Silas: A Supernatural Thriller (7 page)

The sun flared bright as we drove home from the veterinarian’s office. It was a crisp, early spring day. While sitting at a traffic light I took a moment to bask in the sun’s warmth. An ancient Oldsmobile town car filled with teenage boys pulled up beside me. The sound of heavy, crunching guitars blared. I tapped my fingers on the steering wheel and bobbed my head to the beat, lost in my own world. Then I heard laughter. Turning to face the old car I noticed the boys pointing at me, cracking up. I was about to roll down my window and yell at them, but something caught the corner of my eye before I had the chance to say a word. Craning my neck to the rear I saw Silas sitting there, pressed against the window, his muzzle sticking out the tiny opening I’d left for him. He licked the air outside the car like a serpent and shuffled from side to side. His tail thwacked my seat.

The kid in the passenger seat of the Olds hung out the window and gave me a thumbs-up.

“Hey mister,” he shouted over the music, “you got a cool-ass dog!”

I nodded in agreement, my lips curling into a smile.

The light turned green and the kids took off. I eased the Subaru forward, chuckling to myself at how close I came to overreacting. Silas, his audience now departed, took his usual position – standing with his rear legs on the back seat and his front paws planted on the center console. He licked my cheek in a seemingly hurried manner, as if he didn’t want to disturb me but couldn’t help himself.

“You’re a funky dude,” I told him. “You know that?”

He offered me a sideways eye, and in my mind I could hear him say,
do I sense sarcasm in your tone, Mr. Papa?
I reached my hand around the bottom of his thick, muscular neck and stroked his ears. A guttural moan came from his throat. At that moment I realized that although my father had been wrong about so many other things when it came to pets, there was one point he’d made that still rang true: This wonderful boy, this bundle of love and energy, wouldn’t live forever. In ten years, give or take, he’d be gone, and I’d be all alone again, once more filled with the litany of
coulda
’
shoulda
’
woulda’s
that Cyan constantly reminded me of.

But you know what’s funny? I didn’t really care. My life felt more complete than ever now that he was in it. I wouldn’t give that up for the world.

“Listen to me, boy,” I said. Silas must have recognized the seriousness in my tone, because he stopped panting, tilted his head in my direction, and lifted his ears. Knowing that I had his full attention I made a declaration. “I promise we’ll spend more time together, okay?” I said. “No more sitting alone in the house all the time. We’ll have our fun. We’ll take walks every weekend, no matter the weather. I’ll stop Mom from throwing you off the bed at night. Don’t worry, I’ve got my ways to convince her. You’re not gonna be on your own all the time any more, Silas. We’re gonna have some fun. Just you and me. Us.”

I didn’t know if he could understand my words, but that didn’t matter. It all boiled down to a personal avowal, and as long as I kept my word, to both myself and to him, I knew deep down that we’d all turn out fine.

11

Despite thinking myself an intelligent, somewhat confident man, I was still an individual filled with insecurities. Always have been, always will be, probably even when I reach the great deluxe hotel in the sky. There is nothing that can take away my diffidence. It’s a part of what makes me who I am, and even though I’ve grown to detest those feelings of inadequacy, I can still wear them on my sleeve like a badge of honor if my pride’s sunk to a sufficient low.

Wednesday, May 5
^th
, wasn’t one of these times.

It started like any other day, with me rushing around
The Spinning Wheel
like a decapitated chicken, placing a batch of orders for Wendy’s new series of ceramic wash basins with the help of a new young employee named Billy Miller. Also on the docket was a requisition from The Radisson Company, who wanted a collection of fifty matching vases for their remodeled hotel in
New London
. My nerves reached their breaking point and I declared silently that if one more fogy said they wanted a certain piece only in a different color I’d smash the goddamn vase over their head.

The rush eventually died down and I let Billy run the show. It amazed me how much energy the kid had. I was only thirty-three, but I labored through most of my tasks in a state of physical and mental misery, whereas he conquered each chore with ease and eagerness. I envied and was grateful for him at the same time. Having him there gave me a few moments to sit back, relax, and have a cup of coffee.

Unfortunately, there was no respite to be had.

“Ken?” a male voice asked while I sat in the corner reading an old issue of
Entertainment Weekly.
I glanced up to see the mildly recognizable face of a rather portly man.

“Uh, yeah?” I replied.

“Wow,” the man said. “Didn’t expect to see you here, bud. Color me shocked. It’s been a long time.”

I felt my nose twitch. “Do I know you?”

The stranger held out his hands. “C’mon, Kenny, think about it.”

“Sorry, bro,” I said after a few minutes of searching my memory banks. “I got nothing.”

“Okay then, here’s a hint. History of Film. Nine in the morning every Tuesday and Thursday. Grant Waiter’s class.”

The answer came to me. “No shit. Ricky Davenport? You gotta be kidding me.”

“Nope. It’s me…in the flesh.”

Ricky had been one of the most unremarkable people I’d ever met. When I knew him he was short and fat, already balding at twenty years old, with an annoying, monotone voice. He sat next to me in that History of Film class and constantly ran his mouth, talking about how he was going to be the next
Michael
Bay
or Jerry Bruckheimer. I humored him but privately scoffed at the notion. I mean, who longs to be
those
guys? They were directors whose only artistic ambition was seeing how many times they could sell their souls for a few million bucks. I fancied myself more as an ultramodern, where creativity, edginess, and expression were the keys. But I humored Ricky and his rants nonetheless. It was
his
dream, after all. Who was I to squash it?

To see Ricky now, wearing a nice suit with a pair of horn-rimmed glasses on his chubby mug and an LA Dodgers cap atop his bald pate, gave me a moment’s pause. Gone were the pimply cheeks, replaced by a well-manicured goatee. His teeth had been straightened and bleached. He had the look of money, and I started to feel uneasy.

“So, what’ve you been up to?” I asked tentatively.

He grinned. “Oh, not much. It’s my mom’s birthday, so I came over here to see her. Been living out in
Los Angeles
for six years now. I helped edit a couple screenplays. You might’ve heard of them,
Don’t Fear Tomorrow
and
Candlelight Vigil
by Roger Crane. Roger’s been great to me. He’s got me working with him on a new
horror/sci-fi
film. I guess I impressed him, ‘cause he put me in charge of the second unit!” Ricky’s face turned bright red as he beamed. His voice got even louder. “I’m
this close
, Ken!
This goddamn close!
Can you believe it?”

I shook my head. “No.” I don’t think he realized I wasn’t humoring him.

“Yeah, well Roger’s gonna help me out. He said in another year or so he’d talk to Universal and try to get me a shot at directing my
own
flick. How’s that for unbelievable?”

“Pretty incredible.”

“I know.” Ricky frowned and tilted his head. “Wait, you don’t sound too happy for me.”

I frowned, as well. “Sorry. Nothing personal. It’s just been a rough year.”

“Oh?” His smile returned. “So…what’s been going on? Still single? Write any good flicks yet?”

“No and no. My career’s been slow, at best.”

“Huh. That so? Then what’re you doing here? This stuff’s pretty expensive. It’s even a little outside
my
budget, and I’m pulling in some bank.”

Just as Ricky was saying this, Wendy’s twenty-something assistant Katherine strolled out of the back room. She was an uptight, humorless, and driven girl – the perfect employee, a less-than-perfect social animal. I didn’t like her, and the feeling was mutual.

“He’s not
buying
anything,” she said as she passed by, wearing an evil smirk on her face. “This is
his wife’s
store. He works for her.”

Ricky grimaced. “Oh.”

I dropped the magazine to the floor and sighed. I felt my cheeks flush from embarrassment. “It’s not so bad as that,” I said.

“Of course it’s not,” answered Ricky.

“I mean, the store’s making a ton of money.”

“That’s good.”

“It is. And I’m working on a new screenplay, too. I’m pretty excited about it. It’s gonna be a good one.”

I hoped beyond hope he couldn’t see through the lie.

“I bet it will be,” he said after a long pause. “You were the best writer I met in school. I thought for
sure
you’d be huge. But there’s still time, I guess.”

I nodded. “That there is.”

We both stared off into the distance for a few uncomfortable minutes after that. I didn’t want to look him in the eye, and I’m sure he felt the same. I was starting to bounce from one foot to the other when Ricky finally reached into his pocket and handed me a business card.

“It’s been good seeing you, Ken,” he said. “Can you tell your wife I’d like to order one of those vases against the wall in burgundy instead of aqua? They’re really nice and my mom will love it. My info’s on the card. Just call me when it’s ready.”

With that, Ricky spun on his heels and walked away. “It’s been fun,” he shouted over his shoulder as his squat body wobbled out the front door. He didn’t even turn around to wave.

I spent the rest of the day miserable. My attitude dipped lower than ever and my interactions with the customers were touchy, at best. I tore up Ricky’s card and scattered the remnants on the front sidewalk.
Looks like someone’s mom isn’t getting the vase they want.
I passed the remainder of my duties off on Billy, who was more than eager to comply. I moped in the corner and watched him work, and a fatalist realization came over me.

I’d wasted my life.

During the car ride home that night, Wendy asked me what was wrong. I didn’t answer her, just kept watching the world as it flashed across the windshield. In no way did I want to tell her how disappointed I felt. I didn’t want to fall back into old habits, old emotions, or old fears, but they didn’t seem to want to go away no matter how hard I tried.

The Great Decline had begun.

12

I heard voices as a child. They weren’t clear in any way, not like an imaginary friend or something of that nature. No, this was more like three or four people talking into my brain at the same time. I could never understand the words, but they were there. I know it might sound strange to say this, but in a way I found it comforting. Other than my sister, I really didn’t have that many friends, but as long as these voices spoke to me I never felt lonely.

I told my parents about them when I was eight or so. They immediately brought me to a child psychiatrist, who said I may be suffering from early-onset schizophrenia. They monitored me for months, until finally I learned to lie and said the voices had disappeared. They really hadn’t, of course, but it was better to let the adults think everything was fine. That way, I didn’t constantly have doctors prodding me.