Samantha Moon Phantasm, page 84
part #9 of Vampire for Hire Series
“How long have you been thinking of the world of Dur?” I asked Charlie after we both ignored Allison.
“Nearly my entire life. My earliest notes on it were when I was eight.”
“And you’re, what? Thirty-five?”
“Forty-four. And thanks. Still, that proves—”
“You’ve been living in this World of Dur for more than thirty years,” I cut in.
“Well, yes. But not really living...” But he thought about, then retracted. “Okay, maybe I have daydreamed about it. Perhaps even often.”
“How often?” asked Allison.
“Usually throughout most days. Maybe before I go to sleep. Maybe when I wake up. In the shower. In the hot tub. Sometimes when I’m jogging and often when I’m walking.”
“That’s nearly every waking minute,” pointed out Allison.
“Well, not when I work. My job is tough.”
“Let me guess,” I said. “But you find yourself thinking about it on breaks and lunch, and on your drive to and from work?”
He shrugged, crossed his arms over his chest. “Well, yeah. But most writers probably do the same thing, right?”
“I would question that,” I said. “I would question the sheer amount of thought you put into your world compared to other writers. I am sure they have only thought of their own stories a mere fragment compared to—”
“What about J.R.R. Tolkien?” he said suddenly. “Or J.K. Rowling?”
I let his question sink in, as he had just listed the two authors who, I suspected, were also very much creators. Two authors known for having made extensive notes on their worlds. Whole volumes of Middle Earth history existed. And J.K. Rowling herself had created a veritable gallery of drawing of all her characters, each rendered lovingly and exquisitely. As if... well, as if she had been doing an actual portrait of an actual living, breathing man, woman, or magical creature.
“I assume I’m only buttressing your point,” he finally said, sinking back into his chair.
“You are,” I said. “And no one uses buttressing in the real world.”
“What’s a butt dress?” asked Allison.
“See?” I said.
“Be that as it may,” said Charlie, “I refuse to join your crazy little party. I think, maybe, we should call this your last night.”
“We could,” I said. “And we’ll leave right now if you think that’s best. But know this, until you get past your writer’s block, your ghost is going to keep showing up, right there in that hallway. Looking for help. From you, her creator. C’mon, Allison. Let’s go.”
My friend didn’t like it, but she understood a standoff when she saw one. She extricated herself from the couch and stood with me.
I said to Charlie, “I’ll email you my final bill. Also, could you please let us know when the final book is published?”
“Sure,” he said glumly. His hands were crossed in his lap and his head was bowed. He looked like he could have been praying to his own creator. “Except I haven’t written in four months, ever since my wife left me.”
“I know,” I said. I waited. I also waited for him to make the connection. On his own. He didn’t. Not yet.
I touched Allison’s shoulder. “C’mon.”
We were just exiting the study when his voice reached us. “The ghost appeared not long after.”
I paused, waited. Allison took my hand. I let her.
“Except she’s not a ghost, is she?” Now I heard the wonder in his voice. The sheer, beautiful, infectious, earth-shaking wonder. “It’s Queen Autumn. And she needs my help. Son of a bitch.”
Chapter Twenty-five
We waited. He needed to work through this. The weight on him, I suspected, was enormous. I kept the option of erasing his memory of it on the table. At least, the memory of this last day.
“So they’re all real?” he said again. He ran his fingers through his unkempt hair, making it more unkempt. I think once or twice he fought back a little vomit. After all, in his world, there had been much death and destruction as well.
“I think so,” I said. It was now twenty minutes before midnight.
“Had I known, I would never have...” his voice trailed off. “I would never have killed off any of them. Or hurt any of them.”
“I know,” I said. “But they also wouldn’t have been alive either.”
“What do you mean?”
“You loved them,” I said. “Even the terrible characters. Even the monsters. You loved them all, with all your heart, for decades. They were real people, with real motivations, both good and bad. Sometimes good and bad people get hurt or killed.”
“Then I shouldn’t have loved them, or even wanted to tell their story!”
“Then you wouldn’t have been alive, either,” said Allison. “Their stories, their world, their hopes and dreams, gave you life too.”
“Please tell me I’m dreaming,” he said, burying his face in his hands. “Please tell me this isn’t real.”
Allison and I looked at each other. Neither of us knew what to do. I had never met a creator, and I especially had never been around one who just discovered that his creations were, in fact, real. Admittedly, it was hard to watch. He stood and paced, he cursed God and the heavens, he buried his face in his hands and wept. Sometimes he just stood there and laughed, nearly hysterically. Once or twice he hugged himself. All while the clock marched inevitably toward midnight.
With a few minutes to go, he finally collapsed between us on the couch again, where Allison and I had sat. I could smell the sweat on him now. I could also see some semblance of acceptance in his eyes.
He looked at me. “What do I do?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
“I haven’t written in four months,” he said.
“I know.”
“Is that why Autumn…” He paused, and I secretly wondered if he loved her most of all. “Is that why Autumn is here? Her baby?”
“I think so.”
“But I don’t understand. Is their world on...” He paused again, searching for the right word. “On hold?”
Allison and I had thought about that, and had concluded that we didn’t know. We said as much to Charlie.
“Their world just stopped?” he said, standing again, pacing again, running his hands through his hair again. I could see the mad genius flashing in his ‘yes.’ I could see his mind going in a hundred directions at once. Mostly, I could feel his sheer passion and love for what he had created. His sympathy and knowing. He knew all of them, down to every last person. Like a true god. There was, after all, decades of momentum here. This wasn’t a man who decided to write just a few months ago, or even a few years ago. This was a man who had lived in this world for nearly all his life. I was, quite simply, watching a creator create.
“Yes, yes,” he said, pacing faster, his eyes flashing with light in a way that hinted at the supernatural. “When I stopped writing, they stopped living. But not really. No, not really, because I think about them continuously, often, and wonder what they are up to. But their lives, for the most part, are on hold. They are waiting for me to finish this tale.”
“And to start new ones,” said Allison, sounding, suddenly, every bit the fangirl that she was. That we both were. I wouldn’t have minded if Charlie wrote a hundred more stories set in the World of Dur. That is, before I knew their lives were real. Would it make reading the book different, knowing that people were really living and really dying? Really suffering and really loving, too? I didn’t know, but it was an... exciting prospect. I caught Allison’s eye, and she nodded with me, having followed my train of thought.
“There’s one problem,” said Charlie, and slumped down next to us again.
“Writer’s block,” I said.
He nodded glumly.
Allison said, “Have you ever had writer’s block before?”
“Well, I’ve never really written before. This is my first book. Everything I’ve done up to this point was daydreaming and note taking. I have hundreds of notepads filled with character sketches and notes and histories of Dur.”
I said, “And when you started writing, you were consumed with the book?”
“Oh, yes.”
“And your wife thought she had lost you.”
“I wouldn’t come up for air for days. I used up all my vacation time and called in sick constantly. It was all I could talk about or think about. I got to work late, and left early.”
“Until they fired you,” I said.
“Yes.”
“And your wife had finally had enough,” said Allison.
He nodded. “Yes.”
I said, “And in one fell swoop, you lost your wife and your job was in jeopardy...”
“And any day now my house,” he added.
I said, “Which all adds up to one hell of a case of writer’s block.”
He looked at us, nodded. Sweat was on his brow. “I gave up everything for my writing, and now I can’t write either, all while the very world I created suffers. I am in hell.”
If anything, we might have made his writer’s block worse.
Allison nodded, picking up my thought. She reached out and took one of Charlie’s fidgeting hands. He stopped fidgeting and his hand closed around hers. He held onto her as if she were a lifeline. I suspected he was drowning in his own way.
In that moment, a bluish glow appeared in the hallway. I glanced at my cell phone and was not surprised to see that it was midnight.
“She’s here,” I said.
“Autumn?” asked Charlie, snapping his head up.
“Yes.”
Chapter Twenty-six
I moved over to the hallway opening, slowly, so as to not scare Autumn. Then again, I seriously doubted she could see me. Neither Allison nor Charlie could see her, and Charlie had created her. Except that Allison could see what I saw, by dipping into my mind.
“Is she there?” asked Charlie. He had come up behind me too. He was turning his head this way and that, trying to catch a glimpse of her in his peripheral vision. Apparently, sometimes he could, and sometimes he couldn’t. His human eyes, quite simply, were not used to seeing into the supernatural.
“Yes,” I said.
The closer we got to the hallway, the more Queen Autumn seemed to fidget. She held her hands up like a mime, pushing against an invisible wall. In fact, she seemed to be doing the “trapped-in-a-box routine,” as she now pushed against either side of her too. Except, she really seemed to be pushing against something... invisible.
Was the queen a mime, too? asked Allison.
No. She’s inspecting something, searching for something.
For what?
I don’t know.
Now, the queen cocked her head to one side, as if listening. After a moment of this, she bent down and inspected the floor, then stood up on her toes and felt above her, as if on an unseen shelf. She wore a loose gown that I suspected were pajamas in her world. Either way, they looked cozy as hell.
“What’s she doing, Sam?” asked Charlie.
We were all standing before the hallway archway by now. Autumn was there, looking directly at us, but not really. Sometimes she made direct eye contact with me but that was only in passing. It was obvious that she couldn’t see us, but I suspected she could sense us. After all, I could see the confusion, the strain, the eagerness and the hope on her face. Her mouth moved as well, although I couldn’t make out any words.
“She knows we’re here,” I said.
Allison, who had been filling my head with her own presence, was seeing what I was seeing in real time. She said, “Sam, she appears to be in a closet of some sort.”
“A wardrobe,” said Charlie suddenly, and I realized how nice it was to have the actual creator of the world next to us, even if he did seem a bit confused. “And it’s not just any wardrobe.”
“Is there a lion and witch in it?” asked Allison.
“Not quite,” said Charlie. His breath smelled vaguely of coffee. I wondered if all writers’ breath smelled of coffee. “The wardrobe hasn’t made it into the novel yet, but it it’s there, in my notes.”
“What kind of wardrobe is it?” I asked.
“It’s how Queen Autumn communicates with...” but his voice trailed off.
“Communicates with who?” I asked, although I could have just as easily found the answer in his thoughts.
His voice sounded distant and hollow when he said, “With God.”
***
I looked at Allison; she looked at me.
Charlie stepped lithely between us, and reached out a hand toward the shimmering doorway. At least, it was shimmering to my eyes.
“As queen, midnight is typically the only time she has to herself,” said Charlie, lowering his hand. “But when her husband sleeps, and most of the castle has quieted, she slips out of bed and sometimes opens her wardrobe, to speak to God.”
“You mean to you,” said Allison.
Charlie didn’t turn around, but he gave us a full view of his strong profile, his sharp nose, squarish jaw. “I never imagined the door would lead here, to my hallway.”
“You are her creator,” said Allison.
He said nothing, although that jawline might have rippled.
I said, “But the scene never made it into the book. How would she know about the wardrobe?”
Charlie was shaking his head before I had a chance to finish the question. “The closet has been known to her family for centuries. She knew about it at an early age, consulted it often. It just didn’t make it into the first book, yet.”
“So your characters can live outside the first book?” asked Allison.
“Of course,” he said. “Their lives extend well beyond the pages.”
“Except for this story,” I said. “Maybe their lives are on hold, or perhaps aspects of their lives.”
“Maybe,” said Charlie.
“Like maybe the queen’s daughter is still kidnapped until Charlie resolves it!” said Allison.
It sounded crazy, but it also seemed plausible. Charlie stood for a long moment, staring forward, while Queen Autumn stood just before him, searching, as well. She reached out a hand, but it faded away before it could find us.
“You said her family has been speaking to God for centuries,” said Allison. “But she’s only recently come to your house, to this hallway.”
Charlie was shaking his head again. “They believe they are talking to God. They never, in fact, found God.”
“Until now,” I said.
Charlie’s shoulders rolled up, and seemed, in general, uncomfortable with this whole conversation. Finally, he said, “Queen Autumn was different. She always believed she would find him.”
“In the wardrobe?” asked Allison.
“Yes, at first,” said Charlie. “And then later, in her heart.”
I nodded, recalling her devotion from even at an early age, even if it had been barely hinted at in the novel. I said, “She senses you’re near.”
In the book, just where Charlie had left the story hanging, Queen Autumn had awakened to discover that her newborn was missing, kidnapped in the night. Charlie had set the stage for a mystery within the greater novel.
But his characters never stopped living, I thought, and watched Autumn’s beautiful blue eyes searching and searching, her hands reaching out, her lips moving in what I assumed was a prayer.
“Do you hear her?” I asked Charlie, for he had stepped closer still, cocking his head, listening. Creator and created were now mere inches from each other.
“I hear... something,” he said, as some of the shimmering blue light touched his skin, although he didn’t seem to notice it.
“Is it also midnight in the land of Dur?” asked Allison.
Charlie, who had raised a hand and placed it just inside the blue light, said, “Since I never established time zones, I would imagine their time defaulted to our own time.”
I shrugged. It made sense.
Allison was about to ask another nonsensical question—
Hey! came her hurt thought.
—when I shushed her. After all, Queen Autumn had raised her own hand as well. I watched with some interest as his hand and her hand found each other’s, but not really. I doubted he could see her; at least, not yet. Maybe he would in time, but I didn’t know.
“I-I feel her, I think,” he said.
Opposite him, Autumn covered her mouth with her other hand. Tears flowed freely down her face.
“She feels you too,” I said.
“She’s weeping,” he said.
“Yes,” I said.
“Now... she’s asking for help. She’s asking for my help to save her baby.”
He stood there for another heartbeat or two, then pulled his hand back, breaking the connection. Tears streamed down his face as well.
“What’s happening, Sam?” he asked.
At this point, I figured it was a rhetorical question. I said, “Something beautiful.”
In the hallway, Autumn sank to her knees and she covered her face with both hands, weeping, her body quaking, and my heart went out to her. After all, I had come to love her and her world and her whole crazy family. Oh, and her hunky First Knight. I loved them all, even the bad boys.
Charlie said, “But I can’t help her, Sam. I can’t help any of them. I-I can’t write. I’ve forgotten how. Or it’s left me. Or something’s wrong with me. I don’t know what to do to help her. Please, Sam. You have to help me. Please.” He sank into his couch, covered his own face.
“Maybe we can help her,” I said.
“What do you mean?” asked Charlie, peeking through his fingers.
Allison shot me a look, no doubt picking up my thoughts. “You can’t be serious, Sam.”
“Oh, but I am,” I said to her, and to Charlie, I said, “Write us into the story.”
***
“Okay, now that’s just crazy talk,” said Charlie.
