Kill Creek Page 7

  “What are you doing?” Slaughter called after him. Sam didn’t bother responding. He was picking up speed, moving farther around the arc. There were towers of their books in various languages. Slaughter in Spanish. Moore in Japanese. McGarver in French. Slaughter in German. He was halfway around the arc, and still it was only the three of them. Maybe there were no others. Maybe everyone Wainwright had invited was already there.

  Across the room, Moore’s face floated, disembodied, in the glow of her cell phone as she tapped the screen to end the call. She looked over at Sam, now working his way around the other side of the arc.

  “I’m leaving,” she announced.

  Despite having barely met her, Slaughter made a face as if he truly regretted Moore’s decision. Sam, on the other hand, didn’t react.

  “You two can blow Wainwright all night long for all I care,” Moore continued, “but I didn’t fly all this way to be—”

  Sam wasn’t listening. He was staring at a monstrous pile of books on the far corner of the table. Books by another writer.

  Someone’s missing.

  The heap of books spilled to the very edge of the table on three sides, a massive collection of paperbacks and hardcovers, every cover different, every book unique. It was a body of work by an unfathom-ably prolific writer.

  “There’s a fourth author here.”

  “Even more reason to leave,” Moore replied. “Have fun, fellas.” She turned sharply on a heel and marched toward the double doors that led into the main lobby.

  “Whose books are those?” Slaughter asked Sam with good-natured curiosity.

  Sam noticed a single word of one title before he even picked up a book.

  Shadow.

  There was no way Wainwright had gotten him to come. It made no sense. It had to be a trick, another one of Wainwright’s mind games.

  Sam’s hand trembled with a troubling mixture of excitement and anxiety as he picked up the book he had recognized so quickly.

  A Thinly Cast Shadow.

  Moore was a few feet from the double doors when one of them swung slowly open.

  Before her stood a wisp of a man impeccably dressed in a slim gray suit, a white shirt, and a maroon tie. His face was cleanly shaven, flesh hardened from years in the sun, his high forehead speckled with liver spots. His white hair was parted neatly to one side. When he saw Moore, he smiled, and wrinkles shattered the skin at the edges of his clear, gray eyes.

  “Pardon me,” he said in a voice as crisp as spring linen drying on a line. Moore did not need an introduction, even as the old man shuffled into the room, even as he held out a thin hand to her.

  She knew who he was. Every writer knew who he was.

  “Sebastian Cole,” the man said. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

  When Sam was eleven years old, his father took him to the small pawnshop located on the second block of Walnut Street in what their microscopic town of Blantonville ambitiously called “downtown.” The plastic sign above the door displayed the name of the store: RED ROBBIE’S PAWN AND LOAN. A single light bulb buzzed angrily within the sign, every now and then flickering as a warning that soon it would be joining its dead brother in broken filament heaven.

  Robbie was a barely functioning alcoholic, which explained the trademark red nose with its burst blood vessels and bulbous tip, and the early closing time of four p.m., which just happened to coincide with the start of happy hour at the Brick House. As far as Sam knew, no one had ever taken Robbie up on his loan services, which gave unintentional irony to a sign’s promise of “low interest rates.” But many in town had brought in items to be pawned. The rows of crooked metal shelves and smudged glass cases were overflowing with a collection of unsorted, used wonders displayed with neither rhyme nor reason.

  Sam’s dad, a slight, timid man with a voice like a thin whistle, had stopped at the counter to ask Red Robbie himself where he might find a toaster for under ten bucks. It had been two years since the fire. They were still living in the “temporary” accommodations of West Hook Apartments—Sam and Jack and their dad in a cheap two-bedroom, although Jack was almost never around. Jack spent almost every night sleeping over at his girlfriend Crystal’s, whose mother was warm and loving and supportive, all the things Sam and Jack had never known.

  While his father haggled over toaster prices with Robbie, Sam was left to wander the aisles and gaze in astonishment at the treasures most would call “junk.” His left arm was still wrapped in gauze like the arm of a mummy, although it no longer needed to be. The skin grafts on his arm had healed over in a rough, mottled sheath of scar tissue, but he wasn’t ready for anyone else to see it. Sam had not said a word when they entered the store, and his dad had offered Robbie a sad little smile of apology. Most people in town knew not to expect much conversation from the boy. Not now. Not after what had happened.

  On his last visit to the pawnshop, Sam had stumbled upon a ninja throwing star that his dad had let him buy after agreeing to use his own money and promising not to throw it at stray cats. Sam was hoping to find another weapon, maybe a throwing dagger or a butterfly knife. Despite the tragedy that swirled constantly over him like a funnel cloud, he was still a boy, and there was nothing quite as satisfying as flinging a sharp object at a tree trunk and watching it stick. But on this day, this summer afternoon in mid-July, Sam instead found a book.

  It was the third from the top in a stack of random paperbacks, just below A Guide to Edible Mushrooms and a tawdry romance novel featuring a man on the cover whose shirt appeared to only have one working button (the bottom button, of course). The title of the third book intrigued him instantly, although he couldn’t exactly say why. It was the simple yet inexplicably disturbing image it conjured up in his mind, that of a dark humanoid shape stretched long and thin, the fingertips of one extended hand ending mere inches from Sam’s own shoe.

  The book was called A Thinly Cast Shadow.

  The author was Sebastian Cole.

  And the moment Sam read the first paragraph, sitting in the cab of his father’s Dodge pickup truck, his pocket fifty cents lighter, he knew this book was worth a thousand throwing stars. Every word was a thing to be chased, and chase them he did, away from the memory of the fire, away from the unspeakable solutions to his pain that no child should consider, and eventually away from the tiny town of Blantonville, in search of better things. He chased Sebastian Cole’s words for the next three decades as he first mimicked, then rejected, and finally honored the author with his own stories.

  Sebastian Cole was the single greatest influence on Sam’s artistic life. He was the savior of his actual life. And now the man was walking toward him, pulling Sam back to the present with each elegant step.

  “It appears Mr. Wainwright has decided to throw a party.”

  Cole’s words reverberated through the darkness, the sound of a rosined bow being drawn over the strings of a perfectly tuned instrument.

  This is the voice you hear right before you’re born, Sam thought. The voice that says, “Fight the good fight,” before you are thrust into the unforgiving world.

  “I’m—”

  “We know who you are,” Sam said, immediately hating himself for being so dramatically reverent.

  You sound like a goddamn fanboy, his mind scolded.

  Daniel Slaughter apparently did not share Sam’s fear. He eagerly thrust out a chubby paw that seemed to devour Cole’s frail hand.

  “Mr. Cole, what an honor. I am such a fan of your work. Everything you’ve written is a classic.”

  Sam may have imagined it, but he thought he glimpsed the hint of a grimace tugging at the corners of the old man’s lips.

  “Yes, well, thank you,” Sebastian said.

  A shadow was slipping up behind him, slow and catlike. The shadow passed into the edge of a spotlight, and Sam found himself staring into the ruptured pupil of T.C. Moore.

  “I thought you were leaving,” he said.

  “I was.” She nodded to the old
man. “But then things got interesting.”

  As if on cue, a flash of light exploded above them, a brilliant white beam cutting through the darkness. It collided with a large white screen, up to this point lost in the shadows, and the four authors watched in shocked silence as the blurred image of a man’s face appeared.

  Slowly, and in absolute silence, the face came into focus.

  Thick, swooping hair. Brownish-purple eyes. Flesh like clay.

  “Welcome,” the image of Wainwright said, the sound of his impossibly deep voice booming from speakers hidden somewhere in the dark. “By now you all know the truth: you are not alone.”

  Slaughter glanced excitedly at the others. They did not return his enthusiasm.

  Wainwright continued, “I hope you’ll forgive my deception, but I felt it was the only way to make this dream come true: four of the most influential horror writers of the last fifty years, together for the first time in one room. You’ve each had a profound impact on my life, from having the piss scared out of me in middle school by Daniel Slaughter . . . to discovering in college the elegant, refined terror of Sebastian Cole . . . to peeling back the dark curtain of small-town America as I devoured the novels of Sam McGarver . . . and finally somehow loving every second of having my soul ripped out through my goddamn ass by T.C. Moore.”

  Sebastian gave an amused snort. Moore scowled, assuming Wainwright meant some form of disrespect, but when Sebastian smiled warmly at her, even the famously prickly Moore softened.

  A screech jolted the entire group. On the screen, a series of flash frames shot past so quickly, it was nearly impossible to glean any necessary information.

  They saw a house. Trees. The swaying tops of overgrown grass.

  And then Wainwright’s face was back, peering out at them from the shadows.

  “I love horror. There’s something about letting another person lead you into darkness that is both unbearably terrifying and exquisitely thrilling. And I have trusted each of you to lead me into that darkness . . .”

  Another shriek, like a nail being pried from its decades-long grave in a plank of stubborn wood. The images flashed by even faster this time:

  A house. Vines creeping over a closed door. The branches of a tree. White clouds in a blue sky. A window under a gabled roof.

  When Wainwright returned, he was farther from the camera, standing in a field of tallgrass. The bushy tips swayed in the breeze.

  “. . . and now I hope you will trust me to lead you.”

  There was the angry pop of electricity, and the screen went black.

  One by one, each spotlight followed suit, snapping off and leaving the stacks of books—books written by Sam, by Moore, by Slaughter, by Cole—to be devoured by shadows.

  The four writers stood in confused silence, there in the dark.

  “Seriously,” Moore finally whispered, “what the shit is this all about?”

  “It’s a show,” Sam said. “His show. It’s what he does.”

  Without warning, the spotlights popped back on, then off, then on again individually, flashing in a seemingly random sequence, faster and faster as if an angry spirit had taken control of the power to the building. The strobing effect gave the whole thing the appearance of a light show at a rock concert.

  There was a beat accompanying the lights, a steady thump that grew louder, drums swirling around them in an invisible aural cyclone until—

  The shock and awe was complete.

  The entire room was illuminated from above. There at the far end of the conference table was Wainwright, in the flesh, standing casually with his hands in his pockets.

  He looked even younger in the company of his heroes, his excitement barely contained. Dressed in a jet-black suit over a white linen shirt unbuttoned to the base of his sternum, hair teased into a wild nest of unwashed curls, his face shaved smooth, he didn’t appear a day over twenty-five.

  “You’re all still here,” he said. Even without the aid of a PA system, his deep voice filled the large room. “Then let me tell you about our next step into darkness.”

  Moore ran her tongue over the bottom of her front teeth, stopping on the slightest hint of a chip. “Cut the crap. What are we really doing here?”

  Wainwright smiled. He had been waiting for someone to ask that very question.

  “Who wants to spend the night in a haunted house?”

  EIGHT

  MOORE HAD JOINED the others in taking a seat in one of several chairs around the table when she heard the sound of footsteps.

  A young African American woman had entered the room. She was in her late twenties, tall and thin in a white tank top, black bra, and camouflage cargo pants. Her hair was a beautiful, lush bed of natural curls, her cheeks glowing at the ends of a warm smile. Dangling at her side by a long shoulder strap was a high-end digital SLR camera. In each hand, she carried two copies of a paperback book.

  She introduced herself as Kate—just Kate—in an undeniably Southern accent, the full-mouthed twang of a Georgia upbringing. She set a copy of the book down in front of each of the writers.

  Moore turned her copy so that it was perfectly perpendicular to her.

  I remember this book. From when I was a kid, she thought.

  The cover was tattered at the edges, the pages dry and slightly yellow. On the cover was the faded image of a field, not unlike the one Wainwright had stood in during his grotesquely theatrical introduction. Across the field, just off-center, was the dark shape of a house. A single window glowed brightly from the third story.

  Written in an embossed, self-consciously creepy font popular among similar horror paperbacks from the 1980s was the title: Phantoms of the Prairie: A True Story of Supernatural Terror. And at the bottom of the cover, the author’s name: Dr. Malcolm Adudel.

  Kate took a seat next to Wainwright, the edge of her elbow brushing his.

  Moore watched them all as they turned the books over in their hands.

  “What is this?” Slaughter asked with genuine interest.

  Wainwright smiled. “Our tour guide. Have any of you read it?”

  “When it was published,” Sebastian said in his elegant, measured way. “It was just as I suspected: a hastily written money grab, a trashy piece of hokum.”

  “Yeah, that’s what most educated people think.” Wainwright held up his own copy of the book, a well-used paperback, and flipped through its brittle pages. “But back in the day, there were plenty of people who believed it, enough to put it on the nonfiction bestseller list. In this part of the country, the house on Kill Creek is still a local legend, as Sam can attest.”

  Moore looked to Sam, who nodded. “It’s just a campfire story told by teenagers.”

  “Wait, I remember this place,” Daniel said, turning the book over in his hands as if he’d just been handed an ancient artifact of great value. “This was huge—”

  “For, like, a minute,” Kate added.

  Moore rolled her eyes. A minute. We get it. You’re a kid. You won’t be forever.

  Daniel nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, this was the house where those two creepy women lived—”

  “The Finch sisters,” Wainwright said.

  “That’s it. No one’s been able to live in that place since it was built. When people move in, the house just, like, comes alive!” He tapped the cover of Phantoms of the Prairie. “It’s all in the book. I remember it now. Didn’t they make a movie out of this?”

  “They were going to,” Wainwright informed them. “Never happened.”

  Moore crossed her arms and leaned back in her chair, eyes narrowing as she studied the young internet tycoon at the head of the table. “So what does the Kill Creek house have to do with us?”

  Wainwright met her gaze. He did not shrink under her scrutiny. “Every October, WrightWire does something huge for Halloween. But this year, nothing we came up with felt right. Our ideas were either too obvious, things anyone would think to do, or they were too cheap, lacking the . . . well, the indie cred that Wr
ightWire has become known for. WrightWire is a genre site, right? But it’s also a pop culture site; that’s how we think of it. What separates us from similar sites and magazines is that we focus as much on the culture as we do on the pop. If something’s already mainstream, I want to come at it from another, completely unexpected angle. If something has been forgotten or overlooked, I want it to be a household name.

  “So our big stunts sort of need to exist in two spaces: they need a big, loud, trashy component that is strangely complemented by an air of respectability, usually in the form of an artist or artists who are so inarguably great that they elevate the trashy hook, creating something . . . profound.”

  Wainwright was flushed with life. When Moore had first seen him, she thought the young man appeared as if he were made of rubber, as if the person standing before them were wearing a Wainwright mask, his true identity hidden. But the more Wainwright spoke about his passions, the more that rubbery flesh came alive.

  “And then one day an image appeared in my mind, of an old, dark house on Halloween night. A haunted house. Everyone loves a haunted house. It’s timeless. That’s the pop. Then I needed the culture. That’s the four of you.”

  “While I respect your ingenuity, this is not what I signed up for,” Sebastian said.

  Wainwright glanced over at Kate, who gave him a supportive smile.

  The brief exchange did not escape Moore. They’re together, she thought, filing the detail away for future use.

  From a leather satchel on the floor by his chair, Wainwright took out a thick stack of papers and set them on the table.

  “This here is the document you or your representatives signed. By doing so, you all agreed to a two-day interview for WrightWire. I promised your travel, meals, and accommodations would be covered. But I didn’t say where that interview would take place, or if there would be others involved. You all assumed you were the only ones taking part in it and that the interview would be in a more, uh, normal venue.”

  “You tricked us,” Sam said. There was no anger in his voice. It was a statement of fact, plain and simple.