would talk about saving the world. Would they really care what Dennis
Shore the horror novelist was writing about? Why should he care what he read out loud?
Why is it so hot? Why am I sweating?
The stereo pumped in the loud rock music. He went by his desk and finished off his Diet Coke. It didn’t matter what time it
was. It felt like it could be ten in the morning or two in the afternoon. He was wide awake, and he suddenly felt like he
couldn’t breathe.
I’m in serious trouble.
Horror wasn’t somebody chasing you with a chain saw. It was standing in front of a room full of somebodies, feeling like you
didn’t belong there, having to deliver something you didn’t believe in, reading something that didn’t impress anybody.
The stacks of paper in his closet seemed endless. One day he would organize everything. He had said that five months ago to
Lucy, who had told him she would help him. But she was running out of time to help him with this project or any project.
All of his writing was in here. He even had a filing system which used to work but now was overloaded and disjointed. There
was everything from folders and files of previous novels to book ideas to works in progress to interesting articles to his
massive, stuffed contracts file folder.
There was a hard copy of Sorrow, his fourth horror novel.
There was a photo album next to it.
There were a handful of foreign editions of Run Like Hell.
Dennis sucked in a breath. Tried to figure out a plan.
Tell them I’m sick.
That was a horrible idea. So were the other ten he had.
No, I need to sit my butt in that seat and write, advice I’ve given a hundred, maybe a thousand aspiring novelists who want
to see their name in big print on a book cover and want to be one of the headliners at a big-name gig in New York.
Just then something in the closet caught his eye.
It was colored paper. Orange paper in fact.
It was under another thick manuscript—some early draft of one of his unpublished novels. He didn’t remember ever printing
anything on orange paper.
It was a manuscript printed in very small handwriting. There had to be at least 250 pages, maybe 300.
The title was one word that didn’t ring a bell.
Reptile.
Neither did the author’s name.
Cillian Reed.
Dennis turned the page and started reading. He couldn’t remember reading this before, and he knew he would have remembered.
The opening sentence was good.
Chilling and creepy and good.
The first person he killed didn’t scream and didn’t cry because she was too surprised that her son could do such a thing.
He continued reading, walking across the office to the leather love seat against one wall. He sat down, turning the first
page.
The actual killing was on page two, and it took his breath away, surprising him, making him want to know what would happen
next.
He devoured the next thirty pages in perhaps fifteen minutes. He got goose bumps. Glanced over his shoulder. Felt a bit panicky.
For the first time in a long time, he wanted to keep reading, he wanted—needed, in fact—to see what happened to the young
woman, the girlfriend at the center of the story, to see if she got out alive.
Where did this come from, and who is Cillian Reed?
He looked for anything else in the manuscript—an address or an e-mail or even a date—but he couldn’t find anything.
Dennis searched his closet for half an hour. It was almost three thirty in the morning.
He couldn’t find anything else. No more orange sheets, no more pages with typewriter imprints, nothing else connected with
this. Just a manuscript that appeared out of nowhere.
As he returned to his computer, the screen sleeping the same way he should have been, the orange pages lying on the edge of
the couch, Dennis suddenly had an idea.
2004
The creak in the door awoke him.
One hairy finger wrapped around the edge of the door, then another, then an entire spider scurried across the carpet toward
him.
He
Shore the horror novelist was writing about? Why should he care what he read out loud?
Why is it so hot? Why am I sweating?
The stereo pumped in the loud rock music. He went by his desk and finished off his Diet Coke. It didn’t matter what time it
was. It felt like it could be ten in the morning or two in the afternoon. He was wide awake, and he suddenly felt like he
couldn’t breathe.
I’m in serious trouble.
Horror wasn’t somebody chasing you with a chain saw. It was standing in front of a room full of somebodies, feeling like you
didn’t belong there, having to deliver something you didn’t believe in, reading something that didn’t impress anybody.
The stacks of paper in his closet seemed endless. One day he would organize everything. He had said that five months ago to
Lucy, who had told him she would help him. But she was running out of time to help him with this project or any project.
All of his writing was in here. He even had a filing system which used to work but now was overloaded and disjointed. There
was everything from folders and files of previous novels to book ideas to works in progress to interesting articles to his
massive, stuffed contracts file folder.
There was a hard copy of Sorrow, his fourth horror novel.
There was a photo album next to it.
There were a handful of foreign editions of Run Like Hell.
Dennis sucked in a breath. Tried to figure out a plan.
Tell them I’m sick.
That was a horrible idea. So were the other ten he had.
No, I need to sit my butt in that seat and write, advice I’ve given a hundred, maybe a thousand aspiring novelists who want
to see their name in big print on a book cover and want to be one of the headliners at a big-name gig in New York.
Just then something in the closet caught his eye.
It was colored paper. Orange paper in fact.
It was under another thick manuscript—some early draft of one of his unpublished novels. He didn’t remember ever printing
anything on orange paper.
It was a manuscript printed in very small handwriting. There had to be at least 250 pages, maybe 300.
The title was one word that didn’t ring a bell.
Reptile.
Neither did the author’s name.
Cillian Reed.
Dennis turned the page and started reading. He couldn’t remember reading this before, and he knew he would have remembered.
The opening sentence was good.
Chilling and creepy and good.
The first person he killed didn’t scream and didn’t cry because she was too surprised that her son could do such a thing.
He continued reading, walking across the office to the leather love seat against one wall. He sat down, turning the first
page.
The actual killing was on page two, and it took his breath away, surprising him, making him want to know what would happen
next.
He devoured the next thirty pages in perhaps fifteen minutes. He got goose bumps. Glanced over his shoulder. Felt a bit panicky.
For the first time in a long time, he wanted to keep reading, he wanted—needed, in fact—to see what happened to the young
woman, the girlfriend at the center of the story, to see if she got out alive.
Where did this come from, and who is Cillian Reed?
He looked for anything else in the manuscript—an address or an e-mail or even a date—but he couldn’t find anything.
Dennis searched his closet for half an hour. It was almost three thirty in the morning.
He couldn’t find anything else. No more orange sheets, no more pages with typewriter imprints, nothing else connected with
this. Just a manuscript that appeared out of nowhere.
As he returned to his computer, the screen sleeping the same way he should have been, the orange pages lying on the edge of
the couch, Dennis suddenly had an idea.
2004
The creak in the door awoke him.
One hairy finger wrapped around the edge of the door, then another, then an entire spider scurried across the carpet toward
him.
He
Similar Books
