Ghostwriter (27 page)
“So you really hungry or what?” Hank asked him.
“Sure.”
“You haven’t even touched the chips.”
“So?”
“You showed up at the door with a gun. With a loaded gun, to be more precise. Did you bring the gun with you here?”
“It’s in the car.”
“You paid more attention to the backyard than me. You’ve been digging in the yard for some reason—”
“What do you mean?”
Hank raised his eyebrows and smiled. “When you went outside I took a look. I mean—what’s the deal, man?”
“What if I told you I didn’t do that?”
“You keep giving me these ‘what if’ scenarios. What are you saying?”
Dennis looked around as if they were being watched. He’d picked this place for a reason. Pancho’s just felt off the map.
“I’m saying I didn’t do that.”
“So who did?”
“The ghost is real, Hank. It’s real, and it won’t go away.”
Hank rubbed his temple. “So why’d you want to come to a Mexican restaurant to tell me?”
“I didn’t plan on telling you. I was hoping to get you a little more loaded.”
“I’m all for that,” Hank said, laughing. “But still. For what?”
“I just…” Dennis stopped as the waiter brought their drinks.
The 4:20 surfer dude just stood there, as if he had forgotten the question he was supposed to ask. They ordered, and the waiter
finally ambled off, looking like he was lost.
“What is it?”
He needed to get it out. He needed to finally tell the truth.
“I did something—something bad.”
“What?” Hank asked.
“I stole something.”
But just as Dennis was going to continue, he saw the fanatical smile and the wild hair and the narrow shoulders and the lanky
figure standing at the door.
Cillian walked over to their table and sat next to Hank.
For a surreal moment, Dennis just sat there wondering if Hank saw the figure sitting next to him. But Hank looked to his right
and wrinkled his face.
“Excuse me?”
“Hello, friend of Dennis Shore.”
Hank cursed. “Can I help you?”
“Oh, of course you can, Hank,” Cillian said, looking at Dennis. “There are many ways you can help me.”
Hank glanced at Dennis, then back at the young man.
“Look, whatever you want, it’s not the best time, so get up and get out, okay?”
For a moment Cillian waited, then he shook his head. “Such manners, Dennis. Really. After all we’ve been through.”
“You know this guy?” Hank asked.
“Hank, this is, uh…”
“I’m the one he’s told you about. I’m not wearing my sheet tonight.”
For a long minute, Hank stared at Cillian as if sizing him up. Then Hank laughed, nodding, sipping his margarita. “This is
who you were talking about? This guy?”
Dennis nodded, and he knew what Hank was thinking.
As Cillian’s skinny arm reached out to take a chip, Hank grabbed his wrist. He cursed at Cillian and demanded that he tell
them who he was.
“Dennis knows,” Cillian said. “He knows well.”
Hank dropped the guy’s wrist. “That’s no ghost, man. This is some kid playing a trick on you, trying to blackmail you, Dennis.
Right? What’s your name?”
“Cillian.”
“Okay then, Cillian. If that’s your real name. You’re not a ghost. You’re some little fan trying to get something out of him.
What do you want? Money? Huh?”
“I’d like my life back, if you really want to know, Henry Lee McKinney. Just as much as you’d like Julie back.”
Hank’s forehead beaded with sweat as he laughed. “That doesn’t make you a spirit. Anybody can spy on people. Anybody can look
up information. Knowing someone’s middle name doesn’t mean you’re from the afterworld.”
“I know about Bailey.”
Something changed. Something in Hank. Immediate and deep.
Hank’s face reddened. “What’d you say?”
“You heard
exactly
what I said. Your hearing isn’t your problem. It’s your stupid lack of ambition in this life, Hank.”
“What does he mean?” Dennis asked.
“Nothing,” Hank told him.
“Bailey was his dog. He accidentally killed it during one of his drunken moments. When you were how old? Seventeen was it?
When your parents left you on your own and you decided to have some fun. But it wasn’t so fun, was it? You were drunk out
of your mind, and the next day you wailed and you buried the dog in a field. And nobody knew. Nobody at all. But the dead
talk, my friend. Even dead animals talk.”
“There’s no way,” Hank mumbled under his breath.
“No way what?”
Hank’s big hand reached out and grabbed Cillian by the neck. Even unable to breathe and turning blue Cillian spoke. “Your
friend tried to do that the other night. It doesn’t work.”
The server came, apparently oblivious to anything going on.
“Can I get you anything?”
Hank shook his head, looking at Dennis, then at Cillian, then stood up and toppled over his chair as he bolted out of there.
“Oh well, that was short-lived, wasn’t it? Guess he finally believes you now, huh? People refuse to see the truth. People
don’t like to know—they don’t like the truth.”
Dennis wasn’t about to stick around and have a conversation with Cillian. He pushed his chair back.
“Oh, you might not want to do that,” Cillian said.
As he stood the lights in the room started to blur together.
“That special little concoction you and your friend had. I put a little something special in it.”
A bug crawled over the wall. Then another. Then a dozen.
“What?”
“Ah, the memories. Ah, the good ole times of flying high.”
“What’d you do?”
“I’m a ghost, so I can do anything, right? That’s what you write about? When you get it so utterly
wrong.
”
“What’d you do?”
“It’s right in front of your eyes, and you don’t even know it or see it.”
“What?”
“And that’s such a shame.”
The drink in front of him started to bubble. The television above him started to drip. He felt it on his forehead, sweet warm
liquid goop.
“What’d you do?” he shouted.
“Better wait for your burrito,” Cillian said, laughing.
“What’s right in front of me? Tell me.”
Cillian’s dark eyes cut into him, not moving. “Evil.”
It was the worst trip of his life.
He wasn’t sure exactly what Cillian had done and what happened to Hank and what they were drinking, but suddenly the entire
world was loopy and messy.
The door to the outside felt like rubber as he pushed against it. Finally it fell off and cracked into a hundred little pieces.
Dennis shook his head, opening and closing his eyes. The wall outside was bloodred and dripping, and the sign no longer said
Pa cho. It read
Death
and
Pale Rider
and
Ghost
and
Cut
and
Hurt
and
REALREALREAL
.
“Hank?” Dennis called out.
Even his own voice sounded strange and funky. It sounded lower, thicker.
The sidewalk moved beneath his feet, shifting and turning. The walls breathed, expanding in and out. He put his hand against
the wall and fell into it, into the marshmallowy texture, his knees in foam, his mouth tasting butter.
I’m losing my mind. I’m utterly losing my mind.
He stood and pushed his way through nothing and then saw someone walk past him.
“Hank? Hank, man, it’s me.”
But this wasn’t Hank. Just some young guy walking the street thinking Dennis was drunk.
For a second or an hour, he didn’t know, Dennis walked, calling out for Hank, trying to make sense of this, his eyes and ears
not cooperating.
Cars passed as he walked down the sidewalk. One appeared heading right toward him, the lights glowing eyes of fire. But then
the car just passed on the other side of the street, far away from him.
Hands that had covered his face now opened in front of him. They were gashed and bleeding. The blood dripped off them.
I’ve been here before.
He rubbed them together and saw the incisions open, the dark liquid coughing out and leaking between his fingers.
“Hank!”
But Hank was nowhere to be found.
It’s another scene from one of my books. Just like the grave digging. How could I forget? How could I not remember?
He needed to get help. He took his cell phone out of his pocket and opened it. A tongue flailed out at him, causing him to
drop the phone and stare at it. The phone suddenly looked like a little mouse with a long tail as it scampered away.
If you keep running you’ll die. Just like the guy dies in Run Like Hell.
“Hank, man, where are you?” But his body failed him as the words came out: “Tank car all over the wrap dressing!”
Dennis dropped to his knees, biting his lip and forcing himself to try to calm down.
You’re going to end up dead, Dennis. And you can’t do that, not to Audrey. Not again.
As he opened his eyes to the dark sky, he saw the clouds pulsing, the moon splintering apart, crows flying over him, smiling.
Get up and get help. Get out of here. Get off the street.
So he walked. One foot in front of the other.
Someone passed and screamed out, “You will die before midnight.”
But he imagined it just like he imagined the sidewalk being made of chocolate and the bridge he passed over shaking and the
railing he gripped becoming a candy cane.
Dennis bumped into something or someone and realized that finally this was not an illusion. It was real. He stared at Hank’s
red hair and wild face and wide eyes.
“Hank, he put something in our drinks. He spiked them.”
Hank just stared at him. Cars passed by as the wind blew, a breeze from the Fox River.
Get off this bridge. Get off now.
“You brought this evil upon us,” Hank said.
“Stop it. You’re drugged up.”
Hank’s face turned wrinkly, his eyes blinking, crying blood. A hand came out of nowhere and gripped Dennis’s neck.
“You’re the evil one. The one they warned about. The one to bring sorrow, to bring pain, to bring evil.”
And then Hank grabbed Dennis’s belt. With inhuman strength, he lifted Dennis up over the railing and the wall and dropped
him.
Dennis fell backward, his face staring up at the heavens, the clouds, the dark night. He seemed to fall forever before he
hit cold, deep water. Just as he once described in his novel about demon possession.
When he decided to kill off his main character.
—Hon.
—Yeah.
—It’s okay.
—No.
—Yes, it’s okay.
—No, it’s not. Don’t dare say it is. Don’t give me your God talk now.
—Hold my hand.
—I just—it’s not—
—It’s going to be okay. You’re going to be okay. You and Audrey are going to be okay.
—No we’re not. We can’t—you can’t leave us, Lucy, not like this, not now. I cannot go on in this world without you.
—Don’t crush my hand.
—I wish it was me.
—But it’s me. And when I’m gone, you have to do the best you can to stay strong. To be strong. I know you’re strong, Den,
and you always will be. Even if you don’t believe it, you have to know. You have to understand that I believe this. I will
be in a better place.
—The best place is right here with us.
—I believe there’s an even better place. That’s the only hope I have.
—How can you smile?
—Because you can’t. But one day, Den. One day I believe you will. You just need to let go of your control. You need to let
go… and believe.
“One day, Den. One day.”
He could hear her whispering in his ears.
“Just not now. Not now, not like this.”
“Den.”
He opened his eyes and saw darkness and felt himself drifting. His arms and legs floated and for a second he believed he was
in heaven. Then he tried to breathe and sucked in water.
“Move, Den. Get out of here.”
A flickering streak waved at him far above. He stared at it and suddenly felt his chest burning. The beaming light continued
dancing far above, and he did everything he could to move toward it. His arms and legs flailed, and he sucked in water through
his nose and mouth as he rushed upward, toward the falling star, toward the laser beam, toward the light of heaven, toward
her.
As he finally made it to the glassy surface, he exploded out to the cold air of night and found himself drifting in the middle
of the Fox River, the dark night all around him.
There was no light, just flickers of the town in the distance.
He breathed like a newborn and couldn’t distinguish the river water from the tears on his face.
He couldn’t see Hank on the distant outline of the bridge. He couldn’t see Cillian. And he couldn’t see any flickers of light
urging him onward.
But he had heard and seen something.
Maybe Cillian isn’t the only ghost following me around.
All he wants to do is hurt. To reach out and grab something or someone and hurt it.
Bob pulls into the familiar driveway and feels it. It’s not anger. It’s bloodlust, a tingling in his body, an energy unlike
anything else he’s ever felt. Nothing can compare to this.
He pulls the truck in and shuts it off.
He knows what he’s about to do.
Bob stares at his neighbor’s yard. He sees the debris from his parents’ house, feels the tormenting wind against his door,
begging to come in.
His messy, stupid parents. Always picking at him, always hating him.
He climbs out of the truck. Yet he doesn’t go in the front door. Instead he goes around the back and finds exactly what he
needs, exactly what he’s looking for. Hedge clippers with an H branded on their long wooden handles, the black blades as long
as his forearm. He crosses the patio to the rusted-out door leading in the back way.
As he steps into the small hallway that goes past an old, broken washer and dryer, he hears their voices in the background.