Ghostwriter (13 page)

The Tastes and Smells of Death

It was midmorning by the time he cleaned up his lawn (as well as surrounding lawns) from the littering of book pages. The
thing that surprised Dennis—surprise being a mild way of describing what he really felt—was the variety of book pages he kept
finding. It wasn’t just that there were so many, and there were thousands, but they came from all of his books. Not just hardcover
and paperback, but he found Italian and German editions as well as a couple languages he didn’t even recognize. And after
double-checking his closet and other storage areas, Dennis knew the books hadn’t come from his stash.

In fact it didn’t look like anybody had been inside his house.

That didn’t prevent the police from sticking around for at least an hour, asking questions, checking in and around the house,
making sure everything was secure. Ryan had been there with them, acting more official than usual, an earnest look on his
face. The deputy told Dennis he would drive by the house a few times that night just to be on the safe side.

When Maureen left, Dennis gave her a hug and apologized for the drama.

“Whoever did this certainly put a lot of time and effort into it,” Maureen said. “Be careful, okay?”

He nodded and played it off, but he knew he needed to be careful.

The question now was whether to file an official complaint against Cillian. And what he would actually say.
The guy whose novel I stole is harassing me.

Joseph Heller coined a term with his novel that summed up this situation:
Catch-22.

As Dennis sat watching television that night, he couldn’t help thinking this was what he deserved.
And it’s just the start,
a voice kept telling him.
It’s only going to get worse.

Of course he assumed the pages scattered everywhere had been the work of Cillian Reed. But he had checked his answering machine,
his cell phone, and his e-mail and had found no messages. No notes saying, “This is just a taste of things to come.” Nothing
to take credit for the mess.

It might have been a prank, but it was a vicious prank. Whoever had done it had taken the time to rip out individual pages
of many of his books. It had taken time, and ripping a book—there was something not right about that. Not just one of his
own books, but any book. A book always held value to someone. Whoever had planned and executed this stunt had something extremely
personal against him.

Now, the morning after, finished with cleaning up this literary mess, Dennis decided to ask the neighbors if they’d seen anything.

The Thompsons were an affable family of five who had been living in the one-bedroom ranch south of Dennis’s house for years.
Dennis wished he shared a driveway with them instead of with the eccentric, elderly couple on the north side. Their property
was worth a fortune, but they were unwilling to let someone buy it and tear down their house to build a gargantuan one. They
often had family visiting and often traveled out of town. Dennis frequently saw the parents walking, but didn’t know them
besides the customary hellos. He went over to talk with them and spoke briefly with Ronald, who amicably told him he hadn’t
seen anything but thanked him for picking up the garbage so quickly.

Dennis debated going to the other neighbors, the messy, older couple on his north side, but decided to go anyway. It gave
him a chance to be cordial and neighborly and to see if they had any idea who did this.

He stepped across the uncut lawn full of dry, dead patches. A big, rotting tire sat in the middle of the lawn, weeds growing
over it. Leaves probably two or three years old lay in clumps everywhere. Several misshaped bushes stuck out near the entrance,
blocking the modest door. He and Lucy had always wondered what the inside of the house looked like. Dennis stepped onto the
cement entryway and rang the doorbell.

He waited for a couple minutes, then rang the doorbell again. He had seen their car parked in the driveway; it was never parked
in the garage. Who knew what sorts of things were stored in that garage? He continued to wait, then knocked.

Finally he heard the door unlocking. It sounded like ten locks were unlocked and unbolted and slid open before the door cracked.
At first he didn’t see anybody, then he looked down to see the frizzy hair of the short, elderly woman.

He didn’t know their names, so he couldn’t even address her properly. “Hi there. How are you doing today?” Dennis said in
an oddly formal fashion.

A stench leaked out of the slit in the doorway—a vile smell, like onions and garlic basting a dead animal. Dennis couldn’t
help scratching his nose.

The woman with big, buggy eyes just stared at him.

“I’m Dennis, your neighbor,” he told her, feeling like an idiot. Of course she knew this, right? But the look in her eyes
was blank, almost dead.

“I just wondered if you or your husband saw anything strange last night—anybody in your yard or in mine? Someone scattered
a bunch of papers all over. I picked them all up but wondered if you saw anything.”

“No.”

Her answer came without a second to even think.

“Are you sure? Maybe you could ask your husband.”

“He didn’t see anything.” Half of her face was still hidden behind the narrow opening in the door.

“Well, if you do think of anything, can you let me know? I’d appreciate it.”

The door shut abruptly, and Dennis was left standing there, looking at the entryway in confusion.

Maybe they were the ones who did it, he thought. He imagined the older couple collecting hundreds of copies of his books amidst
the other garbage in their house. He thought of the smell and couldn’t believe it. It was putrid.

Dennis walked back toward his house. As he did, he nearly stepped in a large heap of feces. Something about it caught his
attention. It wasn’t the fact that the pile grossed him out. But this looked like it came from something huge—not a cat or
a dog but a horse, or something bigger.

And it looked fresh.

He shook his head, wondering what the new day would bring.

Perhaps he would take Audrey’s advice and get away. From the empty house and the strange neighbors and the crazed fan (if
he could actually be called a fan) and the writer’s block.

Maybe he’d do just that—get away.

But could he really get away from all this?

And if he did, what would he come back home to?

I dreamed about Mom last night.

The first line in the e-mail from Audrey took his breath away. Dennis continued to read.

You know how I always say, “I wonder what Mom would say about that”? How I always wonder what she’s thinking, what she might
be wanting to tell me, to tell us?

Last night I dreamed I was in a flower garden, except instead of flowers all around me, they were cards. A thousand greeting
cards, each filled with a message from Mom. They were hanging off the trees and in the bushes and everywhere. And each card
said something important, the right words for the right occasion. I read a bunch of them, and I don’t remember anything specific
except this:

Mom loves us. And she wants me to look out for you.

I know it was just a dream, but still—it was kinda cool to think there were all these thoughts and feelings, and they were
all written down in a special place to access whenever I needed to.

Wouldn’t that be cool?

Just wanted to share that with you. Hope you’re doing well.

Talk soon.

Love ya.

Audrey

Dennis reread the e-mail, then read it again.

The cards hanging on the trees and in the bushes—that was a lot like his missing-pages episode last night, an episode he wasn’t
about to mention to his daughter. Not now, with her a thousand miles away.

It’s just a coincidence, that’s all.

But this was more than a coincidence, and he knew it.

Dennis shot Audrey a quick e-mail and forced himself not to think any more about it.

It was just a dream. Just imagined. Just like he imagined the girl jumping off the bridge. It was just grief and fatigue and
change affecting Audrey, just like it was affecting him.

Nothing more than that.

After sending the e-mail, he looked outside. It was afternoon and one of those nagging, misty rains had been going on and
off since morning. He wanted to take an afternoon walk to get away from his computer, but he couldn’t. He was stuck here.

Stuck is an apt word.

He was about to get up when an e-mail arrived. He couldn’t believe Audrey was getting back to him so quickly.

It was from
[email protected]
.

Dear Mister Laughing-Himself-All-the-Way-to-the-Bank Writer:

I thought you needed some inspiration. In fact, I thought you needed some words. Writers need words, right? So I provided
you with them. Hundreds of thousands of them. And those are your own words, not someone else’s. They’re yours. You can plagiarize
all you want. Why steal from me when you can keep stealing from yourself? Your brain-dead readers won’t even notice you’re
borrowing from your previous works. Writers do that all the time anyway. I mean— come on—when was the last time you read something
original from any of those other laughing-it-all-the-way-to-the-bank writers?

I never told you this, but your last novel—the last one you actually wrote—entitled The Thin Ice was thin indeed. Thin plot,
emaciated characters, and the only original thing was original when you did it first in Breathe.

Oh the mighty have fallen and the proud have been humbled and it will take a miracle to work your way back, Dennis Shore.

Do I have your attention?

Do I finally have your undivided attention?

CR

Dennis didn’t think, didn’t reread the e-mail, just ran his fingers over the keyboard.

You want words, I’ll give you words.

He filled the screen with profanities and insults and threats. Finally he read the e-mail, knowing it would look pretty incriminating
if it ever got out.

He deleted it and thought for a moment.

Cillian—

We need to sit down.

I’m willing to listen if you are.

Dennis

The instant-messaging box popped up in the corner of his computer. The reply came quickly. Almost too quickly for the number
of words it contained.

Dear Random House Sweetheart:

Yes, we need to sit down, but you’ve done far too much sitting on that tail of yours and not enough living to know what real
life is about. WHAT do you know about terror, Dennis? What do you know about horror? So many could really write about it.
So many could actually describe the tastes and the smells of death, could actually detail what it’s like to kill, to hurt,
to destroy, to haunt. You—what do you know? What could you possibly know in that seemingly perfect little existence of yours,
typing away for years, the inspiration and the passion slowly fading like the dew on the grass. Yes, we need to sit but when
I say so.

I’ve listened for far too long and waited for even longer and now is my time and now YOU will listen and you will wait and
you will sit and you will finally and forever KNOW.

There are things I want to show you, Dennis.

All I used to want—all I ever wanted from you was your time. Your input.

Now those are meaningless.

Something else burns inside. My ambitions and goals are far higher now.

CR

It was almost as though the instant message had already been written.

Dennis quickly replied, irritated and annoyed that he was being toyed with and jerked around.

You need serious help, buddy. I couldn’t care less what “burns” inside of you. How about delusions of grandeur? And trust
me—you need to leave me alone. Or this game you’re playing is going to turn really dark. And really serious.

A minute later Cillian replied.

You don’t frighten me, Dennis. But for the first time in your career, and maybe your life, you’ll be scared. You’ll be very
scared, Dennis. You’ll experience a fear that is missing from your books, no matter how terrifying a story you’ve ever concocted.

Nothing you’ve ever done or felt will touch the depths of fear and despair you’re about to go through.

Nothing.

Part Two

The Lunatic Is in the Hall