Flypaper Opus: Dark Psychological Thriller - Book 2 Read online

  Reggie put her hand on his shoulder. The subtle gesture would have enticed a lesser man. She was good. “We’d only be a moment, please. We’d sure appreciate it.”

  Clark turned his eyes upward and slapped on a goofball grin, an approximation of the acceptable response he’d seen to flirtation in movies. “Well… okay, what the heck. Come on.”

  Daryl pulled a large camera out of one of the black bags on the bed.

  Clark whistled. “Wow, nice camera. Mine’s not nearly that nice.”

  Reggie and Daryl followed him out into the hall. Reggie locked the door to their room.

  Clark herded the sheeple up the stairs to where greatness awaited them. Fame and glory. Immortality.

  “Like I said, Nick Dawkins based The Inn on this place. He’s never come out and acknowledged it openly, but if you read the story, the similarities are apparent. The place has the same number of floors; he describes the carpet and wallpaper precisely. He took liberties with it of course, all artists do that, but the place does have a history of murders and supernatural encounters.”

  Clark stopped at the third floor. “Woman drowned her baby in a tub down that way. Long time ago of course. We can stop and see if anyone’s in that room if you like.”

  Reggie coughed into her hand. “No, no. That’s fine. We’ll just check yours out. We’d hate to accidently intrude on someone else.”

  Clark shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

  “It sounds like you’re a real Nick Dawkins fan.” Reggie’s voice changed. She spoke to fill the silence. Clark’s eye twinged. He had an allergic reaction to bullshit. “Would you consider giving us a few words on camera? I don’t know for sure if we’ll use it, but it’d be good to have.”

  “Sure, while we’re up here, why not?”

  They reached the top of the stairs. Fourth floor: broken glass and blood.

  “I’m down here, last door on the left.”

  The trio walked down the dimly lit hall single-file. Reggie broke the silence again. “We’ll ask again on camera, but is The Inn your favorite Nick Dawkins story?”

  Clark snorted. “Oh goodness, no. The Inn is good, but it’s not like his earlier work. His early stuff was life changing.”

  “Really?” Reggie stifled a laugh. “Life changing, wow.”

  Clark pulled a key out of his pocket and stopped outside the last door on the left. “Indeed. It’s the kind of stuff that speaks to a person. Reminds you that you’re not alone.” He turned to face Daryl and Reggie. “Not just not alone. It reminds you that you have a voice. That when you scream in the dark and no one comes, it’s not because you don’t matter. You just haven’t found the right people to listen yet. Make sense?” He didn’t wait for a reply. He stuck the key in the lock and opened the door. “After you.”

  Reggie and Daryl hesitated, Daryl in particular. His eyes darted back and forth between Reggie and the open door. He’d spooked them with the truth. People were like that sometimes.

  Clark waved a dismissive hand. “After me, then.” They’d happily walk into the unknown so long as they felt they were doing it of their own free will.

  He entered the room. “Eventually Nick Dawkins will be seen as a master of the arts. Like Da Vinci. Or Shakespeare. But you know how that is. Most great artists aren’t appreciated until after they’re dead.”

  Reggie was the first to follow Clark into the room, no doubt driven by the allure of ratings or the chance to quit schlepping out to places like Forest Down. He could see it in her eyes. The same hunger he had. The desire to be seen and heard and appreciated for her work.

  Daryl followed Reggie because of course he did. Without her he didn’t exist. Anyone could do his job. He followed her to places like this because if he didn’t someone else would. Pathetic. “I’ll leave the door open.”

  Clark walked around to the other side of the bed and sat down. He dropped his black bag to the floor at his feet. “Actually, close it if you would. Toilet backed up down the hall. You smell it coming in? Awful.”

  “Oh, yeah, I think I did catch a whiff of that.” Daryl closed the door; his need to be agreeable was greater than his instinct for self-preservation. He hadn’t smelled anything. Clark knew he hadn’t because he’d made up the backed up toilet seven seconds ago.

  He dug at the bag on the floor. “So in Dawkins’ original short story, which is more than likely going to be gutted for the sake of mindless drones who annually watch Fast and the Furious sequels, there’s this married couple. And they’re staying in this room, or the fictional version of this room, rather. And there’s a big mirror on the wall, just like that one there.”

  He glanced over his shoulder. Reggie and Daryl had turned to the mirror, their backs to him. Curiosity—she was a cat killer.

  Clark stood up and continued the story. “Now, when the couple first got to the Inn, they were fine. But there’s this presence in the room. The spirits of another couple who stayed in the room, years prior. The couple tune into these spirits, like a radio on just the right frequency. The couple starts to fight. They can’t help it. The room, the spirits, they’re doing something to these people.”

  Clark walked up behind Reggie and Daryl. He pressed one hand into each of their backs.

  His two subjects went stiff. He leaned into them and whispered into their ears. “I wouldn’t move if I were you.”

  The two small blocks of clay held firmly to Reggie and Daryl’s clothing. Clark’s brand new subjects slowly turned their heads.

  He whispered. “Stand very, very still. They’re delicate pieces. I’d hate for them to go off on accident. I mean, they’re small, I doubt they’d hurt me, but they’ll blow your spines in half, guaranteed.”

  Daryl’s lip quivered. Reggie wanted to speak, but couldn’t find her voice. Clark could relate.

  Their eyes were wet. Afraid. Just like the animals in his cages had been. They hadn’t understood the importance of their roles either.

  He watched their faces in the mirror. “You know who I am.”

  Reggie and Daryl nodded.

  Clark held up a shiny metallic cylinder so they could see it. “Remote. If my thumb so much as rests a little too hard on this thing, those bits of bang-bang go off. And my new piece is ruined. You don’t want that, right?”

  Reggie shook her head. She didn’t want that. A tear ran down Daryl’s cheek. He definitely didn’t want that.

  “Good. We’re all on the same page then. Wait here, please.” Clark walked to his bag. Reggie and Daryl stayed where they were told. “I’m curious. When did you first get the idea I wasn’t on the level?”

  Nobody said anything. Clark’s patience took a hit. “You can talk. I think. If you explode, you have my apologies in advance.”

  Reggie spoke first. No surprise there. “The baby. The drowned baby on the third floor.”

  “All the way back there, huh?” Clark pulled his handheld out of his bag. “That feeling, Reggie. That one in your gut whispering holy fuck, danger, run, flee. That’s called ‘instinct’. It’s something most animals have, a sort of warning system designed to keep them alive. It’s why you can’t, say, approach a wild rabbit.”

  Clark stood up and walked toward his new project. He set the camera down at the end of the bed.

  “See, the rabbit sees something big and scary, and that instinct…” He snapped his fingers next to Reggie and Daryl’s heads. They both startled. “…It tells the rabbit holy fuck, danger, run, flee. And the rabbit lives to listen to its instinct another day.”

  He met Reggie’s gaze in the mirror. It pissed him off that she didn’t cower from his look. He stood there, staring at her refection, until a single tear slid down her cheek. Good.

  “Humans,” he continued. “Most humans anyway, are still basically animals. They still have instinct. You felt it when I mentioned drowned babies. But you ignored it. Do you know why?”

  “Please.” Reggie had something to say. “Please, what do you want?”

  Clark’s face twis
ted. He could see it in the mirror. “I want you to answer my question. Do you know why you ignored your own instincts, Reggie?”

  She closed her eyes and shook her head. She was trying so hard not to cry full out. It was endearing.

  “You ignored your instincts because human beings are no longer driven by their instincts. They’re driven by this.” He waved his hand around her forehead. “All this noise that’s going on in here. Your job, and your mortgage, all kinds of shit. There’s no room for instinct anymore. It’s something nature designed to keep you alive, but you snubbed it, pushed it down so you could get a promotion, or whatever. It’s not necessarily a bad thing; it does mean you’ve got a little more going on upstairs. You can operate a smartphone, or paint a picture. It also means, on a grander scale, you don’t have the basic survival skills of a wild rabbit. Funny, right?”

  Clark turned to Daryl and pulled off his ball cap. He tossed it to the floor. “Now, this one, he took a little more coaxing. Your instinct told you to run, didn’t it Daryl? Right about the same time, I’ll bet.”

  Tears streamed down Daryl’s face. “I don’t want to die.”

  Clark shook his head; he did feel a measure of sympathy for the man. “Of course you don’t. In fact, I’d wager you were this close to following that instinct, weren’t you? I could see it in your eyes at the door. I almost lost you. Do you know why?”

  Daryl sobbed. “Please. Please let us go.”

  Clark waved his hand around Daryl’s unfortunate hairline. “You don’t have quite as much going on up here as your friend Reggie. Not as much noise drowning out your gut. It probably makes you a poor employee. A poor student. In nature, all things being equal, you might be more suited for survival.”

  He turned and picked up his camera off the bed.

  “Unfortunately for you, we don’t live in nature, not anymore. We live in a world where people like Reggie thrive, and people like you do not. That said, if you listen carefully and do exactly as you’re told, you both may have a chance listen to your instincts another day. Just like our rabbit friend. Fair deal?”

  Reggie exhaled in short little huffs. “What is it you want us to do?”

  Clark looked into the mirror—into Reggie and Daryl’s fearful faces—and smiled. “You? All I want you to do at the moment is break that mirror there on the wall. And Daryl? Daryl, you’re going to practice another ability nature gave you for survival. You get to scream.”

  Chapter 10

  The collective body of Nick’s grim works was laid out on the table before them. The coffee was hot and black, the way he and Reed both liked it.

  Under different circumstances, the company would have been a nice change for Nick. As it was, he and the Sheriff sat at his kitchen table for the express purpose of finding a madman who wanted to bring his favorite Nick Dawkins scenes to life.

  The whole thing might have been flattering on some level if it hadn’t been so fucking horrifying.

  Reed looked incredulous. “This is everything? It doesn’t seem like all that much.”

  Nick sipped at his cup. “It’s not, it’s just, you know, literally my life’s work. That’s all.”

  “You know what I mean. You have this huge name, I expected there to be books upon books. But this is everything you’ve ever done. It’s pretty impressive.”

  He set his mug down on the table. “Oh. Thanks for that, then. You want to run through these in chronological order?”

  Reed sat at the ready, pen and notepad in hand. “That’s what I was thinking. You said Pet Project was first? It was also his first piece. Could mean he’s moving chronologically.”

  Nick picked up the stack of paper-clipped sheets that made Pet Project and placed it at the far end of the table. “Yeah, but the next thing I put out was Friendly, which I won a couple of short fiction awards for, by the way. Who’s the man? I the man.”

  Reed rolled her eyes and jotted in her pad. “What was it about?”

  He sipped at his coffee and picked up another stack of paper. “Couple of brothers join the military, one accidently shoots and kills the other. When the surviving one comes home, he’s haunted by the dead one and you don’t know if he’s crazy or if it’s real.”

  Reed raised her eyebrows. “That’s pleasant.”

  “Hi, have we met?” Nick tossed Friendly to the other end of the table, apart from Pet Project. “Maybe he didn’t like it.”

  Reed drank from her mug and sat it back down. “Or he’s not moving chronologically after all. Or there’s nothing in it he could practically replicate. Any stand out scenes in that one?”

  Nick drubbed his fingers on the table. “The big one was the main character waking up and his bedrooms full of razor-wire. Takes him forever to make his way out.”

  The Sheriff scratched away. “So either he didn’t want to do that, couldn’t do that, or we haven’t found that one yet.”

  Nick sat up. “Jesus.”

  “Then again, he’d have posted it online or something, right? So let’s assume he skipped that one and back burn it for now.” Reed nodded her head in the direction of Nick’s work. “What was next?”

  Nick picked up a hardback. “My first book. Toilet Humor. Standup comedian finds a portal to Hell in his toilet. People went fucking bonkers for it.”

  Reed gaped at him. “Seriously?”

  He held the book up. “You wouldn’t believe how many copies of this thing I sold. People like demons and poop jokes, what can I say?”

  “I don’t know whether to laugh or cry right now.”

  Nick sat the book on top of Friendly. “I traffic in a lot of that reaction.”

  The doorbell rang.

  Nick and Reed read each other.

  Expecting anyone, Dawkins? Even her eyes called him by his last name.

  Don’t look at me; I don’t know who it is.

  They had gotten good at face reading.

  They stood up together and walked to the camera monitor.

  Nick breathed a sigh of relief, something he wouldn’t have imagined doing a short time ago. “It’s my mom.”

  “Oh. I’ve never met her. She seems to keep to herself.” Reed stood by the door. She expected him to let his mother in. And why wouldn’t she? That’s what most people would do. But most people hadn’t grown up like he did.

  Rock and a hard place. Be a dick son for no apparent reason in front of someone he would almost call a friend or let his mother have another inch.

  He unbolted the door and was met with Meredith Dawkins’ wet and wide eyes. “Mom.”

  “Nickie.” She put her hands on him. “I’m so sorry for coming by unannounced. But you didn’t answer my text, and with everything that’s been going on… a person thinks crazy things.”

  He couldn’t disagree with the last part.

  Nick gave his mother an air hug. “I’m fine, see?”

  Just leave, Mom. Read between the lines and—

  Meredith stepped back and looked from Nick to Sheriff Reed. “Well, if you two are busy. I just wanted to check on you.”

  Thankyouthankyouthankyou

  Reed nudged Nick. “Dawkins, what’s wrong with you? Invite your mother in for a cup of joe.”

  Noooooooooooooo

  Nick fidgeted with his hands. Holy hell, he needed a cig. “I figured, y’know, we’re working.”

  “We are, but Christ, she’s your mother and she came all this way. And I’ll bet she’s read all your stuff, maybe she has some thoughts.”

  Nick rubbed his brow. “Yeah, okay. Come on in, Mom.”

  The unlikely congregation moved into the kitchen and sat around the table. Reed extended a hand to Meredith. “Nice to meet you, by the way, I’m Sheriff Reed.”

  Meredith shook Reed’s hand. “Meredith.”

  “You raised an alright guy, Meredith. You must have done something right.”

  Nick quietly choked on his coffee.

  “Why thank you, Sheriff. I did the best I could by myself. It wasn’t easy.”


  Reed picked up her notepad. “I can only imagine. Okay, Ms. Dawkins—”

  His mother patted Reed on the hand. “Meredith, please.”

  Reed smiled courteously. “Meredith.” Nick set his coffee mug down with a thud. Nearly three years and he hadn’t gotten Reed to call him by his first name yet. “We were going over Nick’s work, trying to figure this Maggot Maestro guy out.”

  “God, that name.” Nick mimed having needles in his eyes. “Sorry, can’t help it. It’s so fucking pretentious.”

  Reed swatted across the table at Nick. “Language in front of your mother.”

  “It’s okay Sheriff, he was always a rambunctious one.” Nick’s mom got up and helped herself to the coffeemaker. I read about all that business this morning. It’s a popular story.”

  Nick watched Reed’s face. Any second his mother would say the crab thing was an adorable and delightful tribute to her son and Reed would see how unhinged she was.

  The Sheriff went to her pad. “Mr. Dawkins, what was after Toilet Humor?”

  Meredith tasted her coffee and wrinkled her nose. “Sorry to interrupt, Sheriff. Nickie, do you have any sugar?” She stood and walked to the cabinets, opening one and then another.

  Bam. Childhood.

  Nick was maybe seven or eight. He and his mother were in their kitchen. Their kitchen. Just the two of them. They didn’t have anyone else. They didn’t need anyone else. They had each other.

  He didn’t feel well. He never seemed to feel well anymore. He remembered late nights of trashcans and towels and wet washcloths on his forehead. The taste of bile.

  Nick thought that was why she cried so much. He thought it was because of him.

  She made him soup when he didn’t feel well. He liked chicken noodle.

  It was one of their favorite rituals. They’d go to the grocery store together. She’d do her shopping while he picked out a couple of comic books. They’d go home and he’d sit at the kitchen table and read Spider-Man while she cooked.

  She’d bring him a spoon and a bowl. He’d set his comic down on the table and continue to read while he ate. He couldn’t wait that long to see how Spidey got out of his latest predicament.