the blank page, his mind flailing about for literary inspiration. What he needed to do—damn it—was come up with an idea . Most of what he’d read was horror, so he might as well start there. Problem was, all the good ideas were taken. That fucking Stephen King had used up half the ideas himself.
Paul liked all kinds of stuff, so maybe it was best to eliminate the plots that had been done to death, the storylines that made him roll his eyes they were so familiar.
Take vampires.
There were some great vampire novels out there, but there were stinkers as well. Many that were supposedly great he just found boring. Anyway, what was the use in covering the same ground?
Werewolves were old hat, too. Same with zombies, cannibals, ghost stories, demons, serial killers and flesh-eating cockroaches.
So what did that leave?
He stared at the blank sheet of paper, willing words to appear. Its bland white face gazed back at him as if he’d already bored the shit out of it. A good first line was all he needed. Come up with that, he’d be home free.
He sniffed, face scrunching.
The den smelled like fungus. That semeny, curdled salt smell he associated with the ravine behind his house growing up. He could open another window, but there was a wind today. It would flutter his papers, tickle his hair, generally distract him. What he needed was a change of scenery.
Collecting his pencil and paper, Paul went down the hall to the library.
At the library Julia pretended to go through the late returns, stared at the circulation desk computer.
Wondered what to do about the dead guy in her basement.
Not having slain a man before, she was unsure whether or not she’d done the right thing by leaving his body in the basement. Remembering her Poe, she considered how to get rid of the corpse. Walling him up was out of the question, as was chopping him into pieces and putting him under the floorboards.
The thought came again, for the hundredth time that day: What’s wrong with you?
How, she wondered, could she think like this, examine the different methods of discarding a corpse? Her hands were shaking again. She put them under the desk so no one would see.
She sighed, wishing she’d never met Ted Brand. If she suffered through nightmares until she was eighty, so be it, but dammit, she wouldn’t give up her freedom or her life because of one mistake.
Barlow was smart. He’d be thorough, she knew. It was only a matter of time before he came to question her. She had to focus.
She could bury Brand’s body somewhere, but how to do that and make sure no one would find it? Weren’t there dogs trained to do just that? She imagined a German Shepherd sniffing through the forest, moving unerringly to wherever she’d tried to conceal the corpse.
Of course, there was history between her and Sam Barlow, and that could only help her.
Then again, maybe it wouldn’t.
The thought was enough to tighten the skin around her eyes, set her imagination racing. What if the things he might or might not know made him more suspicious? What if the past came back to bite her?
She was thinking this when Barlow appeared in front of her.
“Hey, Julia,” the sheriff said and leaned over the desk. “How’s life?”
Though she could feel her heart racing, his familiar manner lessened her anxiety a notch.
“Not bad, Mr. Barlow. Just going through the stragglers.” Good, she thought. Her voice had come out even.
“Am I one of them?” he asked, craning his head to look at her monitor. Though he didn’t have a chew in now, she could smell the Red Man on his breath. Like overripe apples. Normally the scent appealed to her, but now it made her feel closed in, like the walls were creeping nearer.
Prison walls.
She cleared her throat. “Well,” she said, scrolling through the list of names, “it doesn’t look like it. You’ve got four more days before your books are due back.”
Barlow smiled. “Good. I’m only done with
Paul liked all kinds of stuff, so maybe it was best to eliminate the plots that had been done to death, the storylines that made him roll his eyes they were so familiar.
Take vampires.
There were some great vampire novels out there, but there were stinkers as well. Many that were supposedly great he just found boring. Anyway, what was the use in covering the same ground?
Werewolves were old hat, too. Same with zombies, cannibals, ghost stories, demons, serial killers and flesh-eating cockroaches.
So what did that leave?
He stared at the blank sheet of paper, willing words to appear. Its bland white face gazed back at him as if he’d already bored the shit out of it. A good first line was all he needed. Come up with that, he’d be home free.
He sniffed, face scrunching.
The den smelled like fungus. That semeny, curdled salt smell he associated with the ravine behind his house growing up. He could open another window, but there was a wind today. It would flutter his papers, tickle his hair, generally distract him. What he needed was a change of scenery.
Collecting his pencil and paper, Paul went down the hall to the library.
At the library Julia pretended to go through the late returns, stared at the circulation desk computer.
Wondered what to do about the dead guy in her basement.
Not having slain a man before, she was unsure whether or not she’d done the right thing by leaving his body in the basement. Remembering her Poe, she considered how to get rid of the corpse. Walling him up was out of the question, as was chopping him into pieces and putting him under the floorboards.
The thought came again, for the hundredth time that day: What’s wrong with you?
How, she wondered, could she think like this, examine the different methods of discarding a corpse? Her hands were shaking again. She put them under the desk so no one would see.
She sighed, wishing she’d never met Ted Brand. If she suffered through nightmares until she was eighty, so be it, but dammit, she wouldn’t give up her freedom or her life because of one mistake.
Barlow was smart. He’d be thorough, she knew. It was only a matter of time before he came to question her. She had to focus.
She could bury Brand’s body somewhere, but how to do that and make sure no one would find it? Weren’t there dogs trained to do just that? She imagined a German Shepherd sniffing through the forest, moving unerringly to wherever she’d tried to conceal the corpse.
Of course, there was history between her and Sam Barlow, and that could only help her.
Then again, maybe it wouldn’t.
The thought was enough to tighten the skin around her eyes, set her imagination racing. What if the things he might or might not know made him more suspicious? What if the past came back to bite her?
She was thinking this when Barlow appeared in front of her.
“Hey, Julia,” the sheriff said and leaned over the desk. “How’s life?”
Though she could feel her heart racing, his familiar manner lessened her anxiety a notch.
“Not bad, Mr. Barlow. Just going through the stragglers.” Good, she thought. Her voice had come out even.
“Am I one of them?” he asked, craning his head to look at her monitor. Though he didn’t have a chew in now, she could smell the Red Man on his breath. Like overripe apples. Normally the scent appealed to her, but now it made her feel closed in, like the walls were creeping nearer.
Prison walls.
She cleared her throat. “Well,” she said, scrolling through the list of names, “it doesn’t look like it. You’ve got four more days before your books are due back.”
Barlow smiled. “Good. I’m only done with
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