yawned. For the first time
in—well, maybe the first time ever—the thought of that door and what lay on the other side of it scared him. The stillness
of the suburban night and this empty house and that horrific vision and that door…
Come on, Den. Get a grip.
He jogged his mouse to wake up his computer, which he was sure wasn’t dreaming about his dead wife. The empty page on the
screen was the first thing he saw.
He hadn’t written 35,000 words. He didn’t even have 3,000 words.
Dennis shook his head and cursed. He decided to open up his e-mail, which probably wasn’t the best idea but there was nothing
else to do.
Except write.
Or sleep.
Or bury the corpse that was decomposing in his closet.
2.
The e-mail was from Cillian.
He’d known he’d eventually hear from the guy again. It had been a week since the creepy young man had approached him at the
book signing in New York. He was surprised Cillian’s next step was a harmless e-mail. The address was interesting: [email protected] .
Dennis wasn’t sure what Demonsaint meant and wasn’t in the mood to ask. The e-mail was short.
Dear Mr. Shore: Do you remember what it was like when you first wrote Breathe? Did it come easily? Will you ever recapture
that energy? Cillian
That pompous little jerk. He’s goading me now. Taunting me.
He started to write a reply, something along the lines of “Get lost” except far more creative, but stopped and canceled the
e-mail.
That’s what he wants: a response.
A few moments later, an instant-messaging box popped up on his screen, full of text.
I know you’re there. And I know you want to respond. I’ll ask my question again. Do you remember what it was like writing
a book that would go on to sell several million copies? Do you remember when you didn’t have the pressure of a name, of a
slot to fill on the NY Times list, of a thousand mouths to feed at a publishing house?
Dennis didn’t answer, instead turning up the music and trying to get some writing done. He clicked off the box in the corner
of his screen. But it burst back almost instantly.
You don’t remember, do you?
Then another.
You can never recapture what it was like, can you?
Then another.
You’re afraid you’ve lost it. And this is the thing, Mr. Shore. I believe you have too.
Then another.
You can’t begin to fathom loss, or hurt, or pain.
But you will.
You will, Dennis.
Dennis gritted his teeth and cursed, picking up a paperback on his desk and hurling it across the room. He would’ve done that
to his iMac, but he needed it. He shut down his computer and left the room. On his way out, he decided to open his closet
door. Just open it. Just in case.
The door sounded like it hadn’t swung open like that for some time. Dennis turned on the light.
There was nothing and nobody there. Just a lot of books.
He turned off the light and closed the door.
Tonight the house felt very still, and very empty.
3.
The old brick church in downtown Geneva had stood there for more than a hundred years. It had character, the kind of church
couples put their names on waiting lists for their weddings, the kind that would probably still be there even if someone proved
God didn’t exist. Lucy went there with Audrey the last few years of her life. Dennis had gone a few times after constant urging,
but not enough to consider it routine, like going to the dentist. At least going to the dentist accomplished something.
Throughout the years, as Dennis and the girls passed by the church, he often remarked at the weekly sayings on the sign outside
the building. Whoever put these up had a good sense of humor.
“Why can’t the preacher have a sense of humor like those signs?” Dennis asked his wife one summer day. “That’s the kind of
church I want to go to.”
Some of the more classic ones Dennis remembered included “We are not Dairy Queen, but we have great Sundays!”, “Have you read
my #1
in—well, maybe the first time ever—the thought of that door and what lay on the other side of it scared him. The stillness
of the suburban night and this empty house and that horrific vision and that door…
Come on, Den. Get a grip.
He jogged his mouse to wake up his computer, which he was sure wasn’t dreaming about his dead wife. The empty page on the
screen was the first thing he saw.
He hadn’t written 35,000 words. He didn’t even have 3,000 words.
Dennis shook his head and cursed. He decided to open up his e-mail, which probably wasn’t the best idea but there was nothing
else to do.
Except write.
Or sleep.
Or bury the corpse that was decomposing in his closet.
2.
The e-mail was from Cillian.
He’d known he’d eventually hear from the guy again. It had been a week since the creepy young man had approached him at the
book signing in New York. He was surprised Cillian’s next step was a harmless e-mail. The address was interesting: [email protected] .
Dennis wasn’t sure what Demonsaint meant and wasn’t in the mood to ask. The e-mail was short.
Dear Mr. Shore: Do you remember what it was like when you first wrote Breathe? Did it come easily? Will you ever recapture
that energy? Cillian
That pompous little jerk. He’s goading me now. Taunting me.
He started to write a reply, something along the lines of “Get lost” except far more creative, but stopped and canceled the
e-mail.
That’s what he wants: a response.
A few moments later, an instant-messaging box popped up on his screen, full of text.
I know you’re there. And I know you want to respond. I’ll ask my question again. Do you remember what it was like writing
a book that would go on to sell several million copies? Do you remember when you didn’t have the pressure of a name, of a
slot to fill on the NY Times list, of a thousand mouths to feed at a publishing house?
Dennis didn’t answer, instead turning up the music and trying to get some writing done. He clicked off the box in the corner
of his screen. But it burst back almost instantly.
You don’t remember, do you?
Then another.
You can never recapture what it was like, can you?
Then another.
You’re afraid you’ve lost it. And this is the thing, Mr. Shore. I believe you have too.
Then another.
You can’t begin to fathom loss, or hurt, or pain.
But you will.
You will, Dennis.
Dennis gritted his teeth and cursed, picking up a paperback on his desk and hurling it across the room. He would’ve done that
to his iMac, but he needed it. He shut down his computer and left the room. On his way out, he decided to open his closet
door. Just open it. Just in case.
The door sounded like it hadn’t swung open like that for some time. Dennis turned on the light.
There was nothing and nobody there. Just a lot of books.
He turned off the light and closed the door.
Tonight the house felt very still, and very empty.
3.
The old brick church in downtown Geneva had stood there for more than a hundred years. It had character, the kind of church
couples put their names on waiting lists for their weddings, the kind that would probably still be there even if someone proved
God didn’t exist. Lucy went there with Audrey the last few years of her life. Dennis had gone a few times after constant urging,
but not enough to consider it routine, like going to the dentist. At least going to the dentist accomplished something.
Throughout the years, as Dennis and the girls passed by the church, he often remarked at the weekly sayings on the sign outside
the building. Whoever put these up had a good sense of humor.
“Why can’t the preacher have a sense of humor like those signs?” Dennis asked his wife one summer day. “That’s the kind of
church I want to go to.”
Some of the more classic ones Dennis remembered included “We are not Dairy Queen, but we have great Sundays!”, “Have you read
my #1
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