McQueen slugged at his drink, his thoughts on Duncan Allen.
The kid was talented. Better than him in many ways.
McQueen periodically hired ghostwriters like Allen to do work for him here and there. While prolific, he occasionally found himself with a backlog of work. Usually it was when he was struggling to adapt one of his novels to screenplay form. Kids like Duncan Allen would do the bulk of the work for a flat fee. Afterward McQueen would go over their work, remaking it in the unmistakable Stewart McQueen style. Other successful writers enjoyed the thrill of helping out an up-and-comer. Usually because it helped them to remember what it was like when they were starting out. McQueen liked to keep them around as personal punching bags.
Through the years there had been several others like Allen. After he recovered from this devastating meeting-if he recovered-Duncan Allen would eventually want what they all wanted. To become a big enough success to rub it in McQueen's ferret face. But that wasn't possible for one simple reason: there was no one bigger than Stewart McQueen.
Until lately McQueen had always reveled in the fact that none of his proteges would ever surpass him. But thanks to a creative knot in his brain, he was no longer sure.
"Block, Bernie!" he had recently snapped at his New York agent. "I've got writer's block! I used to be able to pull an eight-hundred-page book out of my ass every two weeks. Now I'm lucky if I can write my return address on the gas bill."
"You can't be blocked," his agent had insisted. "You're Stewart McQueen. You've got whole sections of bookstores devoted to your work. You even used to have to write under pseudonyms so you wouldn't water down the market on your own stuff."
"I know that," McQueen had snarled. "Don't you think I know that? But that doesn't change the fact that I haven't been able to write a goddamn thing since the accident."
His agent considered for a long moment, studying the dusty corners of the living room in McQueen's creepy Maine mansion. "How about the devil?" he asked abruptly. "You could do something with the devil. You know, spooky."
"Like what?" McQueen asked sarcastically.
"Oh, I don't know. Maybe-maybe he could come to this small New England town, see? Like yours. Only the people there don't know he's the devil at first, even though they should because of all the dead dolphins on the shore."
"Dolphins?"
"Yeah. They've all been beaching themselves, see? And they have this mark on them. It's 666. Only no one knows that it's the mark of the devil, see, because it's in a different kind of numbering system like from a long time ago. Like ancient Egyptian or something. Only the sheriff in the town figures it out, because his daughter's back from college and she's studying ancient Egyptian numbers in school and she leaves her book open on the table. Oh, and his wife is dead, but she might not be because she disappeared under mysterious circumstances that still haunt the sheriff to this day, and before she vanished she had an affair with the devil and his daughter might be the devil's own actual kid. Or maybe his son is, and that's why he's hanging around with these weird kids who dress all in black." His agent seemed pleased with the strength of his own story. "That's good," he said. "Why don't you do something like that?"
McQueen gave him a withering glare. "A couple of reasons. First off, it's crap."
"Oh," his agent said, disappointed. "Really?"
"Second," McQueen continued, "it's been done a million times before. Mostly by me."
"Yes, but with dolphins?" his agent questioned. McQueen didn't even bother to reply. He merely got up and limped from the room.
He was slouched for ten minutes in his favorite chair in his study when his agent stuck his head around the door.
"I'll call you," Bernie promised. "In the meantime do me a favor. Think devil dolphins."
McQueen said nothing.
True to his word, Bernie tried to call. On a number of occasions and for many weeks. McQueen let the machine answer. Eventually, Bernie stopped trying.
Deadlines came and went. Stewart McQueen no longer cared. He simply sat in his study, staring at the bookshelves that lined all four walls.
The broad shelves rose from floor to ceiling. All were packed with novels he had written in his thirty-year career. And, if his current streak continued; they would never be joined by another Stewart McQueen novel.
McQueen sat his Fresca can on an end table. With a heavy sigh he picked up the TV remote control. When he flicked it on, eerie shadows from the television twirled in the dark corners of the big room. Since it was the Halloween season, he wasn't surprised to find three movies based on his books playing on various cable stations. Scowling in the bristles of his tidy little beard, he switched over to the news.
An anchorman who looked as if he'd graduated journalism school with a major in TelePrompter and a minor in mousse was grinning at his plastic-haired coanchor. The woman looked as if she'd come to the anchor desk straight from the top of a cheerleader pyramid.
"...and here's a spooky item out of Florida," the male anchor was saying. "Maura?"
"That's right, Brad," the woman said. "It seems Halloween has come a week early this year, at least for some residents of Florida. But this is no trick-or-treating matter. The goblin who's showing up on certain doorsteps in the Sunshine State is looking for more than just candy."
McQueen was ready to change the channel back to one of his movies when the program shifted to a reporter on the scene in Florida. The somber-voiced man was holding out a piece of paper on which was sketched a spider.
"This is not a young child in a Pokemon costume, Maura and Brad," the field reporter said seriously "This is a drawing made from eyewitnesses of the creature that has struck fear into the hearts of many, and has caused Halloween festivities to be canceled in more than a dozen central Florida communities." McQueen eased up more straightly in his chair.
As the story unfolded, he couldn't believe his ears.
Apparently, people were saying that a monster was running around loose in Florida, and no one had bothered to tell Stewart McQueen about it.
With a sudden burst of energy, McQueen pushed himself out of his chair. He quickly hobbled over to a long table near his desk.
For the past few weeks he had piled the newspapers there as they arrived. He just didn't have the energy to go through them. Sitting, he quickly thumbed through the stack of papers. He found a dozen small stories about the strange events in Florida.
It was true. There was something down there. Stewart McQueen was beginning to get an old tingle in his gut. It was a feeling he hadn't experienced since before the accident.
He pushed himself cautiously to his feet. Head upturned like a rubbernecking tourist, he scanned the bookshelves all around. He went from high up in the right-hand corner behind his desk, where his earliest books were shelved, all the way down to the baseboard near the door, where his most-recent novels sat like patient little soldiers.
All his books. All the words contained between their covers had been squeezed from his brain. Stewart McQueen smiled at his old friends. "Make room, boys," he announced. "You're about to get some company."
Turning carefully so as not to tweak his injured leg, the most famous horror novelist ever to put pen to paper hobbled rapidly out of his study.
Chapter 11
"There is no such thing as the bogeyman," Martin Riley insisted.
"But Sherry says there is," Janey Riley argued. Martin's five-year-old daughter nodded with certainty as she scooped up a heaping spoonful of Cap' n Crunch.
"Sherry's wrong, hon," Martin said. He was late leaving and didn't need this as he wolfed down his oatmeal.
Janey wasn't convinced by her father's words. "I don't know. I'll have to check with Sherry." She didn't even look at Martin as she spoke. Her little mind was already made up.
He knew what would happen now. Thanks to that know-it-all in his daughter's play group, Martin would have to spend another evening crawling around on Janey's bedroom floor, checking under bed and behind bureau. The nightly bedtime ritual was only getting worse as Halloween approached.
"Listen, honey," he said, getting up from the breakfast table, "I swear to you, no matter what Sherry says, there is no such thing as the bogeyman."
"You shouldn't swear, Daddy," Janey said as he kissed her on the top of the head.
Dumping his bowl in the sink, he gave his wife a quick peck on the cheek. She was busy emptying the dishwasher.
"You can look under her bed tonight," he said as he turned for the door.
"She won't let me do it," Sue Riley replied as she stacked dinner plates into the cupboard.
"Great," Martin muttered. "Like my knees aren't bad enough as it is. I'm late. See you tonight."