Ghostwriter
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
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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
Part One: The Lunatic Is on the Grass
The Tastes and Smells of Death
Part Two: The Lunatic Is in the Hall
Part Three: The Lunatic Is in My Head
Part Four: All You Create All You Destroy
A Conversation with Travis Thrasher
T
HIS
B
OOK
I
S
D
EDICATED TO
M
Y
U
NCLE
,
C
HRISTOPHER
B
REAZEALE
,
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
The Lunatic Is on the Grass
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.
(Ten Months Later)
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 stood 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.
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.”
