had never seen a tarantula before, but it fascinated him.
It crept closer.
He stared in front of him at the pages, so many pages, all written with black ink on orange paper.
He looked at the last page he had written.
A rustling near the door brought his attention back. Another spider. He wondered where they were coming from.
Then another, another, one more.
The first furry creature had made it to his desk and now rounded the edge to go underneath, to his bare feet. When it made
its way over his feet, onto his toes, he wasn’t surprised. It felt odd, itchy, but he didn’t move, not even when he felt the
bite.
The tiny teeth dug into his skin and made him wince, but he remained still.
He wrote another page, then looked up again. There were spiders crawling up the walls. One crawled up his leg, toward his
lap.
He looked at the bottle on his desk. Then at the pills next to it. But that was just liquor and speed, nothing crazy, not
enough to make him hallucinate.
It might have been some of the other things he took. He couldn’t remember the day, the time, the year, anything, nothing but
the story.
He was almost finished.
Ten—eleven—twelve?—days ago, he had started this. Writing in a mad, desperate, frenzied state, letting the drugs and booze
keep him going. Going going going.
“Gone,” he said to the tarantula that crawled up his belly toward his face.
Now they were dropping from the ceiling too.
Onto his head, his arms, his hands.
He kept writing.
The music played, and it helped him too.
It was so loud.
In his head, everything was loud.
And the words kept coming, like yesterday’s lunch you couldn’t help puking, like a deep, dark secret you couldn’t help telling,
like a deep, dark hole you couldn’t help falling into.
“The lunatic is in my head,” someone sang, and he agreed.
Tarantulas were everywhere, and he brushed them away, his pen running out of ink.
“There’s someone in my head, but it’s not me.”
He was running out of adjectives, and the sentences were running out of structure, and finally finally finally he finished.
And he wrote the words, “The End.”
And then, covered in spiders, furry, hairy, thick spiders, he rested his head on the book, his first, his masterpiece.
This will get Dennis Shore’s attention, he thought. This time he won’t simply send me a generic form letter. This time he’ll
take notice. He will have to.
The words went around and around and around.
Scared
1.
Dennis.
He stopped typing for a moment, the voice a whisper but somehow heard above the music blaring from his computer. He could
see the word count on the bottom of his document, the number continuing to get higher and higher. It already read 35,000 words.
He was soaring.
Dennis.
He turned around but knew the only things behind him were bookshelves. Dennis muted the song, waited.
I’m not far.
His head jerked left. Toward the closet.
Don’t stop looking.
He stood and walked over to where the voice seemed to be coming from. It was her voice. He could picture her and sometimes
smell her and could even sometimes hear her when he was trying, but not like this, not this way.
It’s time.
The door was closed. He turned the handle.
The faint light spilling into the closet from his office showed him enough. He saw the bare legs, so long, and the ankles.
She was wearing shorts and a T-shirt. The shirt was wet with blood, as was the carpet next to her. A fresh wound bled from
her head, her eyes closed, her mouth caked in blood.
And just as Dennis was about to go to her, her eyes opened. A bloody cracking mouth spoke.
I will always love you. Always. Forever.
And then a ping sounded, the ping of an incoming e-mail, the ping awakening him from this deep sleep at his computer.
The music had stopped. He checked the time. In half an hour it would be midnight.
Dennis looked over at his closet door and saw it was closed. His head hurt. He rubbed his eyes and
It crept closer.
He stared in front of him at the pages, so many pages, all written with black ink on orange paper.
He looked at the last page he had written.
A rustling near the door brought his attention back. Another spider. He wondered where they were coming from.
Then another, another, one more.
The first furry creature had made it to his desk and now rounded the edge to go underneath, to his bare feet. When it made
its way over his feet, onto his toes, he wasn’t surprised. It felt odd, itchy, but he didn’t move, not even when he felt the
bite.
The tiny teeth dug into his skin and made him wince, but he remained still.
He wrote another page, then looked up again. There were spiders crawling up the walls. One crawled up his leg, toward his
lap.
He looked at the bottle on his desk. Then at the pills next to it. But that was just liquor and speed, nothing crazy, not
enough to make him hallucinate.
It might have been some of the other things he took. He couldn’t remember the day, the time, the year, anything, nothing but
the story.
He was almost finished.
Ten—eleven—twelve?—days ago, he had started this. Writing in a mad, desperate, frenzied state, letting the drugs and booze
keep him going. Going going going.
“Gone,” he said to the tarantula that crawled up his belly toward his face.
Now they were dropping from the ceiling too.
Onto his head, his arms, his hands.
He kept writing.
The music played, and it helped him too.
It was so loud.
In his head, everything was loud.
And the words kept coming, like yesterday’s lunch you couldn’t help puking, like a deep, dark secret you couldn’t help telling,
like a deep, dark hole you couldn’t help falling into.
“The lunatic is in my head,” someone sang, and he agreed.
Tarantulas were everywhere, and he brushed them away, his pen running out of ink.
“There’s someone in my head, but it’s not me.”
He was running out of adjectives, and the sentences were running out of structure, and finally finally finally he finished.
And he wrote the words, “The End.”
And then, covered in spiders, furry, hairy, thick spiders, he rested his head on the book, his first, his masterpiece.
This will get Dennis Shore’s attention, he thought. This time he won’t simply send me a generic form letter. This time he’ll
take notice. He will have to.
The words went around and around and around.
Scared
1.
Dennis.
He stopped typing for a moment, the voice a whisper but somehow heard above the music blaring from his computer. He could
see the word count on the bottom of his document, the number continuing to get higher and higher. It already read 35,000 words.
He was soaring.
Dennis.
He turned around but knew the only things behind him were bookshelves. Dennis muted the song, waited.
I’m not far.
His head jerked left. Toward the closet.
Don’t stop looking.
He stood and walked over to where the voice seemed to be coming from. It was her voice. He could picture her and sometimes
smell her and could even sometimes hear her when he was trying, but not like this, not this way.
It’s time.
The door was closed. He turned the handle.
The faint light spilling into the closet from his office showed him enough. He saw the bare legs, so long, and the ankles.
She was wearing shorts and a T-shirt. The shirt was wet with blood, as was the carpet next to her. A fresh wound bled from
her head, her eyes closed, her mouth caked in blood.
And just as Dennis was about to go to her, her eyes opened. A bloody cracking mouth spoke.
I will always love you. Always. Forever.
And then a ping sounded, the ping of an incoming e-mail, the ping awakening him from this deep sleep at his computer.
The music had stopped. He checked the time. In half an hour it would be midnight.
Dennis looked over at his closet door and saw it was closed. His head hurt. He rubbed his eyes and
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