Pete wasnt sitting up because he was alive. He was being held by the brown hag on the floor behind him. Its withered legs were crossed around his waist. Its arms hugged his chest. Its mouth sucked and chewed on the exit wound at the back of his head.
Larry yelled and woke up.
He was alone in bed. The room was dark. Rolling onto his side, he checked the alarm clock: 4:50. He groaned as he realized this was Saturday morning and hed been in bed less than an hour.
He remembered what they had done.
God, if only the whole thing had been a nightmare. What if I only dreamedthat we went out there.
He knew it was too much to hope for.
Theyd done it, all right.
At least I didnt shoot Pete, he thought. Thank God thatwas just in the nightmare.
He climbed out of bed. Naked, sweaty, and shaking, he stepped to the window. The moon hung low over the roof of the garage.
He didnt want to think about what was inside the garage.
Weve gotta call this off, he told himself.
Weve gotta take it back, put it back under the staircase.
He wondered if he could do it by himself.
No. Alone, he wouldnt be able to face the thing, much less drive it out to Sagebrush Flat and drag it into that damn hotel.
He returned to the bed, sat down on the edge of the mattress, slumped forward and rubbed his face. He felt wasted. He needed sleep. A lot of sleep. But he knew the kind of dream that waited for him.
Never shouldve done it, he thought. Never shouldve.
He wandered into the bathroom, turned on the shower and stepped under the hot spray. The water felt wonderful splashing against his chilled body. It soothed his shivers, eased the tightness of his muscles. But it didnt help the fog in his head. His mind seemed numb.
Wont be able to write today, he thought. Not unless I get some sleep.
Work on correcting the manuscript?
Thats why you didnt go with Jean and Lane.
God, he wished he had gone with them. None of this wouldve happened.
He saw himself in the hotel again, aiming the revolver at Pete.
Hell, I wouldnt have shot him.
But even to aim at him...
That was the worst part. That was even worse than the damn corpse in his garage.
Just have to live with it, he told himself. It happened, you cant make it go away.
The thing is to do the book for him. Even if it doesnt hit the big-time like he hopes, it ought to sell. Give him a chunk, hell be happy. Hell figure it was worth having a gun pointed at him. Then maybe I can stop feeling guilty.
So write the book.
Larry shut off the shower, stepped out of the tub and dried himself. He made his way sluggishly into the bedroom. He took a sweatsuit and socks from his dresser, dropped onto the bed and struggled into the soft shirt and pants.
Write the book, he thought. But not today. Too wasted.
In the kitchen he made a pot of coffee. He carried his mug into the living room, settled down in his recliner and started to read. His eyes moved over the lines of the paperback. But the words seemed disconnected, meaningless.
One hour of sleep, he thought. What do you expect?
He closed the book. He gazed into space while he sipped his coffee.
Cant just sit here like a zombie.
Work on Madhouse, he thought. Should be capable of that, just going through and changing it back to the way it was in the first place.
He pushed himself off the chair, picked up his empty mug and headed for the kitchen.
Damn copyeditor. Hadnt been for her, Id be in L.A. right now. Wouldnt have gone out to that damn town. None of this shit wouldve happened.
He filled his mug with coffee, carried it into his work room and gazed at the manuscript. He sighed. The chore seemed too great.
Maybe make some notes for The Boxfirst. Work something in about the guys going out to bring it home, stumbling across the campfire... the coyote eater... what if hes a guy whos connected to the past somehow? Could be a character in the sixties section. One of the bikers? Hes stuck around for some reason, mad as a hatter, living off the land.
Maybe a dumb idea, he thought. Whos in any shape to judge? Might as well put it down, though. Decide later whether its worth pursuing.
He turned on the word processor and brought up the notes hed made yesterday. He scrolled down to the last entry. But maybe there are some other box angles. Fool around with it.
A coffin is a box. Theres an angle for you.
He typed, Notes Saturday, October 8.
Spaced down, tapped out, Guys go to fetch jukebox. In ditch nearby, they find campfire and disgusting remains of a coyote someone had eaten for dinner. Who? A crazy hermit who was the main badass biker in the sixties section. Hes still around after all those years.
Who reallyate the coyote? he wondered. What if its the same guy who fixed the hotel landing and straightened the blanket on the stiff?
What if he was watching us?
What if he followed us?
Larry downspaced a couple of times.
Somebody, he wrote, hammered a pointed shaft of wood through the heart of a woman. He left her inside a lidless coffin, and hid her corpse beneath the stairway of an abandoned hotel in the town of Sagebrush Flat.
We found it there.
My name is Lawrence Dunbar. I am a writer of horror fiction. This book is not fiction. You may judge for yourself whether it is horror.
This is what happened.
On Sunday, October 2, we left our home in Mulehead Bend for a day trip to visit an old west town in the desert to the west. The morning was clear and warm as we started off. Pete drove his van. I rode shotgun. Our wives poured coffee from a thermos bottle, passed the plastic cups to us, and gave us first dibs at the assortment of doughnuts Id bought earlier that morning.
Not bad for a space cadet, he thought.
And kept writing.
It flowed. He finished his coffee. He fired up his pipe. The words came so easily. As if a voice were speaking in his head and he merely had to copy the dictation.
He introduced Jean and Pete and Barbara. He described the beauty and desolation of the desert they drove through on the way to Silver Junction. He told about the old west town: the quaint shops theyd visited, the characters in cowboy garb, the gunfight staged on Main Street, their sandwiches and beer in the saloon. Finally they were ready to leave the picturesque town. They climbed into the van. Pete said, How about a little detour on the way home?
Larry returned to the start. He numbered the pages, then shook his head in astonishment. Hed written fifteen. He couldnt believe it. He looked at the wall clock. Eight-thirty. Hed been working for nearly three hours. Thats about five pages per hour, he realized. Usually, he averaged two.
I should always write when Im zoned, he thought.
Maybe its garbage.
He read the chapter. Sure didnt seemlike garbage. It seemed as good as anything hed ever done. Maybe better. He felt as if he had transformed the somewhat mundane visit to Silver Junction into a sharp, colorful portrait, rich with incident, fast-paced.
The characters lived. Perhaps too well, in the case of Barbara. Her presence dominated the chapter.
Thats as it should be, he told himself. Barbara is certainly a major figure in this tale.
But he worried that his infatuation with her might be too apparent. Alter all, Jean would eventually read the book. So would Barbara. Even Pete, the nonreader, was certain to plow through this one.
Cant let them get the wrong idea.
Better be careful, he warned himself. Watch out when you revise. Take out anything too suggestive.
Though eager to continue, Larry felt hot. He pulled off his sweatshirt and stretched, sighing with pleasure as his muscles drew taut and a warm breeze caressed his skin. He stood up, stretched some more, then went into the bathroom. He rolled deodorant onto his armpits. He urinated. Then he entered the bedroom and tossed his sweat clothes onto a chair. He put on shorts and a T-shirt. The loose, lightweight garments let the air in. Feeling a lot better, he headed for the kitchen.