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Chapter 6

The alarm clock beside Richard Ferguson’s bed was blaring. Reaching out a hand, he smacked its snooze button. He wasn’t ready to deal with another day. Yesterday had been bad enough for the entire week. Part of him still couldn’t believe the A-holes that ran Bandi Pictures had turned down his script. Not only that, they had found a way to worm out of their contract and were refusing to pay him a bloody cent for completing it. Well, screw them. They wouldn’t know a good story if clobbered them over the head with a Captain Caveman club. The alarm clock seemed to start screaming almost instantly again. With a sigh, Richard rolled over and sat up on the edge of his bed. He turned off the alarm and blinked at the sunlight of the early dawn spilling in through his bedroom window.

Bandi Pictures’ refusal to pay him left Richard in a very bad spot. He was already behind on most of his bills, and he’d worked his fingers to the bone typing out the rest of the script so he could get paid. That wasn’t happening, though, and Richard knew he had to accept it. Unlike most publishers, Hollywood seemed intent on screwing over writers whenever possible.

Richard was supposed to get a check from the newspaper he wrote a column for this week, but it wouldn’t even make a dent in his mortgage, much less the other bills that had piled up. He shook his head to clear it of the dark thoughts clawing at his half-awake brain and got to his feet, stumbling toward the bathroom. A few minutes and a quick shower later, he finally felt like he had the presence of mind to make it downstairs and get some coffee going. He really needed it…and about two thousand dollars to make it to the end of the month. As he walked down the stairs heading for the kitchen, his thoughts grew even darker, and he actually began to contemplate selling off some of his collection. Now that truly was a nightmare. Richard had been collecting comics, science fiction and horror memorabilia, and autographs since he was four years old. His collection was gigantic and took up most of his house. He didn’t have a wife to complain about it, so as it had continued to grow over the years, it had spread everywhere inside his house. The walls were adorned with autographs framed behind UV protective glass, there were toys everywhere, and boxes of comics filled a good third of the house’s floor space. Collecting was his one true love in life outside of writing, and to Richard, the two went hand in hand. They fed upon each other in some sort of bizarre symbiotic relationship.

He paused to stare at an eight by ten photo of Gaylen Ross from Dawn of the Dead. She had been the woman of his dreams as kid. Her character Fran knew how to shoot and fly a helicopter, and she spent her days killing zombies as she tried to stay alive. She was beautiful, too. Her short-cropped blonde hair around the elfish features of her face made him think of an angel. Richard touched the glass of the frame with his fingertips and whispered, “Not you, Gaylen. Never you.”

Richard figured his best bet at making some quick cash was to eBay one of his more unique items. The question was which one. He didn’t want to part with any of them. He reached the bottom of the stairs and took a right into his kitchen. His bare feet thumped along the tile floor as he walked, and he continued to think about what to let go. He opened the door of the cabinet next to the sink, got out some coffee, and set up the pot. After getting the coffee going, he stumbled over to the kitchen table and took a seat in one of the chairs. Richard had left his laptop there the night before, staying up until almost 3:00 a.m., asking other writers he knew how to force Bandi Pictures to pay him. All that effort had been in vain. There really was nothing he could do. If he sued them for breach of contract, that would take not only time, but cash for a lawyer too, and he didn’t have either.

Powering up his laptop, Richard checked his social media accounts. There were dozens of new messages from friends he had sought advice from last night, but none of them contained anything remotely helpful. Disgusted, he closed the laptop without even bothering to update his status. The coffee was done by then, so he fetched himself a cup, pouring it into a mug with a Micronauts logo on it. Richard had the mug custom made a few years ago. Of all the licensed property mugs he owned, it was his favorite.

Sipping at his coffee, he blinked his eyes as if only now coming fully awake. The sun might be bright outside, but he was trapped in a world of darkness and looming bankruptcy. His mom had always berated him about how much money he spent on his toys, books, games, and stuff. Maybe she had been right. Richard shuddered at the thought and felt sick. If one couldn’t horde awesome stuff, what purpose was there to living?

Reopening the laptop, he emailed the editors and publishers he had worked with over the years in search of someone who might need a fast story or article done that would help get him out of some of the mess he was in. Richard doubted he was going to have any luck finding a gig like that, but it never hurt to try. He’d worked with a few publishers over the years who were always happy to have him do an anthology story or a quick novella for a few bucks.

His queries sent, Richard leaned back in his chair as he finished his coffee. The craving for a cigarette hit him out of the blue like a sledgehammer. He hadn’t smoked a cig in over a year, but that didn’t stop the addiction from rearing its ugly head in times of intense stress. It took all his willpower to pour himself another cup of coffee instead of hopping into his car and driving to the closest store to buy a pack of cigarettes.

Richard stood at the counter in front of the coffee pot and leaned onto it, cradling his head in his hands. He moaned and ran his fingers down the length of his face as self-pity fought to get the better of him. Richard tried to tell himself that he’d been in tight spots before and had always gotten out, but that kind of crap self-encouragement just didn’t work. The reality was, he needed money, and he needed it now. Not tomorrow, not next week, but now.

The doorbell rang. Richard’s head whipped around in the direction of the sound. It was such an odd and rare occurrence, it nearly scared the crap out of him. It did scare him to the point that his fingers became immaterial shadows of themselves. His Micronauts mug slid through them as if they were no longer really there, to shatter on the kitchen floor at his feet. Letting loose a litany of curses that would have made a sailor blush, Richard forced himself to become solid again. He stared down at the shards of his favorite mug and the slime-like ooze that covered them from where they had passed through him. Richard hadn’t had any visitors since his mother had passed two years ago. The bell rang again as if to reassure him that it was real, and he wasn’t losing his mind. Whoever was out there ringing the blasted bell owed him a freaking mug.

“Hold on!” Richard shouted. “I’ll be right there!”

Was that what you were supposed to say? He didn’t have a freaking clue, but it sounded right. Richard left the pieces of his Micronauts mug on the floor and walked out of the kitchen into the living room, heading for the door. Richard was terrified he would “wraith” again. That was what he called it when he phased out of alignment with the physical world he lived in. It sounded cooler than calling it “ghosting.” The word Wraith even meant a wisp or faint trace of something, and that fit perfectly. His mother had been the only person who knew about his power, ability, curse; whatever one wanted to call it. She would have been proud that, regardless of his current circumstances, Richard hadn’t even considered using it to steal the money he so desperately needed. And Richard bloody well knew he could. There was nothing he’d ever encountered that he couldn’t wraith right through. When he was in his ectoplasmic form, his appearance was almost translucent and nearly impossible for any modern recording device to pick up clearly. With a bit of planning and luck, any bank vault in the world could be open to him if he ever decided to go down that road. He’d never be caught, either. Who would believe there was a human being out there that could walk through walls? That was the stuff of comic books and movies, not reality.

Richard reached the door as the bell rang for a third time. He hurriedly ran his fingers through his sleep-ruffled hair, trying to smooth it down, and took a deep breath to calm himself. Only then did he take the door’s knob in his hand and open it.

A young woman was standing on his porch. Her skin was tan and her hair a black, flowing mass that covered her shoulders. She wore a loose-fitting Rush tour shirt with no bra beneath it—he could tell—and jeans above a pair of rugged sneakers.

“Can I help you?” Richard sputtered out the words, trying to keep his eyes away from the curves of her breasts.

“You’re Richard Ferguson…aren’t you?” the girl asked.

“I…Yes,” Richard finally said after what he felt was an awkward, overly-long pause.

The girl’s face erupted into a gigantic smile. “I’m a huge fan of your work!” She beamed at him.

“You are?” Richard asked in disbelief, not really knowing what else to say.

Nodding enthusiastically, the girl almost hopped up and down. “I’ve loved your work ever since you wrote Galaxy: A Space Opera! May I come in? I’ve brought something I was hoping you might sign for me. It would really mean a lot to me.”

Richard stared at the girl in disbelief. As young as she looked, she was still a real, flesh and blood, breathing female, standing on his porch and asking to come in. It was simply unbelievable…too good to be true. His paranoia flared up as his mind wondered if she was a serial killer, a monster in disguise, a crazed fan who was literally going to tie him to his bed, though not in a good way, and hobble him, or, worst of all, a process server from one of the many folks he owed money too. She couldn’t really just be a fan, could she? She was too hot to be reading the sort of stuff he wrote, and she shouldn’t have been able to find out where he lived. A girl as hot as she was should have a life, friends, and numerous boys following her around and drooling over her. Why waste her time with a close to forty-year-old middling writer like himself?

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” Richard said. “Do your parents know you’re here?”

“Who gives a frag what they think?” The girl recoiled. “I’m twenty-one.”

Richard threw up his hands in a gesture of apology. The last thing he’d wanted to do was tick her off. “Look, I’m sorry. I’m just not used to…people.”

The girl’s beaming smile returned in a flash to sweep across her lips. “I know that!” She giggled. “I’ve read all about you and follow you online. You’re a recluse. I get it.”

“Then you have to understand how uncomfortable this is for me,” Richard pleaded.

“Just let me come in for a minute. I’d love to see your home. You can sign my book, and I’ll be on my way before you know it,” the girl pressed him.

Richard realized with a start that he hadn’t even asked her name. He wanted to ask but thought that might seem strange so far into their conversation. Instead he said, “I love your shirt.”

The girl broke into a fresh round of giggling. “I knew you would. Rush is your favorite band, too! I put it on today just for you.”

In his mind, Richard could swear he had heard “and for you to take off, too.” He swallowed hard and fought to keep his cheeks from turning red. Richard struggled, too, not to wraith through the floor he was standing on. The cells of his body tingled as if his power was about to activate and get him out of the mess he was in, whether he wanted it to or not.

“So can I come in?” the girl begged. “Please.”

Against his better judgment, Richard nodded and stepped aside to let the girl into his house. She went bouncing through his living room, gawking at the scattered odds and ends of his collection. Dropping to her knees in front of a long box of comics, she removed its lid without asking and started going through the books inside it. Richard bit his tongue and didn’t scream at her for touching his comics without his permission. He still didn’t really have a clue how to handle the insanity of her unexpected visit. Promising himself he was going to be polite if it killed him, he said, “That box is all DC stuff. I think there’s a bunch of Weird War in there.”

“I love Weird War!” the girl squealed.

I’m sure you do, Richard thought darkly. For all I know about you, you came here to steal those comics.

The girl got up from her knees, leaving the box’s lid sitting on the floor next to it. “Can I see your bedroom now?”

What the fragging hell? Richard almost slapped himself in the forehead. None of this could be real. It all had to be some kind of messed up dream. Yeah, that it was exactly. He hadn’t gotten up when the alarm went off and had fallen asleep again. That was the only rational explanation his mind could come up with for what was happening.

“Uh, okay,” Richard said before he could stop the words from coming out of his mouth.

Richard led the girl up the stairs and into his bedroom. He walked across the room to stand beside his bed, not knowing what was going to happen next. “This is it,” Richard told the girl in a trembling voice.

“I think it’s the perfect place,” the girl purred, the smile on her lips transforming into a feral grin as she advanced on him. His heart was pounding inside his chest as she reached out a hand and attempted to caress his cheek. Richard did go into wraith mode then. As her hand reached where his cheek would have been if it were solid, dozens of small things slithered out of the flesh of the backside of her hand and fell through him onto the carpet. The creatures that writhed about on the carpet reminded Richard of parasitic tape worms. He fought the urge to vomit as, even though he had gone wraith, he instinctively recoiled from them and the girl that they had come out of. After several quick steps away from the girl and the worms, Richard looked up at the girl—only she wasn’t a girl anymore. Hell, she wasn’t anything close to being a human, even. Her, or rather its, height had grown to nearly seven feet tall. Gone were the girl’s tan skin and near perfect breasts. Even her clothes were gone. It had all been an illusion of some kind. The thing that stood in his bedroom now was a mass of twisting, crawling worms somehow held together in the shape of a man.

Richard screamed as the worm creature hurled itself at him.



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