Inspirational Words

“Oh my god! I love every word you wrote,” the young lady says from the front of the lengthy line. “Make it out to Sara.”

“Absolutely. I’m so glad you enjoyed it,” I say from the other side of the table where I’ve been signing copies for two hours. The line of fans seems endless.

“It was life changing for me,” she beams as I finish my signature.

She isn’t the first person to say something similar. The readers have been filled with only good thoughts and praise. My years of work have paid off. This book is only the first in a series I can’t write fast enough. Each one is more terrifying and terrific than the last. Each night I write like never before, words flowing out with little need for editing, it’s as if I go into a trance. The passage of time is unnoticeable. The second book is all ready for publication. They wanted to get it out fast on the heels of the first.

Before handing back her book I ask Sara, “What made it life changing?”

“Everything, right from the title to the last word. It spoke to me!” and as she answers the two people behind her vigorously nod their heads in agreement.

Life changing? It’s a weird way to describe a graphic thriller novel about a serial killer. I mean there’s a hero in the story, but the ending is not a happy ending. “Sara, do you mind if I speak with you for a moment,” my agent, Lucy, asks from behind me. “I would love a quote for future promotional material.”

“Oh wow! I’d love to,” Sara whisks past me in her excitement almost forgetting her book. At the last moment she takes it, “Thank you so much Mr. Lot.”

“I’ll be right back,” Lucy says from behind me. “I’m going to ask Sara a few questions.”

“Ok, I have nowhere to go. The line may never end.”

The line in the Barnes and Nobles wraps through the store. At one point people were waiting outside along the Manhattan sidewalks to get in to buy a copy. ‘Unprecidented,’ the store manager said. I only planned to be here for two hours, but I’ll stay for my fans as long as the store will allow.

“Your book is pure evil. Um, in a good way. Sorry, that came out wrong,” says a young man with a cracking voice holding his copy out towards me.

His book isn’t new; it’s clearly the copy he already read. Usually, people buy a new one for me to sign, but it doesn’t seem worth it to mention anything. I flip open the cover to the title page I usually sign. That page has an incredibly detailed drawing in dark red ink, a circle with a five-pointed star inside. A pentagram. Not knowing what to say I start to turn to the next page to sign.

“No, no, sign right there,” he says, pointing to the space inside the star. “I made that drawing for your signature.”

With hesitation I set the pen inside the star. “What’s your name?” I ask.

“Damien Evans,” he answers, and chills roll up my spine. “Did you hear?”

“Hear what?” I ask while signing inside his illustration.

“There’s a copycat out there. Last night, just like in your book, the third murder happened.”

“The third one?”

“Yes, the third one from your book,” he says with a devilish gleam in his eye. “You know the one where the victim is dismembered, where her limbs are torn…”

“Yes, yes, I know the one,” I interject hoping to stop him before it gets too graphic.

Then, the woman behind him interjects, “Yes, and this morning they found two other bodies. They fit the pattern of the double killing that started your book. You’re going to be famous!” she says with a weird excitement. “In the morning paper they called them ‘The Satan’s Pawn murders.’”

The news flows down the line like a virus, each new person praising my work and asking various questions about the murders. So far, none have been as excited and interested as Damien was.

“What was the fourth murder again?” someone asks.

“There were ten killings in all, right?” another says. The fascination with the information is borderline inappropriate, but it’s hard to be put off as each person seems genuinely interested and excited. And after all, praise is praise.

Eventually the store closes its doors to new customers and lets the established line get their reward at my request. I want to soak up all the praise while I can, who knows what will happen tomorrow.

* * *

“What a great turnout,” Lucy says, “We’ll have to ride this wave in the newspapers.”

“Ride the wave? It’s not a good thing—is it?” I ask, truly afraid of what the answer might be.

“Any publicity is good publicity. Right now, it’s only a local story, if it goes national; your book will shoot into the stratosphere!” she says pointing up into the air.

“I don’t know. This might be too much.”

“You aren’t the killer. Someone’s copying your work, it’s sick but in a way it’s praise. You’ve gone viral! Others will want to see what the ill guided praise is all about and buy your book. Besides, when you came to me you wanted to be famous. I believe you said you were desperate and would do anything. This might be that anything.” Lucy says. She has been a good agent; I met her at a writer’s conference where she saw the value in my work, though after making the deal with her I tossed that book aside for this new idea. I would swear it came to me in a dream. Fortunately, she loved it even more. “Also, I got a call from the publisher today, they’re anticipating only good things from this. They’re printing another two million copies, and we are only one week into sales. I tell you kid; this is the break you’ve both been waiting for.”

“Damien Evans,” I say under my breath.

“Huh?”

“There was a man today, at the signing, his name was Damien Evans. There was something about him, and there was something about the book he brought for me to sign,” I start.

“Wait, he brought in a book? They’re supposed to buy one before you sign it,” Lucy grabs the wrong thought from my words.

“That’s not what bothered me. He was a bit too fascinated by everything. He wanted me to sign his book inside a drawing he made, a pentagram—in dark red ink,” I say.

“Like dried blood?” Lucy jumps in.

“You don’t think?”

“Stranger things have happened. A copycat killer getting a signature from his hero, his inspiration. We may have to leak this to the papers. It will really add to the story.”

“I don’t know, he was just a crazy fan, nothing more. He wasn’t any crazier than the girl before him, she said the book ‘spoke to her.’”

“Sara? The girl I talked with?”

“Yeah, she was unable to even articulate what she loved about the story. It’s almost as if…” I pause to think of the word.

“I’ve seen it before. Granted it’s been a while, but people are fascinated by the writer sometimes, you’re a good-looking guy and your work isn’t anything to be ashamed of. But sometimes people get wrapped up in the hype. By the way, here’s the address of that girl, Sara. She gave us some magnificent quotes to use in the future. I told her you would send a signed copy of your new book before it came out.”

“Absolutely, I’d love to. Alright, well, I need to get to writing tonight. I have a ton of ideas turning over in my head.”

Lucy immediately gets up and walks to the door separating our rooms, “Well, I don’t want to stand in the way of brilliance, get at it. Remember we have that talk show in the morning, ‘Good Day New York.’ We need to be up and out by seven AM.”

“Yes, my alarm’s already set,” I tell her while opening my computer.

* * *

“Good morning New York, today we have a very special guest Mr. Jason Lot. Only a few weeks ago he was virtually unknown, but his new book Satan’s Pawn has gone viral and screamed up to sit as the number one best seller. Good morning, Jason,” Jennifer, one of the two hosts, says.

“Morning, it’s been a blessing indeed. I’ve only dreamed of a gift such as this,” I say to her, the bright lights, and the camera.

“I bet, as a writer this is that moment you all look forward to,” Brian, the other host says. “Your hero, well I don’t want to give too much away, but he was an unlikely hero. How do you find a person and inspiration for a character like that?”

“Honestly, and I’m not trying to say anything about myself, but I patterned that character, who happens to be a writer, after myself. And I too don’t want to give much away but it was a hard ending to write.”

“Agreed, I’ve the whole book, that would be difficult. If I may ask, does it bother you that this has led to a string of murders, patterned after your book?”

Behind him I see Lucy light up and her arms churning me to embrace this and circle it around into publicity as we discussed.

“It’s not the publicity we, as writers, look forward to. I didn’t write this to inspire someone to do terrible things. The story is about our hero really. His sacrifices, his trials, and in the end the forces of good prevailing,” I answer, proud of how I turned it around.

“Well, we have news today of a fourth murder, a young woman named Sara Walters. She had a signed copy of your book when they found her. She was also murdered following the pattern in your book.”

“Sara…” I pause, picturing her young face. Did it have to be her? “I remember her.”

“What’s that?” Jennifer asks. “You remember her?” Behind her Lucy is flailing her arms for me to move away from this.

“Yes, if it’s the girl I’m thinking of. I talked to her briefly at the signing yesterday. She was a nice young lady. Extremely excited to meet me and enthralled with the book.” Lucy now has her head in her hands. “But she wasn’t there any longer than the rest.”

“Well, you may have been the last person to talk with her, she was found at her house with her new copy of Satan’s Pawn on her lap. That must really feel—weird. Sorry, anyhow, do you have any additional books in the works?” Brian asks.

The rest of the interview was a blur, my mind spinning around the information I just learned.

“Did you know about this?” I ask Lucy backstage.

“No, it’s the first I’ve heard about it.”

“It’s the same girl you talk to last night?”

“Yes, Sara Walters, she gave us some quotes to use for any newspaper articles or promotional material,” Lucy admits.

“She seemed sweet and innocent. It’s a little too real knowing the person,” I add.

A cracking young voice interjects from behind us, “Not what you were expecting?” I turn around and there’s Damien Evans, the young man that was behind her. “You write a book this inspired, this inspiring, and sometimes—well sometimes things happen.”

“Damien, what are you doing here?” I immediately ask.

“I work here; I’m an intern. One day I hope to be as famous as you, one way or the other. I’ve tried writing before, but words didn’t come easy then,” he says. “But your book, your writing, it speaks to me and motivates me.”

“Damien, what are you saying?” I tentatively ask, not sure I want to know the answer. “Did you have a hand in any of this?”

“The murders? No, no more than the two of you,” he says toward Lucy.

I look at Lucy, dumbfounded by his words, she is instead smiling back at the young man.

“I mean it motivated me to start writing again. I hope to be that good one day. I told my friend I would give anything to write like you. Hell, I told her I would become Satan’s Pawn, like in your book, to find your type of talent.”

For a moment I’m sickened by his words, sickened by the implications, then I remember how the idea for the book came to me in the first place. How I would have given anything to be a better writer. How I would sell my soul to have a number one best seller. “I’ve got to go,” is all I can say, leaving the two there while going to the green room to gather my things.

* * *

Finally, alone in the car that brought us to the interview, I ask, “Lucy, what do we do?”

“What are you talking about?

“That kid, Damien. We need to call the cops or something.”

“No, I talked with him after you left. He wasn’t as crazy as his words seemed. And he showed me some of his writing, it’s not too bad,” Lucy says.

“What? Now I’m wondering about you. If you sign him, we’re going to have to seriously talk. The kid said he would be Satan’s Pawn to become a better writer. He literally said he wanted to do the things from my book. He’s sold his soul Lucy, maybe not literally but that kid is dangerous.”

Lucy looks forward as we drive through Manhattan, “Not everything is what it seems. Let’s just forget we ever met him, forget about him altogether. Or, better yet, take what you’ve heard and seen and use it as inspiration for your work. I’m sure there’s a story in there.”

“Are you okay? A story in there? There’s a good chance that kids the killer. How can you not see that?” I say, frustrated over her offhand suggestions. “I’m starting to think you made a deal with the devil?”

“Not likely. I’ve been desperate before, we all have. When we met, you seemed desperate and the book you presented to me was good. But when you came to me with the idea for Satan’s Pawn it seemed more fitting. You created an amazingly dark tale; it feels real or real enough in today’s world.”

“Lucy! All of that’s true, but now it is real. People are dying!”

“But neither of us killed anyone,” she says, “We’re innocent in that regard.”

“Are we?”

* * *

“It’s been three weeks Jason. You can’t just stay locked in this room,” Lucy says to me. “You have obligations.”

“You just don’t get it do you Lucy. They took that kid in for questioning after I went to the police. But while he was in for questioning another person was murdered so they had to let him go. That makes nine murders all together. There’s only one more murder, and for that to happen our hero, the writer in the story, must die.”

“Well Jason, as long as you keep writing, I don’t think we have to worry about that, sales are in record territory,” Lucy says with a dark look in her eyes. “Besides, I’ll keep you safe. We wouldn’t want to end our perfect series and leave our readers wanting more. And, if the kid didn’t do it, we need to cut him some slack. He could be the next Jason Lot, he has talent.”

“Writing, sales, and readers are these all you worry about. Lives have been lost. That kid is involved somehow. And you seem more interested in making money off him and me than learning the truth!”

“Get your mind off the Kid! I need you to write. Book two is coming out tomorrow and we need a book three soon,” she demands. “You can lose your fan base if too much time passes between books. You’ll be forgotten, left behind.”

“I’ve been writing every night. You seem more worried about everything, including that—Satan’s Pawn of a kid than me!”

“This is a business, Jason. You’re a commodity. You wanted fame, you have it. Sometimes fame grows naturally, sometimes it needs a boost. Until your sales drop off, we need to ride this train. We need to reap the rewards. Any day now a newer and more exciting story can come along and knock you off this pedestal.

“I don’t want to inspire anyone that way. Do you?”

“You don’t get it do you. You came to me Jason, you told me you would do anything to become a great writer. Your desperation was all I needed to get you to sign on with me. You didn’t even read what you signed. The inspiration you had for Satan’s Pawn came from me. And in turn it was the inspiration to young Damien. The kid is a pawn, and he’s doing what’s needed of him, just let it be. By the way, I love the kid’s name.”

Disgusted by the words coming from her mouth I simply say, “You’re sick! You don’t own me. I can stop whenever I want.”

Her dark eyes now glow with an internal fire, a deep crimson, “I do own you. You sold your soul to me Jason. And until I have all I need from you you’ll write. And at night, when you’re dreaming, your dreams are mine. Be careful what you wish for, though for you, that doesn’t matter much anymore.”

* * *

Every night I write like I’m in a trance. I dream unnatural dreams. And I inspire unspeakable things for Lucy.