Ghostwriter Read online

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2009 by Travis Thrasher

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  FaithWords

  Hachette Book Group

  237 Park Avenue

  New York, NY 10017

  Visit our website at www.HachetteBookGroup.com

  First eBook Edition: May 2009

  FaithWords is a division of Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  The FaithWords name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  ISBN: 978-0-446-55079-6

  Contents

  Copyright Page

  Part One: The Lunatic Is on the Grass

  November 2008

  The Warning

  2002

  The Stranger

  2003

  Discoveries in the Dark

  2004

  Scared

  2005

  Breathe

  2005

  The Blood-Smeared Note

  2005

  Threats in the Dark

  2006

  Malicious and Deliberate

  2006

  The Tastes and Smells of Death

  Part Two: The Lunatic Is in the Hall

  Scarecrow

  2006

  Echoes

  2006

  The Gift

  2006

  Marooned

  2007

  Tasting Blood

  2008

  The Truth

  2008

  Pain and Suffering

  Part Three: The Lunatic Is in My Head

  October 24, 2009

  Hiding

  October 25, 2009

  The Picture

  October 26, 2009

  Shadows in the Darkness

  October 27, 2009

  Fearless & Run Like Hell

  October 28, 2009

  Ghosts Can’t Hurt

  October 29, 2009

  The Thin Ice

  October 30, 2009

  Wife and Mother

  12:05 Halloween Morning

  Too Late

  1:12 a.m. Halloween

  Part Four: All You Create All You Destroy

  Control

  2:47 a.m. Halloween

  Sorrow

  3:05 a.m. Halloween

  Empty Spaces

  4:45 a.m. Halloween

  Us and Them

  5 a.m. Halloween

  Grim and Unrepentand

  Part Five: All That’s to Come

  Coming Back to Life

  Belief

  High Hopes

  A Note from the Author

  About the Author

  A Conversation with Travis Thrasher

  THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED TO MY UNCLE,

  CHRISTOPHER BREAZEALE,

  who died at the age of thirty-six.

  His spirit, and his stories, live on.

  Dennis Shore Bibliography

  That California Trip (1997)*

  The Glorious Trade (1999)*

  Breathe (2000)

  Echoes (2001)

  Marooned (2002)

  Sorrow (2003)

  Run Like Hell (2004)

  Fearless (2005)

  Scarecrow (2006)

  Us and Them (2007)

  The Thin Ice (2008)

  Empty Spaces (2009)

  *Book out of print

  Part One

  The Lunatic Is on the Grass

  November 2008

  On his knees, Dennis Shore cries out.

  But it does no good, and it never will.

  “Say something.”

  But nothing is said.

  The wind beats at him, the field flat and endless, the ground lifeless. The dark heart of the sun fades, and with it, so does hope.

  A curse tears out of his mouth.

  He shakes and tightens his body and glares at the sky. The words bleed in his mouth, fiery and tingling.

  He curses again, louder, as if his words are not heard.

  And then he takes the lighter and flicks it. Once. Twice. Again and again until it finally ignites.

  He watches the photograph burn, wrinkling and glowing until it slowly wisps away to nothingness.

  Just like Lucy did.

  And just like he will.

  The Warning

  (Ten Months Later)

  1.

  Terror should start in the dead of night, with rain trickling off the rooftops and thunder bellowing in the sky. But for Dennis Shore, it began with the simple ringing of his doorbell.

  It was midmorning, already warm and looking to be clear and hot all day. Two weeks ago, he had gotten back from driving his daughter cross-country to college in California. Despite having the house all to himself now, the old routine remained the same: getting up, taking a walk along the river, coming home to the aroma of coffee, and heading up to his office on the second floor of the hundred-year-old Victorian mansion. Yet even though the routine was the same, nothing about it felt as it had in his former life. His life when Lucy was around, when she could take the walk with him and make the coffee for him and interrupt his writing when she needed to. When she was alive. The anniversary of her passing approached, and Dennis found that nothing was the same without her. Including his writing.

  His morning commute consisted of climbing the stairs to the room two doors down from their bedroom, overlooking the lawn and the Fox River below. For many years now, he had spent his mornings in this room, facing the computer screen, clacking away at the keyboard, staring through the blinds at the trees and the river, letting his imagination roam free. That imagination had been very good to him. It had been very good to his family. But ever since learning about Lucy’s cancer, it had virtually disappeared.

  Now he found himself going through the motions, like a businessman shuffling papers all day long without ever really doing any work. Instead of arriving at his desk a little after eight each morning, Dennis found himself dropping into his expensive leather chair around nine or nine thirty. He might surf the Internet and check out the national news and see what movies were coming up and spend a thousand other minutes wandering in a thousand other spaces. He spent a lot of time on e-mail, something he had neglected when Lucy and Audrey were around. At least there was some pleasure in knowing how surprised his fans were to receive a personal e-mail from their favorite author.

  On this particular morning, the Tuesday after Labor Day, he was watching yet another political satire on YouTube when the doorbell rang. The ring always sounded wrong to him, like it was ringing in an old church rather than a suburban home. Certain things about this house would always be old, even if he replaced them. Maybe it was the acoustics or just his imagination (the small bit that remained), but the doorbell seemed to echo a bit too long.

  Dennis used to hate interruptions during his writing, especially when he was in midthought or midsentence. But now these interruptions were almost welcomed. Climbing down the creaking wooden stairs, Dennis opened the door.

  And for the first few seconds as he stood at the entryway, he was sure his eyes were playing a trick on him. Or he was dreaming. That’s right. He was dreaming, and he would wake up soon.

  But he knew that wasn’t right. He felt the sunlight on his bare arms and smelled autumn in the air, and he knew he wasn’t dreaming because he hadn’t dreamt since Lucy passed.

  Dennis st
ood at the door, staring at a tall skinny girl who was white as a ghost. Her black eyes and raven hair were the two things that stood out: eyes that didn’t blink, that didn’t move, that looked dead; and long, stringy hair that fell all the way to her waist.

  As he noticed the hair, he noticed something else.

  Both of her hands shook. And on each of her arms, just below the sleeves of her short-sleeved shirt, brownish-purple bruises stood out like grotesque tattoos.

  Before Dennis could say anything, she made a simple declaration: “The book cannot come out.”

  But even though he stood there startled and speechless, Dennis knew exactly what she was talking about.

  He had wondered when this day might come.

  2.

  Dennis wanted to say something—what exactly, he wasn’t sure—as he glanced out toward the lawn, freshly cut from yesterday. Nobody was around—no television crew or joking friends or anybody capable of explaining what was going on. Finally he reached out and touched the girl’s shoulder.

  She winced in pain, her pale ghostly face grimacing. He stared once again at the bruises evenly placed along her arms. He wondered how they got there.

  “Are you okay?” he asked as his eyes watched her trembling body. “What’re you doing here?”

  “You’re Dennis Shore, right?” Her voice sounded hoarse, as though from screaming.

  He hesitated to answer the question, thinking back to the incident with the fan a few years ago. “What do you want?”

  “Answer the question. Are you Dennis Shore?” “Yes.”

  The eyes remained lifeless, unmoved.

  “You’re in a lot of trouble.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about someone who wants to hurt you the way he hurt me. And I don’t think he’ll be as gentle with you as he was with me.”

  Something in her voice was off. Her angry eyes and almost fearful trembling body contradicted each other.

  “Who are you talking about?”

  “I was hoping you’d tell me. I was hoping you could tell me who did this to me.”

  “Who did what?”

  She dropped to her knees and began crying. Crying and cursing. Dennis knelt over and touched her back. She pulled away at his touch.

  “Can I get someone—”

  “Don’t you call a soul. Don’t call anybody. I swear on my life—don’t call anybody.”

  “What’s your name? Are you cold?”

  “Of course I’m not cold,” she said.

  “You’re shivering.”

  “I’ve come to warn you, Dennis.”

  “Warn me about what?”

  “Are you going to let me in or make me stay on your doorstep so the neighbors can watch?”

  Dennis couldn’t help looking around again, knowing nobody else was there. Then he stepped away and let the gaunt girl walk past and into the house.

  She didn’t ask whether she could sit on the couch in his living room. She sat at the edge, her arms still trembling. Dennis noticed her bony ankles, so frail they looked like they could snap any second.

  “Do you need help?”

  “You’re a writer, right?” she asked him.

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t worry, I’m not a deranged fan. I haven’t read any of your books. But he has.”

  “Who?”

  “The guy who did this. The guy who did this to me. The guy I can’t get out of me.”

  She wrapped her arms around her legs as though trying to make herself into a ball, as though she was trying to hide.

  “He just kept saying the same thing over and over.”

  “What’s your name?” Dennis asked. “Please—are you okay?”

  “If it starts it will be impossible to stop,” she said, her voice throaty, grainy.

  “If what starts?”

  “That’s what he kept saying to me over and over again. If it starts it will be impossible to stop.”

  His eyes found the purple bruises.

  “That’s nothing. You should’ve seen what else he did. You should see my back. And my stomach.”

  “Who did this to you?”

  “I haven’t even read anything by you. I just lied and told him I had. Not even to be cool, you know. Just to say I had. I think I saw a movie or two. I don’t know.”

  “I’m sorry but I don’t understand—”

  “Yeah well, I don’t understand either, Mr. Shore. I go to a bar the other night and meet this interesting guy who buys me all these drinks, and one thing leads to another and then the guy starts beating me. Not in the face. But in other places. And he does other things. And he’s angry. This guy is the angriest guy I’ve ever met. But he’s also just—I don’t know. Crazy. And he keeps talking about you. About Dennis Shore this and that. All while he’s hurting me.”

  “Look, we need to call the police.”

  “No.”

  “If you’ll just settle down for a moment, I’ll—”

  “You settle down. You don’t get it. You have to stop it now. The book can’t be published.”

  “What book?”

  “Empty Spaces.”

  “It’s not out yet.”

  “I know that. I’m trying to tell you it can’t be published because if it is you’ll suffer.”

  Her words made sense, but the way she was speaking them and this entire scene made none at all.

  “Just listen—okay? Just tell me your name, and I’ll make sure—”

  Suddenly a scream tore from the girl, startling Dennis so that he stepped back and almost tripped over an armchair.

  “I know why I am here, Dennis. Do you?”

  A vein lined her forehead, her lips pouty and full.

  “I live here. And it’s okay, I’m going to get you some help—”

  Once again she howled. “Do not mock me.”

  “I’m not mocking you.”

  “I know all about you.”

  He nodded.

  “I know all about you, Dennis, and you need to stop that book from being published.”

  “Okay, sure. Why don’t we just settle down and talk about this?”

  “There is nothing to talk about. Not anymore. Not now. Not after what you’ve done.”

  “What’s your name?” Dennis asked, inches away from her but not touching her.

  “It’s Samantha. And I know.”

  “Good. You know. That’s good.”

  She shook her head, her eyes narrowing. “Don’t patronize me, Dennis. I know things. This guy—this monster. He told me. He told me right before…”

  “Right before what?”

  “Right before he took from me. Right before he took something that didn’t belong to him. Right before he hurt me.”

  Dennis looked into her dark, probing eyes.

  “The same way you took from him.”

  He didn’t breathe. He didn’t move. He just stared at her, the white skin and the dark eyes and the twitching body.

  Samantha rubbed her hands as though she were cold even though the room was warm. With a glance that didn’t waver, eyes that didn’t blink, she spoke clearly.

  “You’ve done something, and I don’t know if he wanted me to warn you or not. You need to understand—you’ve done something and you need to be careful.”

  “Careful about what?”

  “This man wants to hurt you. And it’s all because… Plain and simple, the book cannot come out. It can’t be released. Ever.”

  3.

  Dennis wanted to back up and retrace the moments from waking up. Was it something in the coffee? Perhaps a full moon approaching? Was he still in bed having a long, drawn-out nightmare that he would from?

  Nothing explained the girl sitting across from him.

  Yet even though he had a hundred questions, Dennis didn’t want to talk about his next book.

  He wanted to change the subject.

  Permanently.

  “Where are you from?”

  “
Does it matter?” she asked.

  “I just—if you have family—”

  “My family’s all from downstate. I’ve been living in Chicago since college. For the last few years.”

  Dennis couldn’t help sighing, feeling uncomfortable and unsure what to do.

  “I’m not mad.”

  “Excuse me?” Dennis asked.

  “I’m not crazy. I know—I heard about it just like everybody else. The girl who broke into your house a few years ago. Said she was your biggest fan. Went all Kathy Bates on you? I know. I’m not that person. Like I said, I’ve never read anything by you.”

  “Okay.”

  “Plus, I even rang the doorbell.”

  “And you came here to warn me?”

  She licked her dry, cracking lips. “How many times do I need to tell you?”

  “But I don’t understand.”

  “I hoped you could give me a little more information on the guy who raped me.”

  He stared at her as her eyes bored into his soul.

  “That’s right. I said it. And as much as I’ve tried, I can’t get the stench of him off me.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “A couple weeks ago.”

  “Did you report it?”

  “Of course not. I don’t even know who the guy is. What his name is. Nothing. I was hoping you could tell me.”

  “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

  He felt something inside of him ache. He guessed her to be around the same age as his daughter. He wanted to put an arm around her, to call the authorities, to rush her to the hospital, to do something. But he doubted she would let him do a thing.

  “You don’t have any crazy relatives? Any crazed fans that have been terrorizing you lately? Nothing?”

  Dennis shook his head.

  “He acted like—when he was hurting me, he kept saying your name over and over again.”

  “Are you—do you need anything?”

  “Oh sure. Maybe the last five years of my life back. Then I wouldn’t be at the wrong place with the wrong people, and I wouldn’t happen to meet the wrong guy. I always meet the wrong guy but this—this was different. He was different.”

  “Samantha—look…”

  “No no no,” she said. “I didn’t come here for sympathy. I came here to tell you. Some crazy guy has a thing for you. And he said the next book couldn’t come out. So there, I told you. And that’s it.”