SUMMON
DREADFUL - EVENT #18
“Why do I bother? Seriously, can someone answer that for me? Why do I bother to write and write and write for months on end and then waste even more time editing and tweaking and reshaping my shit into something that a marginal number of people will ever consume? And then! And then, I format the shit out of the document, thinking that will be what wins people over. I think of chapter titles and pick a lovely font that no one can decipher because style always triumphs over readability.”
“Mhmm.”
“Once I finish, this massive undertaking just collects metaphorical dust on my desktop, mocking me each time my eyes scan across it. Like a . . . like a high school bully constantly shoving me into lockers and dunking my head in toilet water. I just don’t understand. I must be a certified dunce. Welcome to Dunce Fest, everyone! I’m here. The main attraction.”
“Go on.”
“And to think that I’ve done this half a dozen times already. To think that I spent money on creating a website and hiring a photographer. To think that I have a billion more ideas bouncing around in my skull. To think that I have been staring at this single fucking line that keeps taunting me. I know it’ll lead to something. It has to, right? Right? I mean, why else would I have been given this gift? I’ve read other people’s writing. Amateurs. Lazy. Snooze worthy. I’d rather dip my toes in a vat of acid than beg people to read my work. I shouldn’t have to beg. My work should speak for itself. It does. It does speak. A hundred thousand words speak volumes. The volumes are so loud that your measly eardrums are bursting to the beat. Am I blowing smoke up my own ass? Maybe. Potentially. But don’t you agree? Don’t you think that I have a talent matched by very few?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“Look at all the hacks out there. Looks at all the old-timers pumping out multiple books a year. It’s probably AI, you know? Nobody writes their own shit anymore. Do you honestly think someone like . . . like Dean Koontz is writing anything? Does anybody want another fucking book with a golden retriever in it? Jesus Christ. Or James Patterson? What the hell does he even write about? Zoo animals or some shit. And what’s that chick’s name . . . Danielle Steel? Yeah, that one. There is no heavenly way that she is cranking out six, seven books a year. Bullshit! Absolute bullshit! But I guess when you haven’t changed the plot in forty godforsaken years, your shit must smear itself onto the pages. And my favorite: Stephen King. He hides away up in his house in Maine for a year, and when he resurfaces, he apparently has another thirty-six books to share with the public. I’m exaggerating, but you get the idea. It’s endless. Hacks! All of them. I’m the real deal. I’m real.”
“Richie—”
“Sometimes, I just wish that I could experience their success. My stories are more unique and thrilling. The literary agents just don’t understand. Don’t get me started on them! I mean, what do they actually do? They are the definition of middle management. Have you ever seen a profession that amounts to nothing as much as that one? And, oh my God, they are so pretentious with their rejections and spewing how they are so overwhelmed with queries that they can’t respond. That’s your job! That’s your fucking job! Man, if I sat at work every day and told people I couldn’t do my job, I’d be fired. Fired! They’ve got some nerve. The audacity!”
“Ric—”
“I’m not done yet . . . Six books. Six meaningful books I have written. And zero sales. Do you believe that? Because I can’t. It’s unfathomable. I hate to use a word as large as that, but it’s true. I tell myself that one day it’ll happen. One day I will finally get what I deserve, but what do I do until then? Just keep on writing? Just stay wandering around this endless maze as I grope my way along and hope to find an exit? It’s not easy being an artist. It’s a burden. I carry that burden because I know others cannot. They aren’t capable of the persecution and doubters. They aren’t capable of surviving the trials that I battle on a daily basis. Stephen King. No, they got it wrong. Richie King. Soon enough, I’ll be the leader, bringing order to a helpless realm. You know, I bet I could convince someone like Stephen King that my work is good enough. I’d summon him here right now and say all of this to him. And once I was finished, I’d pull all the ideas he had left and hoard them for myself. He owes me that much, considering all the time I’ve spent reading his books.”
“Would you really?” Reilly asked.
“Would I what?” Richie said, huffing into the phone. He blacked out for most of that rant and was just now coming back to himself.
“Summon someone to you. If you could.”
Richie laughed. “I was only kidding.”
Silence elongated between them. Best friends survived and thrived in those brief, constant droughts. The silence bent and gnawed away until Reilly decided to end it. Her answer was simple enough.
“I’m not.”
That was six months ago. Since then, Richie has been introduced to another shade of the world, one where individuals commune with spirits, shed blood, execute rituals, and exchange emails with one another about the bizarre occurrences they get into. Not that Richie became an expert in witchcraft or enrolled in one of the various schools throughout the country. Not that Richie rid himself of the bitterness that hugged him so tightly his limbs ached and he could feel his heartbeat in his skull. No, no, no. If anything, Richie became more entrenched, more solidified in his beliefs that he should already be a New York Times bestseller. He repeated mantras to himself about human stupidity. He scoured through his books and sought to eliminate every grammatical mistake to ensure that when his time came, he was perfect.
Somehow, he balanced his bitterness with productivity. He dove deep into his studies, skimming through books that Reilly suggested. Every night, he closed his eyes, crossed his legs, and murmured foreign words to open himself up as a vessel. He can’t say that he believed in otherworldly beings. His heart was focused on his endgame. He wanted to achieve fame and experience life as the elite do. Reilly advised him on how this would take time. People study for their entire lives, she said. People devote every ounce of themselves to fulfilling one wish, she stressed.
And most achieve nothing.
Sure, they will tell you about how they felt something or thought they heard the whispers of something fantastical, but it was only to feel included. Everybody lied within this community to appear as if they weren’t floundering. Reilly had dedicated the last decade of her life to this and claimed to never encounter anything more than a rush of cold air blitzing past her body.
“Why do you keep doing it then?” Richie had asked, perplexed by her inability to make progress.
“That’s the thing: this isn’t about interacting with spirits or crafting up spells to provide yourself good fortune.”
“I don’t understand,” Richie said.
“This is about digging deeper into yourself. Tapping into some primal root that flows through all of us. It’s about understanding and forging ahead. It’s about what exists beyond our sight. It’s a culmination of generations of practices and wisdom and guidance. Curiosity is a powerful motivator.”
What a crock of shit, Richie thought to himself. “Oh, I get it,” he voiced to Reilly.
“I’m not sure you do. Maybe you don’t see why I’ve devoted so much of my time to this. Maybe others don’t see why you continue to write even though you have had absolutely no success.”
Richie scowled at the remark. He could feel the single sentence taunting him from the notebook, sitting in solitude for months. It has begged for release. It has yearned for companions and an adventure to embark on. Richie has tried countless times to spur his brain into action. He had done it before, right? All of his novels evolved from nothing—the literary equivalent of the Big Bang. Six times wasn’t bad, but Richie knew that sentence would be his seventh. Patience just happened to be a virtue he sorely lacked.
Reilly threw her hands up in surrender. “I’m not trying to pick a fight. I just want to give you perspective. We all have things we strive for. Some of them are palatable to others, like your writing, while something like witchcraft may not be. Either way, you need to commit yourself fully, as with anything in life.”
“Wise words,” Richie said, not really caring for the grand lecture. Richie enjoyed writing monologues in his books, but he wasn’t keen on listening to them in real life. “Why did you have me get into this stuff then if it is difficult to master?”
“I didn’t have you do anything.”
“What?”
“I told you about evocation after our conversation way back when. I told you that you could go down this path. I told you I had materials and references. You chose to read. You chose to learn.”
“Uh huh.”
“Look,” Reilly said, “no one is twisting your arm here. Evocation is top-tier. It takes supreme dedication and unwavering commitment. I’ve never heard of anyone who has had success with it. Anyway, evocation doesn’t work like you think.”
“How so?” Surprisingly, they had never traversed down this path.
“We are bound by rules. As much as witchcraft questions the existence of science, there are limitations. You can’t just transport a human to you on command. Humans can’t slip through space and reappear where you want them to.”
“Why not?” Richie pressed.
“Because.”
“Because? Is that your best answer?”
“Because evocation is meant to increase your likelihood of meeting. Let’s say you had a friend you hadn’t seen since middle school. You could cast an evocation spell—after lots of preparation—and, at best, it would increase your chance of crossing paths. Maybe you’d hear from them on social media or read about them in an article. Maybe a text message from an unknown number would pop up on your phone. Do you get it? It’s about odds and likelihood. It’s about the universe catering to you slightly more than it usually does.”
“That’s stupid.”
“You think everything is stupid that you disagree with,” Reilly said, not shocked to hear his dismissal. “It’s a shitty way to live.”
“Could you live any other way if you had the talent I do? The weight is unbearable. Massive and burdensome.”
“Richie, I think your head is screwed on too loosely.”
“Better than being not there at all, which explains how so many others waltz through life with no ambition or artistic talent.”
Silence. When Richie allows his ego to run wild like a stampede of buffalo, it is best to let him reflect on his choices.
Once the stillness passed into boredom, Richie spoke again. “So when do you think I’ll be ready to summon? It’s been long enough, right?”
“Not even close.”
That was two nights ago. Now, Richie loiters in his apartment, watching the last remnants of the day shrink behind the tree line and get swallowed by the other complexes.
“Another night,” he says aloud, as if the words are a revelation. Sometimes, his melodramatic tendencies rival a mid-level actor pouring their heart out in an Off-Broadway show.
Nobody responds. He is alone, just like any other night. Reilly is out in Oregon, having abandoned the heat and misery of Texas. They talk, of course, but it isn’t the same to have a phone propped up to your ear or eyes staring into the glass of a smartphone. He misses their face-to-face encounters. He misses how she tolerated his pessimism and gently steered him back to sanity. He misses how she’d grab his hand and say his name softly, just enough for him to have self-awareness flood back into his system.
The Word document sits open on his laptop. The end of chapter eighteen from his first book glares back at him. It’s the sixth time he has reread his work over the last six months. So far, he has found one spelling mistake and restructured three sentences—a towering success. In his mind, every correction brings perfection closer to fruition.
He needs this. He deserves this. His stories aren’t high art, but what is these days? Richie understands that the market wants digestible reads. It wants quippy, flawed characters and constant plot twists and possibly a tear-jerking moment toward the end. Easy. Too easy. For months at a time, Richie has isolated himself and hunkered down to write his next great work. Six times he has entered the trenches and seen the horrors of war. He has observed severed limbs arc through the air. He has heard his fellow trench-dwellers howl in pain and cry for their mothers. War is hell. Well, writing is even worse. He has canceled plans and starved his body of touch and alcohol. He has paid for Grammarly (acknowledging the AI hellscape that it is) and registered his works with the Copyright Office. He has sent countless queries to agents, scouring websites to find the perfect match.
No longer. He cannot wait another moment for luck or happenstance. He cannot watch the years pass by. Richie has no use for fame careening into him in his forties or fifties. No, thank you. No late bloomers here. Competition with peers is at an all-time high. More people than ever are looking to break past an invisible barrier that ends suffering and a tedious life of corporate enslavement.
It always comes back to that, doesn’t it?
Richie doesn’t write because he enjoys the process or because creating art gives him goosebumps. He wants money. He wants to afford a house. He wants to secure his parents’ retirement. He wants to set his nephew up for life.
It’s for everyone and himself. These books are his way into the 1 percent.
“Tonight,” he says. “Tonight,” he croons like an actor trying desperately to be respected. The spotlight zeros in on him. The crowd holds its breath. What will he say next?
“Hey Siri, call Reilly.”
Ahh, okay.
As Siri considers the request, Richie grabs the book off the shelf. As the dial tone commences, Richie licks a finger and flips through the pages until he finds the section he is in search of.
“Hey, I’m at work,” Reilly says after the third ring.
“And? Hello to you too.”
“And I can’t talk now.” They both know that it’s a thin excuse.
“Right. This will only take a moment . . . Look, I heard what you said the other night about not being ready to summon anything, but this needs to happen now.”
“Okay,” Reilly says, not interested in the typical bickering.
“Okay?”
“Yes. Okay.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Richie, you clearly do not respect the experience I have with this. Regardless of what I say, you will choose to do whatever you want. That has always been your thing. Most times, I tolerate it. In this case, I am deciding to ignore it. Go ahead and try. Let me know what happens.”
“That’s it?” Richie begs. He wants more from her. He wants a sprawling argument where they swap jabs until one of them relents. Richie wants to comment on how characters achieve unrealistic things in unreasonable timelines all the time. Why else do montages exist? Why else do convenient gaps in logic, time, and accountability exist in even the best novels? The end is always meant to serve the story. The main character should always have a triumphant moment, even if it is fleeting. Richie knows this better than most, although he doesn’t resort to such cheap tactics in his own writing. In his books, the characters earn everything they get.
But in his own life, he is willing to sidestep time and tedium just this once to move forward.
Reilly relents. Her sigh into the phone could swell tides and create avalanches. “Do you have the book?”
“Yes.”
“Did you draw the circles?”
“Yes.”
“What about the sign? Did you pick one?”
“Yes. Yes.”
“And the sigil?”
“Yes, yes. I have done it all. I hope no one is grading me on the crispness of my linework.”
“You found willow wart and druid skrim?”
“Amazon. They were top sellers.”
“This isn’t funny,” Reilly deadpans. “Once you do this, there is no coming back, even if everything goes right. Why him? Have you asked yourself that?”
Richie collects his thoughts. “For the record, you were the one who brought the idea to me, so don’t act surprised I am following through.”
“But—”
“Let me answer your question. Domes, vampires, thrift shops, killer clowns that embody fear, possessed hotels, time travel to save presidents, alcoholics, prisons, psychics, rabid dogs, hitmen, evil corporations, fairy tales, reanimated corpses,” Richie rattles off, as if he is reciting from a rehearsed list. His chest heaves from the herculean effort. “Do you know what all of those things have in common? Him! He has created a stranglehold on so many topics that he has single-handedly diminished what I can write about. I can never write a story about vampires because Stephen King did it best with ’Salem’s Lot. I can never write about the grief of losing a child because he perfected it with Pet Sematary. He has monopolized a global flu that wipes out ninety-nine percent of the population and the subsequent struggle between good and evil with The Stand. And those are just some of the more well-known books! For decades, this man has crafted and created countless worlds that are now closed off to the rest of us starving artists. I want what he has. I want his ideas. I want to understand where it all comes from. Is that clear? Is that enough of a motive for you?”
“Have you considered just writing him a letter?”
“A letter?” Richie scoffs. “Nobody does that anymore. Why resort to something as archaic as that? Besides, you think Stephen King reads fan letters? No, no, no. That man produces. He is a machine, a robotic overlord sent to us as a demonstration. What other answer exists besides that? Unlike other prolific writers, his work doesn’t suck. Each book is a hit, a massive success where Hollywood talent is tripping over themselves to adapt the story.”
Reilly mumbles to herself, unsure if absolute truth exists in much of that thought.
“I will settle for one idea. That’s it. An outline. An overview. Something. I need something to kick-start my career. It will be enough. It has to be enough. We will negotiate like professionals would.”
“Are you going to threaten him or something?”
“I will do something worse.”
“Richie! What the fuck?”
“What? No, I’m not going to kill him or anything. Jesus! I’m not a monster. But I have patience.”
“No, you don’t,” Reilly offers.
“I have patience,” Richie repeats, “and I will use that to my advantage. He is old now. Feeble. Shaky, uncertain, and likely on a magnificent cocktail of drugs to keep his body stitched together. Time is on my side. I guarantee you after an hour of pacing in the circle he will be blubbering and telling me all his ideas. He may even write me a check.”
Reilly laughs. “You think he will have a checkbook on him? Are you delusional or just stupid?”
Richie is wounded by the suggestion. “I’m neither. It’s hypothetical, okay? He can Venmo me too. I’m open to all types of monetary transactions . . . You are a pain in the ass.”
“You called me,” Reilly reminds. “And I’m not sure why, since you supposedly have everything you need.”
“I—”
“I no longer care. Best of luck to you and your endeavors. You have made a mockery of something that is important to me, and I’m not sure you can be forgiven for that.”
“Reilly, you aren’t serious.”
“I am. You’re a snake eating itself. You exist nowhere except up your own ass. I kept you around as a friend because you are amusing, like a monkey juggling at a carnival. I disregard your ego and unending cynicism because it has always made me realize how much happier I am. You call me to ramble about your supposed misfortunes and mishaps as if they are anything more than minor bumps in a thousand-mile journey. You don’t know anything more than to be self-centered and encapsulated in your own bubble. You are part of the reason I left,” Reilly whispers into the phone. “I bet you knew that, huh? I bet you knew that but chose to ignore it. Because that was easier. Because that was what allowed Richie to fortify his delusions. You suck. You suck so much. I hope you evocate the devil, you fucker. Keep living in fiction, Richie. Maybe one day you will actually see how plain your reality actually is.”
The line cuts out. Richie pulls the phone away from his ear and looks at the screen. “Fucking bitch!” he yells. He winds back and flings the phone across the room. It ricochets off the floor and dents the wall before skidding to a stop. Richie stomps around the apartment like Godzilla tearing through a crowded city. He curses her existence. He threatens to nuke her apartment in Oregon—wherever it may be. He considers calling Homeland Security and informing them that Reilly is a treasonous asshole who doesn’t support other people’s dreams.
Eventually, Richie winds down. The stomps soften. The curses become babble. “I should summon her,” he says. “I should summon her and keep her in the fucking circle for weeks. Watch her starve.”
“No,” he says, turning his head. “Don’t waste this on her. Although that would make a fantastic story.”
Richie hops over to his notebook, jumping over the circles that are etched in chalk on the living room floor. He flips to a blank page and writes out the trickling idea: A novice wizard co casts a spell to summon evocate and trap his mentor, a trifling dickhead who doesn’t desr deserve the power they have.
“Another winner!” he says.
Richie skims through the notebook pages, admiring the thoughts and prompts he has generated throughout the years. The remnants of all his books exist in this tiny space. The notes are scribbled and scrawled and scratched onto the margins. Lines cross through the rubbish and circles pinpoint the portions to commit to memory. All the beginnings, all the revelations. So much brainpower went into the generation of the ideas that it seems daunting to consider how Richie has then followed through and written six novels. A towering achievement, he believes.
But does a book serve a purpose if no one reads it?
And that’s the crux. That’s the fly sullying the fruit pie. These works mean nothing without an audience. No literary agent will take him seriously. No publisher will print his opuses. No convention will book him. No university will beg him to join as an adjunct professor to inspire the youth.
Stephen King has an audience. He has had an audience for over forty years. Is it too much for Richie to ask for the tiniest sliver? Is it too much for Richie to demand that Mr. King part with a single idea? After all, would an emperor notice a grain of sand removed from a pristine beach?
All of it circles around Richie, hovering overhead like a kettle of vultures. The questions have no answers without leading to more questions. If he allowed it, his life would be one continuous maladaptive daydream where he always persevered and won. Instead, he is left with this—a milky mess of shame, disappointment, and resorting to sketchy magic.
Richie grabs his copy of The Outsider off the shelf and places it delicately in the middle of the larger circle, nestled in between the sigil and the earth sign. He presses a hand against the cover like a forlorn lover leaving behind their other half at the train station. The cover shows a foreboding creature upside down with menacing red eyes and a nonchalant posture. The name Stephen King is plastered across a third of the cover because his name sells more than the actual story—something Richie will never allow to settle into his mind. Instead, Richie surrenders to melancholy and thinks how he is nothing but an outsider, a talent that has gone unnoticed.
Once done, he steps away and grabs the spellbook. The page has been dogeared for months, beckoning him to try. Richie has reread the page enough times to know it by heart, but something about holding the book as he orates in Latin is too good to pass up.
With the book in hand, Richie takes one more sweep around the apartment. He tidies up the pillows on the couch and makes sure the toilet is flushed. He doesn’t want to give off a poor impression. He dims the floodlights in the kitchen until the ambiance is perfect. The goal is to give off a peaceful vibe, perhaps even welcoming. While he has no intention of letting Mr. King out of the circle without a concrete deal in place, if the writer were to oblige, Richie would give him a tour. As he considers what the highlights would be, a thought collides into him: how does a summoned individual return to their original place? Richie skims the text in hand and doesn’t see an answer. He flips the page and finds it buried at the bottom.
“A banishment spell?” he says. He reads the requirements. “I didn’t plan for that.” In all the months since purchasing and reviewing the book, Richie never considered that Mr. King would need an exit plan—assuming everything went right.
“No worries. None at all. We do this now, right?” He waits for reassurance. The fridge motor kicks on and lets out a long-winded groan. His upstairs neighbor drags something heavy across the floor. “Good enough.”
Richie steps into his circle. He clears his throat. He pulls the willow wart from his pocket and drops it on the floor. With a ferocious stomp and twist, the willow wart breaks under his shoe.
“Puro fame mentem rodere,” he begins, saying the words with his full voice.
Nothing will happen until the entire passage is recited, Richie tells himself. No quaking, no lights flickering. All tricks and gimmicks. Magic happens like a lightning strike—brewing in wait until the sudden explosion.
Richie reaches into his other pocket and pulls free the vial of druid skrim. He rips off the cap with his teeth and spits it out. He shakes the vial and lets the liquid fly into the larger circle. A few drops are enough, so the book says. He places what remains in the vial at his feet.
“Solvo tempore pura fide,” he says. Richie holds out his palm before his face and lets a dribble of spit seep down his chin. The book mentions in bold letters how vital it is not to spit into one’s hand but allow the downward squeeze of gravity to perform the work. Richie waits as the spit builds at the base of his chin. It puddles, grows, and forms into a teardrop. With enough momentum, the glob splashes onto his waiting hand. In a blurred motion, Richie slams his palm onto his forehead.
“Puro animo hic te voco,” he says. Richie examines his pointer finger and the long nail that protrudes from the end. He brings it to his mouth, and like a beaver, begins chewing away at the nail. The sound claps each time his teeth clatter together. Once finished, Richie holds the fingernail on his tongue for the audience to see. Satisfied, Richie folds his tongue back into his mouth and swallows the fingernail, feeling the edges scratch against his throat.
“Puro corde, desiderium meum patet,” he finishes.
Richie closes the book and places it on the floor, careful to keep everything he may need inside the circle. He waits. When does the lightning strike? According to the book, there should only be the faintest delay. Nothing happens instantaneously. Travel costs time, even when an individual is looking to transcend it.
He waits for another ten seconds before the doubt creeps in. His eyes remain focused on the larger circle, begging for the man to appear between blinks.
After a full minute, Richie shuffles back and forth on his heels. “What now?” he asks himself. “Of course this wasn’t going to work the first time. The suspense. That’s what this is building up to. Who or what is going to appear in the circle? That’s the question the audience is left with.”
Richie turns his head. “So I just sit here and continue to wait?”
“Pretty much,” he says.
“No, I won’t allow that,” he says back.
Richie takes a tentative step from the circle. The instructions were explicitly clear about remaining inside his circle. Failure to do so could cause his soul to be dislodged from his body, forever cursed to drift The Desert. Did people actually believe such nonsense? Richie existed in a proper place, one where he could walk freely from one side of his apartment to the other.
He walks to the bathroom, bends down at the sink, and splashes water on his face. He scrubs away the spit and wipes his tongue free of the grim from his fingernail. As he stands back upright, his next step becomes obvious.
“My phone,” he says.
“Google it,” he says back.
Richie returns to the living room and scoops his phone off the floor. A thin, shallow crack extends from one end to the other. Could be worse, he rationalizes. Richie types in a hasty message, one that he hopes will suffice. summoning not work cant see thing next steps. The slapdash series of words is enough, and four lines of text appear across the top of the screen, with the second line highlighted.
“A mirror,” he says.
“A mirror?” he says back.
He clicks into the source and reads on. More than likely, this same information exists within the book he didn’t even bother to consult. If Reilly wasn’t a complete bitch of a human, he could have called her to confirm. But why bother with such archaic methods?
The source claims that mirrors—any reflective surface, really—have the unmatched potential to reveal the entity. Theories are split between the idea that the reflective surface is a gateway across realms or that the entity needs to see itself before it can properly be seen by the summoner.
Either way, Richie doesn’t care. It’s enough for him. He opts for the larger screen of his laptop and places his phone aside. He opens the lid and steps back into the circle. He angles it so that the screen faces directly at the larger circle. Richie tilts his head over the edge and sees the outline of a figure reflecting back at him. The darkness of the screen doesn’t allow for any definition beyond the faintest recognition of a humanoid shape. Richie looks up and over at the circle.
“Ste—Mr. King? Is that you?” he asks sheepishly. There was no lightning strike. There was no noise or announcement. It just is.
The figure unfolds itself and stands upright, balancing most of its weight against a cane. The gnarled fingers grip tighter than a castaway clinging to a life raft. It lifts its head and stares at Richie, revealing that it is no longer an it but a man.
The exact man Richie was hoping to summon. Take that, Reilly.
“Mr. King, it’s an honor to meet you.”
“Where am I?” he asks, surveying the room.
“In my apartment.”
“No. Where?” He taps the cane on the floor.
“D-Dallas,” Richie says, unsure if that is even the right answer.
Stephen King nods. He is wearing a varsity jacket with a red embroidered B stitched on the left side. His jeans are distressed and tattered, worn like a hand-me-down from an older sibling. His shoes, though. They are a vibrant white. High-tops, with the laces done all the way up and hiding underneath the pant leg. As for his face, Stephen King looks every day of his age. His cheeks are sunken. The bags under his eyes are heavy enough to stop a stack of papers from drifting away. His glasses are secure against his face, even though a hand drifts away from the cane and pushes them up the bridge of his nose a millimeter at most. A thinness throughout his face is noticeable; whether it is from daily exercise or natural deterioration is anyone’s guess.
Richie breathes him in. He looks like every photo he has ever seen—unimposing yet sinister, an artist tucked within wrinkles and limbs. He resembles a grandfather who rocks in a chair on the porch, soaking in the sunlight and reminiscing about days long past.
“What do you want?” Mr. King asks. His voice breaks and cracks. Is he scared or just tired? “Tell me what you want and let’s—” He stops short, distracted by the circle. He looks from his cane to the floor and then reaches out a hand. As it reaches the circle’s edge, Mr. King twists his hand and knocks it against the invisible barrier. “Ah,” he notes. No sound or reverberation emanates from the spot he touches. Instead, he retreats and centers himself again on the cane. His eyes trail upward and over to Richie. The look is that of one being judged, like a violinist auditioning for a symphony orchestra.
Richie feels his throat tightening, his ears growing hot. A speech. It’s now time for his speech, the one he never prepared.
“I, uh . . .” The idea of summoning Stephen King sounded lovely in theory. But now. The author is before him. No, that’s not quite right. The author is held captive, constrained by magic that Richie never bothered to understand. An actual person. The actual person he was attempting to summon. What are the odds? Who cares about the odds! A miracle has befallen Richie. Take it and rejoice.
Somewhere in Oregon, Reilly is content in her removal from this pitiful display.
Richie wipes his mind of the trailing thoughts and begins again, with the same amount of stuttering.
“I, uh, I am a writer. Just like you,” he says as if they are equals. “A struggling writer, although I think that title is too critical of where I’m at.” Richie averts his gaze from Mr. King and settles somewhere on the ceiling near the windows. “I’ve finished six books. I, uh, I think they are good. Great, even.”
“And?” Mr. King says.
“I want to get them published. I want people to read them. I want to spend my life doing what you’re doing. I want to generate purpose and meaning in my life. Stop meandering. Stop being a foul person. Wishful thinking, perhaps, but this feels like the largest, most worthy linchpin in my life. I spend my nights writing and my days editing. I have sacrificed my free time in order to make each page marginally better. To me, the next steps have been earned. Somebody needs to recognize that.”
“You think I’m the person to do that?”
“Well, you seem like the best place to start.”
Mr. King scoffs at the comment.
“Yeah, well, uh, you have been writing for most of your life. You must know people. You must rub shoulders with the bigwigs.” Richie pauses and rubs his forehead. Who the fuck says that, he chides himself. “Anyway, yeah, I brought you her—”
“You kidnapped me. You committed a disgusting act. Don’t mistake yourself,” Mr. King says. It’s impossible to tell if the words are meant to sting or just suffice as the truth.
“Right. I admit to that.”
“So I am here so that you can raid my contact list? Do I have that correct?”
“Yes,” Richie says meekly.
Mr. King digs a hand into his pocket and produces an ancient flip phone. He holds it out and waggles it for Richie to see. “I play Snake on this thing. I don’t live a complicated life like you. My agent handles that. You think I know the right people? Of course, I do. I could name a hundred individuals right now if you’d like. They are the same names I acknowledge at the end of each book. Did you consider that? Did you ever consider starting there?” Mr. King notices the book trapped in the circle with him. He reaches out the cane and drags the book close enough to bend and retrieve it. He displays it for Richie to observe. “Have you read it before?”
“No.”
Mr. King twists his head and examines the living room. “No bookshelves in here, huh? In the bedroom, I suppose?”
Richie shakes his head.
“A writer who doesn’t read. Am I understanding that correctly?”
Richie nods. A poorly tuned heartbeat is throbbing in Richie’s ears. His palms are clammy. He wants nothing more than to admit defeat before he succumbs to unrecoverable embarrassment. Instead, he remains still and absorbs the punishment.
“Let me give you some free advice,” Mr. King begins. He appears more composed now, as if he is regenerating strength from Richie’s shame. “Successful writers read. They read more than they write. Would an athlete just walk out onto the field? Would a doctor perform surgery without years of studying? Would any person ever consider themselves a professional without dedicating themselves to the craft? Those are rhetorical questions. Don’t answer them. You not reading is your first mistake and tells me that whatever you have written is fan fiction at best. Now, for some questions I want you to answer.” Mr. King relieves some of his weight from the cane. His full attention is on Richie now—this wretched, obtuse individual.
Richie can only nod. The admonishment has stunned him. He never considered how vital reading was to the process. He just . . . He only thought . . .
“Do you have beta readers?” Mr. King asks.
Richie shakes his head. Reilly has read his work, but her input was shallow, hardly a critique, which may have hinted at the truth.
“Have you hired an editor? At a minimum, someone else to evaluate your work?”
Richie shakes his head again.
“Published it on any websites?”
Head shake.
“Built up an audience in any meaningful way?”
Shake.
“Sent it to magazines or publications?”
Only shame at this point.
“Have you done anything worthwhile, or are you destined to complain?”
“I—” Richie starts, opting to abandon his non-verbal communication.
Mr. King lifts the cane into the air and points at Richie. “You want a handout. You want the easiest path to a reward. You think the jar of cookies is for you to rummage in.”
Richie weighs his options and selects the most humiliating one. “Can you give me one idea? Can you tell me something to get me going?”
“Sure, kid,” Mr. King says, fixing his attention back to the book in his hand. “You know, it took me over a year to finish this one. I don’t like that. Believe me, I like to inhabit the worlds I create, but you hang around for too long, you lose yourself to it. You forget you exist beyond the page. That’s when the writer’s block comes in. The overthinking, the endless examination. Will people enjoy this? Will an audience sympathize with a character you poured your time into? It’s suffocating. What’s your name, kid?”
“Richie.”
Mr. King drops the book. A solid thump echoes out. “Small world. Listen here, Richie. When I was your age, I had a case of writer’s block so severe that I didn’t write for two months. Can you imagine? Every day, I looked at the pages and came back with nothing. Every day, I sat at my desk and envisioned countless scenarios, but none of them were appealing. Even worse, none of them felt simple to write. You know what I did? I called up my friend Tom and said, ‘Tom, help me out here.’ And he said in his gruff voice, ‘Stephen, I know just the person to talk to.’ A week later, I was cured.” Mr. King stands straighter. He no longer looks grandfatherly. He is in his prime, fully revealed. His fingers barely graze the end of the cane. If anything, it has now become a prop, something to dazzle and draw attention. “How many of my books have you read?”
Richie tries to conceive a lie before the words tumble out. He fails. “None.” Richie discovered that it’s faster to read a synopsis than the actual tome that Mr. King often produces.
Mr. King laughs. “None? Look, I’m not upset about that. Plenty of people haven’t read my books, and I don’t hunt them down or anything.” Another laugh. “What is surprising to me is that you brought me here for your own selfish needs but didn’t even do any research.”
“I . . .”
“Back before I got famous, I published a few books under a pseudonym. Do you know what it was?” Mr. King doesn’t wait for an answer. “Richard Bachman. The books were good, if I may say so. I’m proud of them. What nobody knows is that Richard Bachman is my real name. Stephen King is the pseudonym.” He pauses. “Hold your shock and awe.”
Richie now notices that Mr. King is too polished. Beneath the initial observations, Mr. King looks prepared. The spotless shoes, the slicked-back hair. It’s almost like . . . It’s almost li—
“What were you doing before I brought you here?” Stalking, evaluating. Patient. Richie knows his response before it comes. It doesn’t matter. He never stood a chance.
“Waiting,” Mr. King says. With four quick steps, he propels himself out of the circle and toward Richie. Mr. King jabs the cane forward and strikes beneath Richie’s ribs, sending him into a curled position and gasping for air. Another blow hits Richie on the back, and he falls to the floor, crumpled and confused.
“You think you are the first?” Mr. King says, circling his target. “Huh? You think you’re the tenth? The fiftieth? Two hundredth? Pick your pick. People want what I have. This, this gift. They feel it. They sense it. I sold my soul for this! In return, I deal with maggots and miscreants like yourself. Bottom feeders and beggars. Sad saps looking for handouts.”
Richie continues to choke for air. Each breath is short and labored. He manages to turn his head enough to look up at Mr. King. “I . . . Easy.”
“You and everyone else. In some moments, I am. Illusions, though. That’s how you catch people off guard. Did you honestly think you’d get it right? You got me here, that’s true. Always true. But you fumble with the Latin. Your enunciation is poor. Practice, Richie. Practice makes perfect. Your hubris and inability to wait have always been your crutches. Why was this going to be any different?” Mr. King pauses his circling. He bends down, resting the cane across his legs. “I am not bound to anyone, especially someone as trivial as you. Do you know why I go by this name?”
Richie grits his teeth and tries not to think about the pain blossoming in multiple locations. He shakes his head, returning to an old favorite.
“Because I earned it!” Mr. King yells. Spittle rains down on Richie. “I learned to play the game. My audience has become my source. My fans have become my inspiration. Tell me, Richie, what do you have to offer me? A deal only works when both parties get something. In any other case, you’d just be a thief.”
“Six . . . books,” Richie croaks.
“I don’t want your shit. I don’t need your shit. I want what hasn’t been tainted yet. I know you have it. The question is where.” Mr. King lifts the cane and pulls on both ends. It pulls apart with a satisfying pop. At the end of one half, the cane fades from a deep brown to a crisp, murky yellow. It shines. It beams. It looks like gold.
And it’s wiggling.
Richie tries to gather himself and scramble backward, but before he can, Mr. King pivots and rams a knee into his spine and pins him to the floor. More pain radiates out. Richie’s head bounces off the floor, hard enough for his vision to blur.
“This will be quick,” Mr. King feigns.
On the back of his head, Richie can feel a coolness gliding against his skin. It’s searching, probing.
“What will it be this time?” Mr. King asks. “I have The Stand. I know about Under the Dome. It is already finished.” The checklist continues until the creature begins to vibrate. Mr. King grips the half-cane near the base with his left hand and near the top with his right. He pulls back his right hand and slams it down against the cane like a carver with a chisel. With almost no resistance, it punctures Richie’s skull. Richie lets out a weak cry, simultaneously wishing that Reilly were here and that he had never craved to be a famous writer.
“I know it doesn’t make much sense,” Mr. King says. “But try not to think about it too much, or else this will take longer. Some things defy explanation, you know? We are all guilty of using convenient or incoherent plot devices, aren’t we?”
Richie groans. It feels like his worst hangover amplified to an extreme that he wishes no one else to experience. He wants to scream. He wants to defy and rage against this old man, but compliance is easier. He has earned this punishment.
Without warning, Mr. King pulls the end of the cane from Richie’s skull. A trail of blood leaks out and gets twisted in his hair.
“Nothing,” Mr. King says, somewhat astonished. “You have nothing.” He examines the cane, flipping it and observing all the unseen parts. “Your ideas are so devoid of potential and meaning. Can’t be. You . . .” He removes the knee from Richie’s back and stands up. “Where?” he spits out. “Where do you keep them? Even the most talentless hacks keep something to make themselves feel important.”
Somehow, that comment almost hurts Richie more than the digging that just happened. What a humbling experience tonight has been. Richie moves a hand to the wound and presses down. His head aches to the point where nausea rises in his throat. He swallows it back as best he can. “The counter,” he says. “The notebook.”
Mr. King reconnects the cane and strides over to the counter. The notebook is still open from earlier. Mr. King flips through the pages, seemingly uninterested in most of the contents. Periodically, he makes belittling comments or scoffs at absurdities. He flips, flips, flips until it appears. A single line. A lonely sentence in desperate need of companionship. Mr. King inhales and absorbs all he can. Something has unlocked within him. The answer to an unsolvable puzzle, perhaps. He turns back toward Richie with the notebook in hand.
“You?! You have this?” Mr. King says, astonished. “Even a broken clock is right twice a day, so they say. Still, I am impressed. Not every tree bears fruit. You see, for all the people that summon me and try to rip away at my talents, not all of them have anything that fits. What’s fair is fair, right? You brought me here with immoral intentions, so it makes sense that I have some of my own as well. I don’t kill, I’ll have you know. Even those who are most cruel to me don’t warrant that fate. The scar is enough. The memory is plenty. Your shame and disgust toward yourself make me full. Anyhow, this encounter has been etched in time for eons. A rehearsal. This is merely a rehearsal for something greater.”
“What are you talking about?” Richie says.
“Everything. Nothing. Does it matter?”
“What are you taking?”
Mr. King stares down at the embarrassment huddled on the floor. “The man in black fled across the desert, and the gunslinger followed.”
Richie blinks back at Mr. King.
“The tower. Roland. The Crimson King. Cycles, cycles. Endless cycles. It’s all been here. The epiphany is always the best part,” Mr. King says with a smile.
“I don’t get it.”
“You were never going to. That’s why it’s best in my hands.” Mr. King takes the page, rips it from the notebook, and then tosses the mess of ideas down toward Richie. The notebook bounces off his shoulder and slides to the floor.
Mr. King walks back to his circle and taps the cane against the floor. “My least favorite part,” he says. A window opens behind him. An engulfing hole of heat and slime and gold-plated creatures.
A shortcut, of sorts. The alternative being a flight back to Maine.
Mr. King juts out a leg and kicks the copy of The Outsider over to Richie. “You should check it out in your free time. What else are books for?” The book comes to a stop at Richie’s feet.
Mr. King takes two steps back into the window. “Beep beep, Richie,” he says, pinching his fingers together as if he is honking a horn. The window snaps shut, sending a blast of hot air toward Richie.
Richie blinks, considers, and then grabs the notebook. He picks himself up and hobbles over to the counter. He flips to the page where he had written earlier about a novice wizard. With a shaky hand, he crosses out the two lines and scribbles something new underneath.
A struggling writer summons his favorite (?) author for inspiration. Shit happens from there. Will fill in the details later.
“Novel number seven?” he says with a chuckle.
“No,” Richie says back. “Let’s try a short story this time.”