He remembered seeing this picture on the back of an album, the sun and the sky in the background behind the young singer with
the wild hair.
And then he smiled and laughed.
“There is no dark side of the moon, Dennis. Matter of fact, it’s all dark.”
He looked up at another face he recognized.
“Dennis? What are you doing? You okay, man?”
He waited to hear the bell of a bike rattling by, but it didn’t come.
Dennis sat up on the kitchen floor, no loud music playing, no deceased former English rocker hovering over him. Hank stood
there in jeans and a Bears sweatshirt, having placed some bags on the counter.
“I got some sandwiches. How long you been like that?”
“I’m not sure,” Dennis said, standing on wobbly feet.
“Whoa, buddy. Come on. Let’s get a seat for you.”
Dennis eyed the Bose base for the iPod, but there was nothing.
On the counter lay the car keys to the Porsche Boxster.
I’ve already crashed one car. I don’t want to go for two.
Hank stared at Dennis for a long time, then finally said, “I think maybe we need to go out. Get some fresh air.”
“Sounds good to me,” Dennis said. “You mind driving?” Hank just laughed.
A couple hamburgers had led to a couple beers, which had blossomed to more. They sat in the pub listening to songs from the
’80s and watching ESPN. Throughout the conversation Dennis kept wondering whether to tell his friend what was really happening.
He wasn’t even sure where to start.
“Do you believe in ghosts?”
Hank’s eyes stayed on the television in the corner, his shoulders hunched. Finally he looked at Dennis and shrugged, nodding.
“Sure.”
“You say that very calmly.”
“Yeah, so? I haven’t been haunted by one, so I can’t say I feel as strongly about them as I feel about, say, Julie, you know.”
“What if I told you I was being stalked by a ghost?”
Hank took a sip of his beer but didn’t seemed fazed. “I’d probably believe you.”
“I expected a little more skepticism.”
“No, here’s the thing. It makes sense. You write all those stories about ghosts and demons and evil. You’re opening yourself
up for them to come after you if they really exist. And who knows? I believe they do. In some form at least. But why would
they come after me? You know?”
“Why would they come after me?”
“Have you asked this ghost?” Hank asked as if this were just a game.
“You’re mocking me.”
“No, I’m not. I’m playing along. I know you well enough that you don’t believe in any of that.”
“But do you believe? Seriously?”
“Sure,” Hank said casually. “Why not?” He paused. “You’re a skeptic. Put yourself in one of your books. You’d be the main
character of course—the guy who doesn’t believe but writes the stories anyway. What’s the fancy word to describe that?”
“Irony?” Dennis asked.
“Yeah, that’s ironic. Now me, I’m the sort of guy in your stories that always gets killed. The loyal dumb friend.”
“Who says you’re dumb?”
“Come on,” Hank said, staring at Dennis. “I didn’t say I’m a complete moron, but I’m not going to be the president of anything
anytime soon. I’m happy just hanging around here, drinking my beer. And I’ve seen enough movies and read enough books to know
guys like me get killed in those stories.”
“But what if—Hank—what if all that—those stories and movies—what if it really was real?”
Hank stared at him for a minute. “Is this something new you’re working on for a book? A scene you’re trying to play out with
me?”
Dennis didn’t know how to convince his friend to take this seriously.
He still needed to convince himself.
On the way home they passed the church as they drove toward Dennis’s house. It was late afternoon—both of them were tired,
and Hank had to work the next morning. No late night for him. As the church sign approached, Dennis read its message.
Dennis wondered who the “he” on the sign referred to. Surely God. God will help you if you let him.
Come on, he thought. I’m looking for something a little more clever.
Hank was oblivious to the sign. He looked over and grinned. “That concussion feeling any better?”
“Yeah, thanks.”
He will help you if you let him.
But Dennis wondered how “he,” how anybody, could help him now.
He stands in the kitchen, the hatchet in his hand.
Bob is ready.
Nobody will know. It will be like it has always been.
Shock followed by quick action.
He wears rubber gloves over leather gloves. His boots are wrapped in plastic bags. Things can get quite messy, especially
with a hatchet.
He shuffles across the floor, past the island, toward the stairs.
No.
He looks toward the dining room masked in darkness. The glow of eyes stare at him.
Not yet. Not now.
Bob waits, listening, wondering what the voice wants.
He will hurt you. It can’t be here.
Bob nods.
Suddenly a black mass darts across the floor.
Bob watches the cat as it finds a resting place on the couch nearby.
He waits to hear the voice.
Go ahead.
He approaches the unsuspecting cat.
Animals have always loved Bob.
But he’s never loved them back.
The line on the screen blinked. He stared at it, at the white, at the single sentence.
How long had he been in his office simply staring at the screen? An hour? Longer?
The line thumped. On, off, on, off. Waiting. For something. Anything.
Wind rattled the screen. It was cold in his office. He’d left the window cracked.
Dennis went to close the window. The clock told him it was after midnight. He’d spent a good portion of the day with Hank,
hanging out and wasting time. He’d spend another good portion trying to write, but doing no writing at all.
As he surveyed his backyard, he instantly noticed the figure.
It stood upright, facing him, staring blankly into the window.
It was Cillian. He smiled and waved.
Dennis didn’t wait to see if he was imagining this. He sprinted down the stairs and tore out the back, past the deck and onto
the grass.
But outside in the dark, nobody was around. Dennis stood there, looking all around, sucking in breaths. He kept turning to
make sure Cillian didn’t grab him from behind. He hated when they did that in the movies. It was so obvious and so stupid.
But there was no one.
He heard a train in the background, the tracks rattling, a horn blaring. As Dennis started back toward the house, he saw a
silhouette in the window of his second-floor office.
Once again it was Cillian, waving, grinning, taunting.
Dennis closed his eyes for a long time, then reopened them. Cillian was still there.
He can do that because he’s a ghost, Dennis.
But Dennis had hurt him, had knocked him down, had felt his blood against his knuckles. How could Cillian be a ghost?
If he is a ghost, that means he can’t hurt you.
Dennis ran back into the house. He knew where to go.
Enough’s enough.
Dennis went into the garage and found it. It was on the bottom shelf inside a locked toolbox. Only he knew the combination
to the lock. The metal toolbox had a few tools in it but also something else.
The gun felt strange in his hand.
He had bought it after the first crazed fan had been found in his house. After that Dennis knew anything was possible. Some
kid could come dressed in black with mayonnaise smeared in his hair and a lollipop in his mouth and Dennis wouldn’t be surprised.
He’d bought the .38 just in case.
In case of something like this.
But you didn’t think of something like this, did you, Dennis? How about a cross and some garlic and a wooden stake?
But he wasn’t dealing with a vampire. He wasn’t sure what he was dealing with, besides someone who was clearly crazy. He ignored
his thought as he checked to make sure the gun was loaded. It was.
He climbed the stairs, expecting to find Cillian in his bedroom.
Is it possible to kill someone twice?
All he wanted to do was scare him away. And scare him for good.
Or maybe find out what he wants with me. What he really wants.
But inside his office there was nothing. For a few moments Dennis played cop as he walked through the house holding the gun.
He probably looked as ridiculous as he felt.
Lucy would have a field day if she saw you now.
After twenty minutes of looking and listening, Dennis went back into his office. He sat in his armchair and leaned back, the
pistol resting in front of his keyboard.
He stared at the dark metal of the gun. It hypnotized him. The silence bothered him. He was about to try writing when an instant
message crossed his screen, startling him.
What’s it like to wait? To wait hour after hour, day after day?
Dennis quickly typed back.
Wait for what?
Wait for inspiration. Wait to see what’s next. Wait to hear from your daughter. Waiting for Godot.
He shook his head.
What do you want from me?
The long reply came quickly.
I’ve told you time and time again what this is about, but you never listen, you never learn. Why does it have to be about
anything? Why does there have to be a point, Dennis? Is there a point in human suffering and sadness and death? What’s the
point in that? Nothing. Nothing but emptiness.
How full are you feeling?
It’s after midnight, and do you know where you are? Where is your daughter? Where is your wife? Where is your mind? Why do
you have a gun in front of you? Are you going to use it? Do you ever think of using it on yourself to join your wife? Don’t
tell me you haven’t thought of that, even ever so briefly.
Dennis quickly typed back a hate-filled curse.
My, my, Dennis, such profanity. What a fraud. You can curse at me, yet you don’t dare put such juicy adjectives in your books.
Don’t want to offend people, now, do we?
What do you want?
Dennis asked him again.
This—this—all this—it’s exactly what I want.
What? You want me to lose my mind? Good. Great. Done.
Can you hear me laughing, Dennis? Because I am. I couldn’t care less about you losing your mind. I lost far more. And I want
you to understand that.
Dennis typed heavily, his fingers beating the keys.
Understand what? What is there to understand?
Dennis waited.
Well????
he typed.
Finally the screen in front of him turned black, as though he had slipped in a DVD.
He saw himself, standing in the walk-in closet, then staring at the rows of clothes. His knees buckled, and he found himself
cowering on the carpet beneath those very clothes. His cries were silent, ragged, ripping. His hands balled into fists as
he fought with himself, weeping and shivering.
Dennis watched this, his hands shaking, then reaching out and slamming the iMac away from him.
But even on the floor, it continued to play the scene.
And then he heard the arrival of another message. He went over to read it. Even though the computer had shut off, Dennis could
still see the text on screen.
It’s one thing to curse at the critics or blow off your fans, Dennis. But you cursed God. And don’t think he didn’t hear you
either.
Do you want to know something?
God abandoned you.
He took your wife and then left you both.
Now there’s something terrifying to write about…
And with that, the computer went dead.
A hatchet lay on his bed.
It was bloody.
Dennis looked around the room, approaching the walk-in closet and turning on the lights, careful to make sure nobody was going
to jump out at him. But nobody was there. At least nobody in flesh and blood. He went to the bed and picked up the short,
heavy instrument.
He stared at the edge of the blade. There was blood and wet clumps, as if it were—
Don’t even go there.
But he couldn’t help it. It looked like small chunks of flesh and even dark hair were caked on the edge of the hatchet.
He held it out as if it might have a virus attached to it.
This isn’t imagined. This is real. This weapon I’m holding is real.
The wooden handle had a black marking that looked like a roughly drawn H. I’ve seen that before.
But even as he was thinking about it, almost ready to place it, he heard a door open and shut downstairs. He cursed and ran
downstairs.
At least now he held a weapon.
You just were holding a gun and look what good it did you.
At the bottom of the stairs, Dennis could see the front door still open. He noticed a shadowy mass in the doorway.
Looking closer he knew what the dark ball was.
It was his cat, Buffy.
And the fur matched the hair that was on the hatchet.
Whoever did this had decapitated the fluffy, black animal.
And I know exactly who did this.
Dennis winced and stepped over the dead cat, heading toward the driveway.
What if you did this? a voice asked him. What if everything that is happening is happening in your mind and really you’re
the one, you’re the killer?
But this wasn’t a movie-of-the-week. There wasn’t going to be a double twist ending: he writes horror novels because he lives
them out (cue the menacing laughter). He didn’t kill the cat, and he wasn’t a killer.