Where Do You Get Your Ideas?
by Graham Mathew Scott
Genre: Horror/Supernatural
Swearwords: A couple of strong ones.
Description: When fiction becomes truth.
_____________________________________________________________________
Mark Ghantree was doing the rounds. He had done them before. As a writer, one of any success anyway, you always do the rounds. Do the book signings, hello’s and nice to meet you’s.
At first it was a blast. He loved the attention. He loved knowing so many people were reading his novels, loved knowing that he had fans. He actually had fans! But now… Now was later. This was a done deal, done before with a beer and a dance. Same people and always the same damn questions. Years earlier, before he had any success, he had read ‘On Writing’ By Stephen King, he considered it his writer’s bible. In it King had talked about the questions, the same questions being asked all the time, and he was right. Now Mark Ghantree was tired of those questions.
“Where do you get your ideas?”
“How do you write so convincingly?”
Where do you get your ideas was the most asked.
“Do you ever scare yourself?”
That one was the creepiest…because sometimes…he did.
Mark Ghantree was done. He was a free man. He had slipped out the back of the bookstore after a long and lengthy signing. Very grateful for all his fans and their exuberance, but also very grateful he was in the peaceful serenity of his own car again. He sat for a few minutes collecting his thoughts. Mark looked to his right at the jumble of junk on his passenger seat. His old satchel he had been carrying for years with the flags stitched to the front, a water bottle and part of a paper bag containing this morning’s doughnut he didn’t eat. The satchel had been a staple of his. He’d carried it across several continents. Slept with it under his arm, on the street, on an airplane, bus, train, car. When he still had no money but a helluva lot of vision and hope.
He picked a pack of cigarettes out of his car’s console. The car was fairly new, Mark had never owned a new car before. He felt slightly awkward about owning this one but a person that doesn’t want to fly needs to drive and have a good car to do it in. Back in his garage he had an old ’63 Ford Fairlane he had bought after a season of tree planting in western Canada. He loved the hell out of that car but it would never make the routine travels he needed it to. So his friend had suggested something new and reliable…new and reliable seemed boring, but when you have the money to make it a new Dodge Challenger your luck was definitely looking up.
Flicked his Bic, and lit his smoke. Felt kind of bad smoking in a car this nice, like it was his mom’s house where coasters were not just suggestions. But then he thought, to hell with it! Nothing stays beautiful forever. Eventually even the Mona Lisa would be an illegible glitter of faded colours.
Jack was Mark’s editor. He tapped on the car window. Mark lowered it.
“You ok?” Jack asked.
“Yeah, no problems. Just getting ready for the drive.”
“You know you should really take up flying…and you should quit those things,” Jack said, lastly pointing at Mark’s cigarette.
“I don’t mind flying. I just hate bloody airports. Six fuckin checkpoints then sit around. No thanks. Give me a good car, an open window, some good tunes and a breeze any day.” He smiled and flicked the cigarette. “And to hell with this too,” meaning the cigarette, “I’ll worry about what will kill me when I’m dead.”
Jack smiled the smile of someone who knows there’s no talking to those who won’t listen.
“Wanna catch a beer before I head back up the road?” Ghantree said with a smile, knowing already what the answer would be.
“Nah, things to do, ya know.”
“’Course.”
“Ok, well, see ya in a coupla weeks,” Jack said hitting the door as he signed off, like a TV anchorman hitting his desk as the camera shifts perspectives.
Mark revved the engine of the new beast. His foot felt like God, power and exhalation. Shifted the transmission and stared up at his friend who was stepping back. Possibly his only friend. For a second he felt a twinge of sadness, then steeled himself like he had for so many years since his world sunk beneath the ocean and he found himself alone. He liked being alone. No one he could hurt that way.
“See ya, Jack!” he said as he gunned the engine and peeled a nice half turn in reverse. Then he shoved the stick into first, dropped the clutch and slammed the gas. Mark Ghantree peeled out of the parking lot and sooner rather than later was out of the city and on the tree-lined highway without even looking back. Just the way he liked it. No people, nothing but nature and open road.
His ipod was plugged into the car’s stereo, no radio for this rider of the waves of the future. ‘Pretty great,’ he thought. The car companies obviously have their hand on the heartbeat of the common man. Tape decks and cd players are a thing of the past. A person still liked the radio once in a while but as it usually goes these days people want freedom of choice. They don’t want to be chained to programming. Not by the radio, not by the television, not by their government, not by anything. He gunned the engine and passed a minivan. In it was someone’s dad. Someone’s dad with at least three kids Mark could see. The fool was carrying precious cargo and still thought he was a race car driver. ‘What an idiot,’ Mark thought. Doesn’t know what he’s doing, probably won’t know until he fucks it all up. Not his business, though, people have to make their own mistakes. Like flippin their kids on the highway cuz they’re too stupid to realize life isn’t the video game they play at home and here there are no extra lives.
The car purred. It didn’t roar like his old Fairlane, eight cylinders hungry for fire. Cars don’t roar anymore. Too bad. That’s what makes those big engines feel like thunder and lightning. It’s not the speed, it’s the engine roaring like an animal, a hungry animal in search of fresh meat and blood. Mark was searching. He didn’t know what for, but he knew if he drove far enough he would eventually find it.
So the car roared, the music blared and Mark Ghantree smoked and smiled. The place would come, the places always came, the people came and the dreams would never stop, dammit.
So you write down what is important, try to forget what isn’t, and keep driving until you pass the line between the physical and the immaterial.
The Diner
Around four in the afternoon the tank was getting thirsty and so was Mark. He pulled off the highway, not wanting to hit the usual run in haunts of the average traveler. ‘Boring,’ he always thought. You don’t find a sweet old car or a yard sale or a pretty girl that hasn’t’ already heard it all, on the highway.
He had no idea what the town was called he pulled into. All he knew was it was small. Just like he liked. Small and quiet. He liked being an interruption. Less chance that anyone recognized him and asked the stupid questions. Not that it happened that much. After all he wasn’t a movie star or anything. His face was only plastered on the back of his books and not in a million magazines. The public want to know who Paris Hilton is sleeping with not some novelist. It was nice being a knight of the written word. There was a fair bit of anonymity in it. He felt sorry for the folks who got photographed in their pajamas buying milk at four in the morning. Guess the vultures are always circling.
Mark picked the smallest greasiest spoon closest to the highway exit. There was a busted ass gas station and a dying looking cafeteria style restaurant. The kind the greyhound busses stopped in when there was nothing else. God knows he had seen lots of those, had taken that awful bus from one side of Canada to the other enough times to read his own name carved into park benches across the country more than a few times.
He parked the car up the back so no one could see what he was driving, a man in a fancy car always brings cognizance even in the most traffic places. On his walk in with this still in his mind he considered that he could have bought a non-descript shmo car but then where would be the fun in drivin that across the country?
The place was small, only a few booths with chairs and tables cemented to the ground since 1974 by the look of the colour and shape of the place. There were newspapers for free near the counter in a hutch on the wall. This was definitely a bus stop on a cross country trip. Mark couldn’t think why anyone would ever stop here for any other reason. Although by the look of the place it was obvious it got business.
The cashier was plain, not really wearing a uniform but not really not. She didn’t say anything as he approached, just put down her book and asked him what he wanted with an even voice. She was obviously lost in whatever she was reading and was taking his order without missing a beat like a robot loading the next command before going back to its first position. Funny, it reminded Mark of the welding robots built by Fanuc in a car factory he once worked in. Waiting for the operator to load the next piece so it could be attacked by the pack like wolves and then they could return to their neutral positions and ask again.
The menu was simple North American food. Just like Mark was hoping. Hamburgers, Cheeseburgers, fries, chili, battered fish, pie. Though such things seem normal to a person who has lived it his whole life, Mark had been around the world a bit and he knew what a place that served what you liked was worth. It’s worth a Helluva Lot!
He ordered a Cheeseburger, only cheese, no damn condiments (He hated ketchup worse than dog shit on his burger) and gravy fries and a chocolate milk. Gravy is hard to find in Asia and so is good milk and Mark had just spent a good bit of time there and was glad to be back to his usual.
The cashier barely looked up, typed a few keys on her register and gave a quick yell to the older woman in the kitchen.
“$4.75,” she said without a thought but her last paragraph.
Mark gave her exact change. He liked giving exact change. These kind of places always worked in prices that worked out to exact change, not like all that penny ante tax crap most places had. The price isn’t what is advertised, it’s whatever the government says it is this week so you can’t guess, best leave it up to the machines to decipher the exact percentage of what they want.
He shuffled off to his booth, sipping on his chocolate milk with double straws. Ever since he was a kid he felt chocolate milk always deserved double straws. It was that good.
He flipped through yesterday’s paper looking at the pictures casually, waiting, not really noticing. No point to. After the concentration of driving this place was a reprieve. A place to relax the mind. Read the comics and take a breath.
A few minutes later his order was called. Not that it needed to be, everyone else in the place was served. An old Indian fella in a big hat sipping a coffee being the extent of it. As he approached the counter and took his food off it he noticed with some horror and exoneration that the book the cashier was engorged in and not looking up at him from was one of his own. ‘Well maybe she hasn’t noticed my picture in the back,’ he thought. ‘Most likely she won’t, she can’t take her nose out of it long enough.’ This made him feel good that he could capture someone’s imagination so fully.
Ghantree sat back down at the booth with his chocolate milk and paper and enjoyed a damn good burger and fries with gravy. Gravy in Canada tastes like heaven to a man who has missed it and hates ketchup. Reminded him of gravy in his old high school cafeteria. For a moment he wondered what the old lunch ladies at P.C.I. were doing these days. Obviously retired, probably making awesome gravy for their grandchildren, or eating dust in the ground. Either way…
The burger was consumed and only a few fries left with the precious gravy when he felt the woman above him breathing heavy. He looked up into the face of the cashier. She no longer looked half dead. In fact she looked full of life, breathless, except for the big gusts of wind she tumbled in and out of her grease burger filled lungs. He put down his fry and sighed knowing what was coming next.
“Excuse me,” she stammered in her breathy voice.
“Yes,” Mark said, pushing his plate back.
“You’re Mark Ghantree, aren’t you?”
“Do you like the book?”
“I love it, Mr. Ghantree. I’ve read all your books. I’ve read this one three times... well two and a half.”
“I’m glad you like it.” He said smiling, because he was glad.
“Oh my God, It’s such an honour to have you here, what in the world are you doing here?”
“Eating,” Mark said with a laugh. He was a good humoured person and he did like his fans, just please not the stupid questions.
She laughed, “You are so funny, your books, I, well, uhm... I...”
“I’ll autograph your copy if you like.”
“Oh my yes, Oh Wow that would be great, really would you. I mean you don’t have to. Oh my, I can’t believe I charged you for your lunch. If I had known I would have…”
“Its all right, I can afford lunch. Good people like you buy my books after all.”
She went a little red. “Actually I didn’t, its one of the leftovers.”
“Leftovers?”
“Well we get a lot of people through here on the greyhound and they leave stuff all the time. Most of them are going cross-country and are half awake and well, once the bus rolls on there’s no tracking them down.”
“I see, someone left it,”
“Yes but I assure you I will go right out and buy my own copy, I’m so sorry, I feel like I’ve stolen something…”
“Don’t be silly, the written word was meant to be shared. I don’t write books for the money. I write them to share. The fact you’re enjoying it is enough payment… Of course buying one once in a while helps me afford to keep writing.” He said the last bit with a laugh, joking, but not really. The cashier laughed herself. Mark took the book, she handed him a pen from her apron. “Who should I make it out to?”
“Gladys please.”
“Anything special you’d like me to write?”
“I can’t think of anything, please just something nice.”
He wrote ‘To Gladys, A great fan and a great person, Best Wishes Mark Ghantree.’
“That ok?”
“Oh that’s just great thank you again.”
“No worries,” he said with a smile, already getting ready to leave. The fries and gravy had got cold and he wanted to get out while the encounter was still pleasant.
“Oh are you leaving? Would you like some pie before you go? On the house!”
“You’re too kind, Gladys, but no thanks. Maybe see you again sometime. Please tell the cook the food was great.”
“Oh thank you, she’ll be happy to hear that. Old Lily really prides herself on her cooking, been here almost 20 years she has.”
“Well then it’s been 20 years of great food I would expect. Have a great day, Gladys.”
“Mr. Ghantree…”
“Yes,” Mark asked, but he knew what was coming, a question. He just hoped perhaps it was a good one, something observant or literary.
“Can I just ask a question?” she barely paused, a big shit-eatin grin on her face like she was about to discover the secret to the universe. “Where do you get your ideas?”
Of course…What else would she ask? Bloody annoying, how does a person answer that? Where did any artist get their ideas from? The drink, the drugs, the mystical ether that Carl Jung talks about, the collective unconscious. Then an idea struck him, as they are wont to do. A great idea. The way he would answer the question from now on. Brilliant.
“Well, Gladys, I just look around myself and tell the story of truth. After all truth is stranger than fiction, at least according to Bad Religion.”
“Who?” She looked very confused. “I don’t quite understand, there’s nothing around here. Just a boring old diner.”
“Ok, first, Bad Religion is a great band, probably not your kind of music but that’s neither here nor there. There is plenty going on everywhere, even here. You just don’t see it because it doesn’t want to be seen, but I see it because I’ve seen it before and I know what it looks like.”
“What?”
“I don’t think you want to know.”
“Oh but I do, Mr. Ghantree, I really do.” She was almost pleading and for a moment Mark felt a little bad for what he was about to do, then he just thought to hell with it. She wants a scare, why else would she be reading his book?
“Ok, come close, though.” Mark was getting down to a whisper trying to be confidential. “See that man sitting over there with his coffee?”
Gladys slyly looked over her shoulder at the old Indian, his eyes were bleary and downcast, seemingly not paying any attention.
“Have you seen him in here before?”
“Actually no.”
“And your friend behind the counter, Lily, how much do you really know about her?”
She was thinking, she didn’t quite get it yet but she was getting suspicious. “I’ve known her a few years, but she’s quiet, lives alone in the apartment upstairs. I suppose I really don’t know that much about her.”
“Neither of them are who you think.”
She looked almost worried, but still skeptical. Mark could tell she was wrestling with it in her head. He would have to be quick to bring the hammer down or the blow would be lost.
“That one behind you isn’t even human. He’s trying too hard to appear that way but he keeps losing his concentration and his face keeps slipping into something else, something grey with teeth and blood red lips, like a TV flickering.”
Gladys quickly tried to look over her shoulder but Mark caught her before she could.
“But he’s not the least of your worries, he may pass on as long as he, or it, doesn’t think you notice. The thing in the kitchen, that’s the one to watch out for.”
“Lily?”
“That hasn’t been Lily for a long time, maybe it never was, why it hides here I can’t say but it wears the skin very comfortably. And I tell you its waiting.”
“For what?”
“I don’t know and I don’t want to find out.” Mark stepped away from his seat and Gladys grabbed his arm almost immediately. There was fear in her eyes.
“Please, for the love of God you can’t leave me here with them.” She was really shook up. She kept trying to look over her shoulder at the old Indian but the fear wouldn’t let her. Quickly her eyes shifted to the kitchen door then darted back to Mark. The seeds he had planted were growing like wildfire. He concealed a smug smile with his poker face. Mark Ghantree was a good actor and after this performance he started to think maybe he should try for some film roles. Of course he wasn’t completely cruel, he knew he couldn’t leave her like this.
“Relax a little, Gladys, or they’ll know. The best thing you can do now is just carry on as you always have and you’ll be just fine.” He patted her hand that was still death gripped on his upper arm. Her grip loosened enough for him to free his arm. Mark started to head out of the diner, back to his car and the road. As he opened the door he looked back over his shoulder, she was still standing next to his table, she looked terrified. He took pity, a joke was a joke but scaring a person and then leaving them in their fear was just cruel.
“I’m just kidding, Gladys,” he said while holding the door open. “That’s where I get my ideas, I just think of what will scare a person and then I write it down. I didn’t mean to scare you, but you did ask.”
She relaxed a little, she was still scared but she was beginning to understand.
“You’re good, Mr. Ghantree.”
“Thanks for lunch, Gladys,”
“Drive safe, Mr. Ghantree,”
Mark turned to the kitchen and although he couldn’t see old Lily he knew she was there, “Thanks for the great food Lily!” He saw her face just as he turned and out of the corner of his eye it looked strange, he looked back quickly and it was gone. He turned immediately to look at the old Indian. The man was looking up at him. Mark wondered how much of the conversation he had heard. The old man’s eyes were locked on him. Mark felt uncomfortable, he was going to say something then thought better of it and began to turn toward the outside again. As he did he thought he saw that old face flicker like a broken TV and for just a moment something grey and inhuman with blood red lips and a lascivious smile looked at him. Mark blinked and it was gone. ‘Scaring myself,’ he thought. ‘Jeesus, I am a good actor’. Gladys was now cleaning his plates from the table. He left quickly, feeling odd, as though he had unleashed something. The way he felt writing late at night when it seemed like something was watching and whispering secrets into his ear. Things mortal men should not know, things best to write quickly and not dwell on.
Stepping into the sunshine again was like being drunk and dazed for a few moments. Mark lost all direction and actually swooned a little. He caught himself quickly and stepped back to the car. Lighting a cigarette and starting the engine he glanced casually back at the grimy diner windows. He couldn’t see inside any more than shadows. Back in the sunshine, new car and bright day again he felt a little silly. And for a moment he thought, ‘Where do I get my ideas?’ Then he threw the transmission in gear and peeled out. A joke. A pretty good joke. He’d have to remember to keep his composure next time.
The Dodge Charger rolled away back to the highway. But behind in the diner… things were changing. A few hours later a Greyhound bus pulled in to find a closed diner and a new passenger. The police searched for the bus for weeks. Thirty-three souls lost without a trace somewhere in the wilderness between stops. The blood started at the diner, no bodies, no bus, no Lily, no Gladys, just an autographed copy of a Mark Ghantree book.
Gladys heard the rev of a car engine outside and then it was on her, thrusting into her, tearing through her dress and underwear, ripping her apart. The pain was unimaginable but paled in comparison to the sharp ripping between her shoulder blades as seconds later her spine was bitten in two. She fell to the grime tiled floor. The last thing she saw was the thing coming out the kitchen door. Something so horrible her eyeballs bulged and exploded into their sockets like grapes smashed by a hammer. There was a squeal, like a piglet’s throat being slit, from behind her before her world ended in blood and blackness.
It licked the floor clean like one who has been hungry for a long time.
And waited for the bus.
Just have a smoke, love, the bus always comes when you’re having a smoke. And a writer always sees truth and interprets it as fiction. But truth has a way of catching up. Because some things don’t like being seen, and like even less to be recognized.
Fear is like wine, it tastes better with time. And some things know how to wait.
Swearwords: A couple of strong ones.
Description: When fiction becomes truth.
_____________________________________________________________________
Mark Ghantree was doing the rounds. He had done them before. As a writer, one of any success anyway, you always do the rounds. Do the book signings, hello’s and nice to meet you’s.
At first it was a blast. He loved the attention. He loved knowing so many people were reading his novels, loved knowing that he had fans. He actually had fans! But now… Now was later. This was a done deal, done before with a beer and a dance. Same people and always the same damn questions. Years earlier, before he had any success, he had read ‘On Writing’ By Stephen King, he considered it his writer’s bible. In it King had talked about the questions, the same questions being asked all the time, and he was right. Now Mark Ghantree was tired of those questions.
“Where do you get your ideas?”
“How do you write so convincingly?”
Where do you get your ideas was the most asked.
“Do you ever scare yourself?”
That one was the creepiest…because sometimes…he did.
Mark Ghantree was done. He was a free man. He had slipped out the back of the bookstore after a long and lengthy signing. Very grateful for all his fans and their exuberance, but also very grateful he was in the peaceful serenity of his own car again. He sat for a few minutes collecting his thoughts. Mark looked to his right at the jumble of junk on his passenger seat. His old satchel he had been carrying for years with the flags stitched to the front, a water bottle and part of a paper bag containing this morning’s doughnut he didn’t eat. The satchel had been a staple of his. He’d carried it across several continents. Slept with it under his arm, on the street, on an airplane, bus, train, car. When he still had no money but a helluva lot of vision and hope.
He picked a pack of cigarettes out of his car’s console. The car was fairly new, Mark had never owned a new car before. He felt slightly awkward about owning this one but a person that doesn’t want to fly needs to drive and have a good car to do it in. Back in his garage he had an old ’63 Ford Fairlane he had bought after a season of tree planting in western Canada. He loved the hell out of that car but it would never make the routine travels he needed it to. So his friend had suggested something new and reliable…new and reliable seemed boring, but when you have the money to make it a new Dodge Challenger your luck was definitely looking up.
Flicked his Bic, and lit his smoke. Felt kind of bad smoking in a car this nice, like it was his mom’s house where coasters were not just suggestions. But then he thought, to hell with it! Nothing stays beautiful forever. Eventually even the Mona Lisa would be an illegible glitter of faded colours.
Jack was Mark’s editor. He tapped on the car window. Mark lowered it.
“You ok?” Jack asked.
“Yeah, no problems. Just getting ready for the drive.”
“You know you should really take up flying…and you should quit those things,” Jack said, lastly pointing at Mark’s cigarette.
“I don’t mind flying. I just hate bloody airports. Six fuckin checkpoints then sit around. No thanks. Give me a good car, an open window, some good tunes and a breeze any day.” He smiled and flicked the cigarette. “And to hell with this too,” meaning the cigarette, “I’ll worry about what will kill me when I’m dead.”
Jack smiled the smile of someone who knows there’s no talking to those who won’t listen.
“Wanna catch a beer before I head back up the road?” Ghantree said with a smile, knowing already what the answer would be.
“Nah, things to do, ya know.”
“’Course.”
“Ok, well, see ya in a coupla weeks,” Jack said hitting the door as he signed off, like a TV anchorman hitting his desk as the camera shifts perspectives.
Mark revved the engine of the new beast. His foot felt like God, power and exhalation. Shifted the transmission and stared up at his friend who was stepping back. Possibly his only friend. For a second he felt a twinge of sadness, then steeled himself like he had for so many years since his world sunk beneath the ocean and he found himself alone. He liked being alone. No one he could hurt that way.
“See ya, Jack!” he said as he gunned the engine and peeled a nice half turn in reverse. Then he shoved the stick into first, dropped the clutch and slammed the gas. Mark Ghantree peeled out of the parking lot and sooner rather than later was out of the city and on the tree-lined highway without even looking back. Just the way he liked it. No people, nothing but nature and open road.
His ipod was plugged into the car’s stereo, no radio for this rider of the waves of the future. ‘Pretty great,’ he thought. The car companies obviously have their hand on the heartbeat of the common man. Tape decks and cd players are a thing of the past. A person still liked the radio once in a while but as it usually goes these days people want freedom of choice. They don’t want to be chained to programming. Not by the radio, not by the television, not by their government, not by anything. He gunned the engine and passed a minivan. In it was someone’s dad. Someone’s dad with at least three kids Mark could see. The fool was carrying precious cargo and still thought he was a race car driver. ‘What an idiot,’ Mark thought. Doesn’t know what he’s doing, probably won’t know until he fucks it all up. Not his business, though, people have to make their own mistakes. Like flippin their kids on the highway cuz they’re too stupid to realize life isn’t the video game they play at home and here there are no extra lives.
The car purred. It didn’t roar like his old Fairlane, eight cylinders hungry for fire. Cars don’t roar anymore. Too bad. That’s what makes those big engines feel like thunder and lightning. It’s not the speed, it’s the engine roaring like an animal, a hungry animal in search of fresh meat and blood. Mark was searching. He didn’t know what for, but he knew if he drove far enough he would eventually find it.
So the car roared, the music blared and Mark Ghantree smoked and smiled. The place would come, the places always came, the people came and the dreams would never stop, dammit.
So you write down what is important, try to forget what isn’t, and keep driving until you pass the line between the physical and the immaterial.
The Diner
Around four in the afternoon the tank was getting thirsty and so was Mark. He pulled off the highway, not wanting to hit the usual run in haunts of the average traveler. ‘Boring,’ he always thought. You don’t find a sweet old car or a yard sale or a pretty girl that hasn’t’ already heard it all, on the highway.
He had no idea what the town was called he pulled into. All he knew was it was small. Just like he liked. Small and quiet. He liked being an interruption. Less chance that anyone recognized him and asked the stupid questions. Not that it happened that much. After all he wasn’t a movie star or anything. His face was only plastered on the back of his books and not in a million magazines. The public want to know who Paris Hilton is sleeping with not some novelist. It was nice being a knight of the written word. There was a fair bit of anonymity in it. He felt sorry for the folks who got photographed in their pajamas buying milk at four in the morning. Guess the vultures are always circling.
Mark picked the smallest greasiest spoon closest to the highway exit. There was a busted ass gas station and a dying looking cafeteria style restaurant. The kind the greyhound busses stopped in when there was nothing else. God knows he had seen lots of those, had taken that awful bus from one side of Canada to the other enough times to read his own name carved into park benches across the country more than a few times.
He parked the car up the back so no one could see what he was driving, a man in a fancy car always brings cognizance even in the most traffic places. On his walk in with this still in his mind he considered that he could have bought a non-descript shmo car but then where would be the fun in drivin that across the country?
The place was small, only a few booths with chairs and tables cemented to the ground since 1974 by the look of the colour and shape of the place. There were newspapers for free near the counter in a hutch on the wall. This was definitely a bus stop on a cross country trip. Mark couldn’t think why anyone would ever stop here for any other reason. Although by the look of the place it was obvious it got business.
The cashier was plain, not really wearing a uniform but not really not. She didn’t say anything as he approached, just put down her book and asked him what he wanted with an even voice. She was obviously lost in whatever she was reading and was taking his order without missing a beat like a robot loading the next command before going back to its first position. Funny, it reminded Mark of the welding robots built by Fanuc in a car factory he once worked in. Waiting for the operator to load the next piece so it could be attacked by the pack like wolves and then they could return to their neutral positions and ask again.
The menu was simple North American food. Just like Mark was hoping. Hamburgers, Cheeseburgers, fries, chili, battered fish, pie. Though such things seem normal to a person who has lived it his whole life, Mark had been around the world a bit and he knew what a place that served what you liked was worth. It’s worth a Helluva Lot!
He ordered a Cheeseburger, only cheese, no damn condiments (He hated ketchup worse than dog shit on his burger) and gravy fries and a chocolate milk. Gravy is hard to find in Asia and so is good milk and Mark had just spent a good bit of time there and was glad to be back to his usual.
The cashier barely looked up, typed a few keys on her register and gave a quick yell to the older woman in the kitchen.
“$4.75,” she said without a thought but her last paragraph.
Mark gave her exact change. He liked giving exact change. These kind of places always worked in prices that worked out to exact change, not like all that penny ante tax crap most places had. The price isn’t what is advertised, it’s whatever the government says it is this week so you can’t guess, best leave it up to the machines to decipher the exact percentage of what they want.
He shuffled off to his booth, sipping on his chocolate milk with double straws. Ever since he was a kid he felt chocolate milk always deserved double straws. It was that good.
He flipped through yesterday’s paper looking at the pictures casually, waiting, not really noticing. No point to. After the concentration of driving this place was a reprieve. A place to relax the mind. Read the comics and take a breath.
A few minutes later his order was called. Not that it needed to be, everyone else in the place was served. An old Indian fella in a big hat sipping a coffee being the extent of it. As he approached the counter and took his food off it he noticed with some horror and exoneration that the book the cashier was engorged in and not looking up at him from was one of his own. ‘Well maybe she hasn’t noticed my picture in the back,’ he thought. ‘Most likely she won’t, she can’t take her nose out of it long enough.’ This made him feel good that he could capture someone’s imagination so fully.
Ghantree sat back down at the booth with his chocolate milk and paper and enjoyed a damn good burger and fries with gravy. Gravy in Canada tastes like heaven to a man who has missed it and hates ketchup. Reminded him of gravy in his old high school cafeteria. For a moment he wondered what the old lunch ladies at P.C.I. were doing these days. Obviously retired, probably making awesome gravy for their grandchildren, or eating dust in the ground. Either way…
The burger was consumed and only a few fries left with the precious gravy when he felt the woman above him breathing heavy. He looked up into the face of the cashier. She no longer looked half dead. In fact she looked full of life, breathless, except for the big gusts of wind she tumbled in and out of her grease burger filled lungs. He put down his fry and sighed knowing what was coming next.
“Excuse me,” she stammered in her breathy voice.
“Yes,” Mark said, pushing his plate back.
“You’re Mark Ghantree, aren’t you?”
“Do you like the book?”
“I love it, Mr. Ghantree. I’ve read all your books. I’ve read this one three times... well two and a half.”
“I’m glad you like it.” He said smiling, because he was glad.
“Oh my God, It’s such an honour to have you here, what in the world are you doing here?”
“Eating,” Mark said with a laugh. He was a good humoured person and he did like his fans, just please not the stupid questions.
She laughed, “You are so funny, your books, I, well, uhm... I...”
“I’ll autograph your copy if you like.”
“Oh my yes, Oh Wow that would be great, really would you. I mean you don’t have to. Oh my, I can’t believe I charged you for your lunch. If I had known I would have…”
“Its all right, I can afford lunch. Good people like you buy my books after all.”
She went a little red. “Actually I didn’t, its one of the leftovers.”
“Leftovers?”
“Well we get a lot of people through here on the greyhound and they leave stuff all the time. Most of them are going cross-country and are half awake and well, once the bus rolls on there’s no tracking them down.”
“I see, someone left it,”
“Yes but I assure you I will go right out and buy my own copy, I’m so sorry, I feel like I’ve stolen something…”
“Don’t be silly, the written word was meant to be shared. I don’t write books for the money. I write them to share. The fact you’re enjoying it is enough payment… Of course buying one once in a while helps me afford to keep writing.” He said the last bit with a laugh, joking, but not really. The cashier laughed herself. Mark took the book, she handed him a pen from her apron. “Who should I make it out to?”
“Gladys please.”
“Anything special you’d like me to write?”
“I can’t think of anything, please just something nice.”
He wrote ‘To Gladys, A great fan and a great person, Best Wishes Mark Ghantree.’
“That ok?”
“Oh that’s just great thank you again.”
“No worries,” he said with a smile, already getting ready to leave. The fries and gravy had got cold and he wanted to get out while the encounter was still pleasant.
“Oh are you leaving? Would you like some pie before you go? On the house!”
“You’re too kind, Gladys, but no thanks. Maybe see you again sometime. Please tell the cook the food was great.”
“Oh thank you, she’ll be happy to hear that. Old Lily really prides herself on her cooking, been here almost 20 years she has.”
“Well then it’s been 20 years of great food I would expect. Have a great day, Gladys.”
“Mr. Ghantree…”
“Yes,” Mark asked, but he knew what was coming, a question. He just hoped perhaps it was a good one, something observant or literary.
“Can I just ask a question?” she barely paused, a big shit-eatin grin on her face like she was about to discover the secret to the universe. “Where do you get your ideas?”
Of course…What else would she ask? Bloody annoying, how does a person answer that? Where did any artist get their ideas from? The drink, the drugs, the mystical ether that Carl Jung talks about, the collective unconscious. Then an idea struck him, as they are wont to do. A great idea. The way he would answer the question from now on. Brilliant.
“Well, Gladys, I just look around myself and tell the story of truth. After all truth is stranger than fiction, at least according to Bad Religion.”
“Who?” She looked very confused. “I don’t quite understand, there’s nothing around here. Just a boring old diner.”
“Ok, first, Bad Religion is a great band, probably not your kind of music but that’s neither here nor there. There is plenty going on everywhere, even here. You just don’t see it because it doesn’t want to be seen, but I see it because I’ve seen it before and I know what it looks like.”
“What?”
“I don’t think you want to know.”
“Oh but I do, Mr. Ghantree, I really do.” She was almost pleading and for a moment Mark felt a little bad for what he was about to do, then he just thought to hell with it. She wants a scare, why else would she be reading his book?
“Ok, come close, though.” Mark was getting down to a whisper trying to be confidential. “See that man sitting over there with his coffee?”
Gladys slyly looked over her shoulder at the old Indian, his eyes were bleary and downcast, seemingly not paying any attention.
“Have you seen him in here before?”
“Actually no.”
“And your friend behind the counter, Lily, how much do you really know about her?”
She was thinking, she didn’t quite get it yet but she was getting suspicious. “I’ve known her a few years, but she’s quiet, lives alone in the apartment upstairs. I suppose I really don’t know that much about her.”
“Neither of them are who you think.”
She looked almost worried, but still skeptical. Mark could tell she was wrestling with it in her head. He would have to be quick to bring the hammer down or the blow would be lost.
“That one behind you isn’t even human. He’s trying too hard to appear that way but he keeps losing his concentration and his face keeps slipping into something else, something grey with teeth and blood red lips, like a TV flickering.”
Gladys quickly tried to look over her shoulder but Mark caught her before she could.
“But he’s not the least of your worries, he may pass on as long as he, or it, doesn’t think you notice. The thing in the kitchen, that’s the one to watch out for.”
“Lily?”
“That hasn’t been Lily for a long time, maybe it never was, why it hides here I can’t say but it wears the skin very comfortably. And I tell you its waiting.”
“For what?”
“I don’t know and I don’t want to find out.” Mark stepped away from his seat and Gladys grabbed his arm almost immediately. There was fear in her eyes.
“Please, for the love of God you can’t leave me here with them.” She was really shook up. She kept trying to look over her shoulder at the old Indian but the fear wouldn’t let her. Quickly her eyes shifted to the kitchen door then darted back to Mark. The seeds he had planted were growing like wildfire. He concealed a smug smile with his poker face. Mark Ghantree was a good actor and after this performance he started to think maybe he should try for some film roles. Of course he wasn’t completely cruel, he knew he couldn’t leave her like this.
“Relax a little, Gladys, or they’ll know. The best thing you can do now is just carry on as you always have and you’ll be just fine.” He patted her hand that was still death gripped on his upper arm. Her grip loosened enough for him to free his arm. Mark started to head out of the diner, back to his car and the road. As he opened the door he looked back over his shoulder, she was still standing next to his table, she looked terrified. He took pity, a joke was a joke but scaring a person and then leaving them in their fear was just cruel.
“I’m just kidding, Gladys,” he said while holding the door open. “That’s where I get my ideas, I just think of what will scare a person and then I write it down. I didn’t mean to scare you, but you did ask.”
She relaxed a little, she was still scared but she was beginning to understand.
“You’re good, Mr. Ghantree.”
“Thanks for lunch, Gladys,”
“Drive safe, Mr. Ghantree,”
Mark turned to the kitchen and although he couldn’t see old Lily he knew she was there, “Thanks for the great food Lily!” He saw her face just as he turned and out of the corner of his eye it looked strange, he looked back quickly and it was gone. He turned immediately to look at the old Indian. The man was looking up at him. Mark wondered how much of the conversation he had heard. The old man’s eyes were locked on him. Mark felt uncomfortable, he was going to say something then thought better of it and began to turn toward the outside again. As he did he thought he saw that old face flicker like a broken TV and for just a moment something grey and inhuman with blood red lips and a lascivious smile looked at him. Mark blinked and it was gone. ‘Scaring myself,’ he thought. ‘Jeesus, I am a good actor’. Gladys was now cleaning his plates from the table. He left quickly, feeling odd, as though he had unleashed something. The way he felt writing late at night when it seemed like something was watching and whispering secrets into his ear. Things mortal men should not know, things best to write quickly and not dwell on.
Stepping into the sunshine again was like being drunk and dazed for a few moments. Mark lost all direction and actually swooned a little. He caught himself quickly and stepped back to the car. Lighting a cigarette and starting the engine he glanced casually back at the grimy diner windows. He couldn’t see inside any more than shadows. Back in the sunshine, new car and bright day again he felt a little silly. And for a moment he thought, ‘Where do I get my ideas?’ Then he threw the transmission in gear and peeled out. A joke. A pretty good joke. He’d have to remember to keep his composure next time.
The Dodge Charger rolled away back to the highway. But behind in the diner… things were changing. A few hours later a Greyhound bus pulled in to find a closed diner and a new passenger. The police searched for the bus for weeks. Thirty-three souls lost without a trace somewhere in the wilderness between stops. The blood started at the diner, no bodies, no bus, no Lily, no Gladys, just an autographed copy of a Mark Ghantree book.
Gladys heard the rev of a car engine outside and then it was on her, thrusting into her, tearing through her dress and underwear, ripping her apart. The pain was unimaginable but paled in comparison to the sharp ripping between her shoulder blades as seconds later her spine was bitten in two. She fell to the grime tiled floor. The last thing she saw was the thing coming out the kitchen door. Something so horrible her eyeballs bulged and exploded into their sockets like grapes smashed by a hammer. There was a squeal, like a piglet’s throat being slit, from behind her before her world ended in blood and blackness.
It licked the floor clean like one who has been hungry for a long time.
And waited for the bus.
Just have a smoke, love, the bus always comes when you’re having a smoke. And a writer always sees truth and interprets it as fiction. But truth has a way of catching up. Because some things don’t like being seen, and like even less to be recognized.
Fear is like wine, it tastes better with time. And some things know how to wait.
About the Author
Graham Mathew Scott is a Canadian of Scottish heritage who currently lives in Taiwan. He is an artist, a musician and a writer of fiction.