Shorts - Thriller 2: Stories You Just Can't Put Down (26 page)

“What I’m imagining is a beautiful seventeen-year-old girl who’s been dating this older boy for months. She’s crazy about him and they talk of getting married someday. Then a few months before he’s to go to college, she discovers she’s pregnant. As the due date approaches, the boy abandons her—goes off to school hundreds of miles away and drops out of her life for good.”

Again she glared at him with a strange expectancy. And a stir of discomfort registered in his gut. “Then what?”

“Well, she’s very upset that he left her flat and wasn’t there for the birth, not even moral support. Her parents are disgusted with her, but forbid her to have an abortion. Of course, her own plans for college are dashed.

“So she has the child. But a few days later, she dies from complications of childbirth. The daughter is raised by her grandparents. Meanwhile, the boy finishes college, never making contact with the girl’s family, never learning what happened to the girl or his child. We jump ahead twentysomething years—the boy’s a man, successful in his profession and happy with his life.”

“And?”

“And the ghost of his dead girlfriend suddenly appears to take vengeance on him—a revenant.”

“A what?”

“Revenant. A vengeful ghost.”

His mouth was dry, and he swallowed some coffee.

“So what do you think?”

“Interesting, but execution is everything.”

“Yes, it is.”

“What will he be doing in the present? Is he married? Does he have a family? How does he spend his days? I’ve got to know what to have him do from chapter to chapter.”

She nodded. “He’s divorced with no kids,” she said. Then like a half-glimpsed premonition she said, “He’s a writer.”

“A writer,” he repeated, as if taking an oath.

“Yes, I like the irony of him being the supposed artistic sensitive type. Yet he’s bad—if you pardon my French, a son of a bitch.”

Geoff simply nodded.

“I’ve got some of their back stories in notes, which I can share with you—stuff that you can use to flesh things out. But it’s the ending that I can’t come up with. How the ghost shows up and gets back at him. That’s where I’m stuck. And I want the best possible retribution.”

“Uh-huh.” He drained his cup and a prickly silence filled the moment.

“But I’m sure you can come up with the perfect justice.”

“I take it you believe in ghosts.”

“No, but I’m afraid of them.” She smiled at the old joke. “What about you?”

“Nope.”

“Well, I know you’re supposed to write from what you know, but I’m sure your fertile imagination can flesh this out. So, what do you think?”

“Well, it’s not really my kind of story. I write thrillers, not horror tales.”

“But I’ve read your novels, and I think it
is
your kind of story. Just that the antagonist is a ghost, not the standard villain.”

Maybe that was his problem: all his villains were standard.

He nodded and glanced around the food hall. Students were scattered at different tables, some of them reading, some working at their laptops. He didn’t mind them, but he was tired of teaching kids how to write. Most had never written fiction before. And most made their first forays with dumb horror tales, hoping to be the next Stephen King. And most had zero talent. Like this woman. But she had money. Enough to buy his way out of here for a couple of years. And he was certain that if he didn’t sign, she’d find someone else who would.

“I also think you’d enjoy working on it.” She nudged the contract toward him.

Doubtful,
he thought. And for a long moment he stared at it. Then he picked up the pen and signed.

And a small rat uncurled in his gut.

By six that evening, he was back home, thinking that this might turn out to be the toughest twenty thousand dollars he’d ever make. No, it wasn’t the fact that he didn’t write ghost stories. Nor was her story line too much of a challenge. As he sipped his second Scotch, he told himself:
Coincidence. Dumb, blind coincidence.

Twenty-four years ago, while doing grad work in L.A., he had gotten a young undergraduate pregnant. They had dated less than a year while he finished his M.F.A. They had talked about marriage, but when a teaching post presented itself, he broke off the relationship and moved back to the East Coast. He gave Jessica some money to get an abortion, but she had refused. He left no forwarding address and never heard from her again, uncertain
what had happened to her or her baby. Yes, he felt guilty. But he was also young, selfish and scared. And he couldn’t turn down the job because it paid well and would allow him the time to write his first novel, which became an instant bestseller.

As he lay in bed staring into the black, it all came back to him. But did he really want to be shacked up for the next ten or twelve months slogging through that old muck?

But one hundred thousand dollars?

Two hours later he was still rolling around his mattress.

Maybe it was his inherent paranoia crossed with his writer’s imagination, but suddenly he wondered if this Lauren Grant was really an innocent little rich kid who just wanted her name on a book.

He got out of bed and went to his laptop where he Googled
Lauren J. Grant.
A common enough name, but not a single hit came up. He tried other search engines and databases, and nothing. She had no Web site. No entry in Facebook, MySpace or any blog site. She had never registered a book or movie review anywhere under her name. Nothing. In the vast digital universe where most people had left evidence of their existence, she did not exist. It was as if she were a ghost.

The next day, feeling like roadkill from the lack of sleep, he went to the registrar’s office and got a clerk to give him copies of Lauren J. Grant’s application. While grades were confidential, their application forms were not. She was from Philadelphia. Her parents were Susan and John Grant—she was a real estate agent, he the owner of a trucking firm. Lauren was an only child. She had graduated from Prescott High School. All looked legitimate.

But that evening, back home at his laptop, anxiety was setting bats loose in his chest. The more he tried to work on the synopsis, the more distracted he became. What if she were some
kind of writer stalker—a delusional nutcake, like the assistant who murdered that singer, Selena?

Or worse, the crazed groupie who shot John Lennon dead after getting his autograph?

Or worse still, his own Annie Wilkes, like in that story
Misery
?

It’s your ol’fertile imagination getting the best of you,
he told himself. Nonetheless, he went back online and found a Web site for Prescott High School. But probably because of the fear of pedophiles, students were not identified by name. However, using different search engines he located a site for the publisher of the school’s yearbooks and ordered one for the year she had graduated. He then checked the online Yellow Pages and, with relief, he found an address for her parents that matched what she had written on the application.
Your imagination was always much richer than your real life,
he told himself and went to bed.

Over the next several days he threw himself into the synopsis. By the end of the next week, he had the story line filled out and an ending that satisfied him. So, he e-mailed Lauren a copy, humming for that twenty-grand advance.

Within the hour she called him. “Geoffrey, it’s good but the ending is not there yet. You’re letting him off too easily.”

He didn’t mind the presumptuous use of his first name as much as her sudden authority: this little twit wasn’t satisfied with his synopsis. He resented that almost as much as he resented his need for her money. “Twentysomething years have passed,” he said. “Do ghosts hold grudges that long?”

“In this story they do.”

“Well, frankly, I think the ghost bit is silly. I told you I don’t write ghost stories. I don’t even read them. And I don’t believe in them. They’re cheesy gimmicks.”

There was a long, uncomfortable silence filled only with the
hush of the open phone line. “So what do you recommend?” she finally said.

“That it’s the grown daughter who seeks him out.”

“And then what?”

“There are some tense moments, but in the end they reconcile. He realizes how callous and irresponsible he had been, but he’s a grown man now and has reformed and wants to bond with his long-lost daughter.” He knew how trite that sounded, but it was the best he was willing to offer.

But she didn’t approve. “I like the idea of the grown daughter replacing the ghost as an agent of justice,” she said. “But it’s got to be intense. I want his guilt and fear to be palpable. And I don’t want forgiveness.”

Suddenly she was all business and holding hostage his twenty thousand for an ending that was making him uncomfortable.

“And it has to be a surprise,” she continued. “A surprise ending and a Grand Guignol.”

“I’ll see what I come up with.”

“Okay,” she said. “But I want blood.”

The rat stirred in his gut again. “But why such harsh justice?”

“Because blood debts must be paid.”

And the rat took a nip.

For another six days he worked on the synopsis, grabbing a few writing hours between classes. But that Friday classes were cancelled because of a freak snowstorm, producing lightning and thunder. Global warming, the radio said. So he took advantage of the day off and wrote without interruption. By early evening he had exhausted himself and downed a few glasses of Scotch to relax. He thought about going to bed early and getting up around four the next morning to continue working.

That’s when the FedEx delivery man came by with a package. It was the Prescott High School yearbook. He tore through the
portrait pages. Yes, there was a Lauren Grant, with a few school clubs and activities listed. But no portrait photo. Nor was she in group shots. Maybe she was sick and missed the photo sessions.

At the moment, he really didn’t care. His head was soupy from exhaustion and alcohol, so he went to bed, satisfied that he had an ending that made sense—one that should satisfy her. She wanted the guy’s death, so he gave him a weak heart. In the middle of the night he thinks he sees a ghost and dies of fright. Contrived, yes. And if she didn’t like it,
fuck it!
It was the best he could come up with. So he e-mailed it to her and went to bed, thinking,
I don’t have blood on my hands. Jessica could be alive and well today. I just didn’t want to deal with her or the baby. I was just a kid. No way I should pay for that. Nor for cheating on Maggie.

To rout the rabble in his head, he downed two sleeping pills and slipped into a dreamless oblivion.

It was a little after midnight when his phone rang. Through the furriness of his brain he heard the answering machine go on in the other room and a muffled female voice leave a message he couldn’t make out. After several minutes of lying in the dark, he got up, went to the next room and hit the play button.

“Hi, Geoff, it’s Lauren. I received your new ending and, frankly, it doesn’t work. I’m really sorry, but it’s still too weak. However, I think I’ve got the ending we’ve been looking for. Sorry about the hour, but I’m leaving first thing in the morning for the holidays and I want to share it with you in person. So, I’ll be right over.”

She clicked off, and when he tried to retrieve her number to call back, the message read Unavailable. She had called from an unlisted number.
Jesus!
It was past midnight. And why the hell didn’t she just e-mail it?

Suddenly his mind was a fugue. What if she wasn’t coming over simply to share her idea?

But another voice cut in: Get a grip, man.
You’re letting your
booze-and-Xanax-primed imagination get the best of you. That and the freak storm.

But what if she was an imposter who knew about Jessica and was out to get him?
The best possible retribution.

But to what end? Surely not blackmail. She was loaded, and he was broke.

Write about what you know.

Make the guilt and fear palpable.

Her words shot through his brain like an electric arc. She was his metaphorical revenant. And his penance was having to flesh out his own guilt. His own revenge. She didn’t like it, and she was coming with the perfect payback.

No way! Impossible.

So is this freak thunder-and-lightning snowstorm.

No!

Maybe this was all Maggie’s doing. In a drunken moment years ago he had told her about Jessica. What if all three of them were in collusion and they concocted this scheme, recruiting this Lauren Grant or whatever her name was—a hit woman to get back for Jessie, for his cheating on Maggie, for all his indiscretions against women?

Even more far-fetched,
he told himself. Maggie was happily involved with another guy and didn’t give a shit about him anymore. And Jessica could be dead for all he knew.

Outside the landscape lit up as if by strobe lights, and a moment later boulders rumbled across the sky. He stared through the window as lightning turn the stripped black trees behind the house into an X-rayed forest. As he watched and waited for the thunder, another thought cut across him mind like a shark fin. One that made all the sense in the world.

Because he was bad. Because he was selfish.

Because blood debts must be paid.

Suddenly he felt his gorge rise and he shot to the toilet where
he flopped to his knees and threw up the contents of his stomach. As he hung over the bowl, gagging, the bathroom light began to flicker. The power lines. Every time Carleton experienced a heavy snow, sections of the town got hit with a brownout.

He wiped his mouth and flushed the toilet when he heard the doorbell ring.
Jesus!
He shot back into the bedroom. He was tearing through his bureau drawers, underwear and pullovers spilling to the floor, when he heard something from downstairs.