid.
This is real.
I’m actually here. After all the years of busting my ass and saving every penny of my paltry wages, of months of trudging across the country, hitching and riding the rails, and weeks of baking in the Utah-Nevada-California badlands, I’m here. The more I think of it, the higher I get. I’ve been wandering around Newport Beach all afternoon drunk with lightheaded triumph. My feet are sore and my skin aches from all of the sun it sucked up in the Mojave, but that’s okay; I hardly even notice. Sunny Southern California is everything I dreamed it would be, everything Dean promised me it would be. No wonder so many countless pioneers flocked from the crowded, industrial east in the 1800s. This place is breathtaking. The clear blue sky, the wavering palms lining the grand avenues, the warm, sun-kissed breeze, and the sparkling blue ocean breaking on the white sandy beaches; this must be what heaven looks like.
Hell, this
is
heaven.
And in a few days I’m going to meet God. I feel like
a sexually repressed schoolboy pressed close to miniskirted girls screaming in ecstasy at The Beatles on stage. Not the gross, grody hippy Beatles, but the cool, hip Beatles of 1963, 1964. No lie, I’ve had an erection since I crested the hill and beheld the city spread out before me like some Utopia. I hope I don’t swoon when I meet Him. How embarrassing would that be? I’ve waited my whole life for this moment. I can’t spend it giggling and fainting, or worse: gushing.
Yeah. Not
gonna happen. I’m in control. I won’t act like a star-struck Elvis fan. I can’t afford to. This is my big chance.
Oooh
, God, this is wonderful. Not only the promise of meeting Him, but also just being…immersed in His world. All day my eyes were peeled, looking for sites I might recognize from His novels. I’m going to use the weekend to sightsee, and then on Monday I’m going to get serious. All work and no play, you know. I have no idea how long it’s going to take me to actually meet him, but that’s fine: I have a lot of dough saved up. I can comfortably pass the whole summer where I’m at. The motel’s a little seedy and the neighborhood is…rough around the edges, but…hey, it’s fine with me. I knew I could never afford anything nice. No high-rise hotels on Fashion Island for me. And though I’ve been dying to taste the sophisticated cuisine I’ve heard so much about, it looks like it’s pizza and burgers for me. I like both. No problem.
June 18, 2014 – Now, here comes the interesting part. How in the hell am I going to jaunt all around SO-CAL if I don’t have a ride? I didn’t really give that any serious thought. I was so intoxicated with just making it out here that I overlooked that one small but vital detail. Shit.
But this is just a minor setback, really. Maybe I can get one of the ghetto rats living in the slums down the street to drive me. Surely they wouldn’t mind riding whitey around for the day if whitey paid them well.
Hmmm. Nah, I don’t like that idea. They’d probably kill me for my
Rockports (which I wear in honor of Him). I have a Heckler and Koch pistol (which I carry in honor of Him) in my bag, hidden away under dirty, sweat-soaked T-shirts and crusty boxers, but I don’t want to draw any attention to myself. Even a justified homicide is a homicide, and I don’t have time to be delayed by some stupid police investigation.
Anyway, I’ll worry about that later. It’s seven in the morning now. I think I’ll hole up here for another hour or so. I like to smoke my dozen cigarettes while watching Morning Joe, so I’ll relax, take a shower, and then hit the street.
Later
What a day, and it’s only 1:30! I’ve been all around this city, and my jaw hurts from dropping so much. Not only is it gorgeous, but I saw several places I remember from Koontz books. How wild! I even went on a little trip up the Pacific Coast Highway. I shouldn’t have, though. In the countryside, cops are underworked and bored out of their minds, which means that they’re likely to run someone’s tags just for something to do. Had anyone run mine today, they would have found out that the license plate on this ‘
Vette actually belongs to a station wagon.
I know, I know, I’m supposed to be cautious, but how was I supposed to get some wheels? I was careful. No one saw me actually taking it. I made extra sure of that. It was parked on the border of a cozy middle class neighborhood lined with shady pepper trees and quaint houses. I’m surprised it didn’t have an alarm on it. I fully expected it to cry out when I t
ried the handle, but it didn’t, to my shock. And it was unlocked. The keys weren’t in it, though, so I had to hotwire it.
Driving up the highway, following the curves through the mountains and past beautiful
cliffside views of the crashing ocean, I felt like Zeus. Unfortunately, I had to ditch it when I was done. And since I don’t want any heat in my direction, I was done fifty blocks north of my motel. No biggie. After coming through the desert, that’s a cakewalk.
Right now I’m eating lunch in a small, pretentious restaurant near a shopping mall. I’m kind of excited about walking. Maybe I’ll even see some more Koontz locations.
Later
I did, and I gawked at them the way a tourist would the Statue of Liberty. I took a few snapshots on my cell phone, and before I go to bed I’m going to upload them to my
Facebook.
I was happy, but my feet were killing me, so I stopped off at this little pizzeria and passed about two hours. I ordered a Buffalo Chicken Supreme and fries, and washed it down with three ice-cold Coronas. That pizza tore my guts up, though, and I spent at least forty-five minutes in the bathroom, shitting fire. Done, my asshole still burning, I came out and ducked off into the little arcade I saw going in. They had Pac-Man, Pole Position, S.T.U.N. Runner,
Cruisin’ U.S.A., and a few shooters. I stuck to the classics.
Back here, I took a load off and watched TV for about three hours.
SyFy was having a Twilight Zone marathon. Even though I’d seen most of them before, I watched in suspended wonder. Man, how great were those anthology shows? Speaking of TV, did you know Dean once wrote an episode for Chips? I hate that fucking show, always have, but his episode was excellent.
Anyway, when some stupid
Dinofag vs. Cockzilla movie came on, I flipped the set off and had a long, hot bath. Ah, relaxing. My tense muscles loosened up and my feet stopped throbbing. I was in there for an hour, I know. The water kept getting cold and I had to refill the tub a few times. I haven’t done that since I was a child.
It’s a little past midnight now. I know I should be asleep, but I’m too excited for bed. It’s fast approaching, my meeting with the man who molded me, who touched my spirit and kept me company on many long, lonely nights, who got me through my father’s abuse and my mother’s indifference; my two years in facilities and group homes; and my last five miserable years of poverty. I keep playing it out in my head, what I’ll say, what he’ll say, what we’ll do. That’s always been a cherished daydream of mine. I close my eyes and just drift, imagining us teaming up and fighting mutants and sociopathic
hitmen. I better quit. If I keep on I’ll be up all night, like a kid waiting for Santa.
June 19, 2014 – I’m easy like Sunday morning.
That old song’s been stuck in my head ever since I woke up to the warm sunlight streaming through the window. Who does it?
Easy like Sunday morning.
This morning’s sure looking smooth. Except that I have to steal another car. I still have to tour Napa Valley (Intensity, baby!), go out and see John Wayne Airport…man, I don’t even know what else. I have it all written down in my notebook. I should probably whip it out. I’m sure I’ve already visited a few places listed. I have to check them off. What a disorganized slob!
Later
I’m in a Ford Explorer! A fucking Ford Explorer, just like a Dean Koontz character! I saw it in the parking lot of a strip mall down on the coast, a boxy green wet dream, and I just had to have it. Luckily, the owner left the keys in the ignition, and I was able to slip into it like I owned it. I feel a little self-conscious, though. It’s not really the kind of car you’d find cruising the strip. It’s more built for the mountains. Dirt roads, rolling hills, tall forests, homestead farms, small towns with four or five streets and rising green church steeples. Hopefully Napa’s like that.
Later
Napa wasn’t exactly like I pictured it, but it was still beautiful. John Wayne was…well, an airport, but it’s our airport. Me and Dean. I’m back at the room and restless from the excitement of today. I think I might take a walk.
Later
I did something bad, really bad, but it’s okay, no one was around. And even if they were, it was dark and they couldn’t describe me to the police if they were being paid.
I didn’t plan on killing him, it just…happened.
One of those things. You know, the kind that just pops up, surprise! And it was. A surprise, I mean. I was just walking down the sidewalk past all these lovely homes when he materializes from the darkness like a ghost. I didn’t see what he looked like, he was only a vague silhouette, but I wasn’t worried about him anyway. It’s what he was walking that caught my attention. A golden retriever. A big, blonde, friendly beast that reminded me of Dean.
I froze in midstride.
It was destiny. I know that. When I whipped out my gun and finished the owner, the shots echoing back and forth off the dark facades around me, the dog didn’t bolt or take an aggressive stance. It sat, as though in anticipation of a treat. When I slapped my knee and whistled for him to come, he did. Meekly, but nonetheless. Maybe he was happy that his master was lying in a pool of blood and waste, his leg twitching like the leg of a smashed cockroach.
We ran, the both of us, him at my heel, and I giggled. I was elated, still am. I’m pretty sure he’s a boy, but I think I’ll call him
Trixie anyway.
June 21, 2014 – The Koontz
trifecta is now complete! I’m now the proud member of the perfect family: man, woman, and dog.
I was having lunch at a small, corner cafe and worrying over the upcoming meeting like a child standing in line for a mall Santa, when she strode by, captivating me.
She was very pretty, with long brown hair and small, almond eyes, but she was also a strong woman, not just a cute plaything, I could tell by the way she bore herself. She exuded confidence and certainty. She was delicate, yet not fragile, sexy, most likely a business woman who lived alone in a tastefully furnished highrise, a hopeless romantic who yearned for the right man, yet could survive and thrive without one.
I felt the way I felt when I saw the dog. She was a Koontz woman through and through. I had to have her,
to add her to my collection. She would look good between the Explorer and the Rockports.
Without even paying for my meal, I hopped over the little
iron gate enclosing the outdoor patio and followed her. At that hour there were a lot of people out, most of them in business suits and yammering into their cellphones, and I almost lost her a few times.
Finally, after a half hour, she left the walk and went into a huge,
uber-modern glass building at a busy intersection. I was afraid to go back and get the Explorer lest she leave without my knowing, but I had to. I parked along the curb across the street and waited.
And waited.
And waited.
And waited.
Finally, at five, she came out of the building and walked straight for the car ahead of me, a small coupe. I lost her once in traffic and panicked, but found her again and followed her all the way home. Surprisingly, she lived in a small ranch house in an inferior neighborhood.
I parked down the street and killed the engine. I would have to go in later, when the world was asleep. When would that be? No one keeps decent hours anymore. And even if my
Koontzette did, her neighbors might not.
As it turns out, they did. At one, the neighborhood had been out like a light for nearly two hours. I got out of the Explorer, softly shut the door, and crept up the sidewalk, making extra sure to stay out of the light cast by the streetlamps. At her house, I tiptoed along the side, past the plastic trash cans and recycling bins. All the windows I saw were barred, as if they belonged to crack dens in South Central. It was actually easy to get
the cover off the window and climb in. As luck would have it, I was right in her room. She was asleep, softly snoring.
As I crouched there, my eyes wide and ears wider, a beast on the prowl, the obscene compulsion overcame me to snoop in her drawers. What would I find? Was she a
nympho? Would there be vibrators and dildos hidden under her lacy panties, and KY and Vaseline for anal fun in the nightstand? Maybe she was a drug addict, and I would find her paraphernalia sequestered away under blood money.
Nah.
She wasn’t like that. She was good. That’s what had attracted me to her in the first place.
I took her fast and hard. I knew her totally, and was well aware that she would fight me, so I beat her over the head and knocked her out. I got the Explorer, backed it into her yard, and fetched her. She was lying on the floor in a heap, moaning in pain. She wore a long white nightgown the likes of which I haven’t seen since I last visited my grandmother before she died. I scooped her up and carried her away, my bride.