The Dark Corner

Look, I need to tell you something. I know you’re not going to believe me, but it’s the truth of the matter. I know you must hear that all the time, but what happened, what I did, it wasn’t my fault. It wasn’t me. It wasn’t anything that I had ever intended to happen.  

You must understand something. When I met her, that first time, I was desperate. My first book had been a bestseller, outselling even my wildest dreams. It was a whirlwind. Sold out book signings, convention invites, award nominations, and the ever-important royalty check. 

So, when my publisher approached me with a two-book contract to expand on the story, I jumped at the chance. I’d pinched pennies for years while I tried to get my writing career off the ground. When the offer came in and I saw the generous advance, I just jumped at the opportunity. It was everything that I had dreamed of, right? Financial independence, living through my art, no more drunk college students, deadbeats and casual drinkers with no fucking etiquette.  

I signed on the spot, barely taking the time to read the contract, and cutting my agent short when they wanted to negotiate. The payday was good, I was riding high after the success of my first book and had no reservations about the next one being at least equally successful. Being a fool, I didn’t even think twice about the proposed time frame for delivery of the books. I’d drafted the first one in a few months after all hadn’t I? And this time I had editors and proofreaders at my disposal, didn’t I?  

I know now that I shouldn’t have been so cocky. But back then, seven years ago, I felt invincible. Like the universe had finally aligned for me and everything was going to be smooth sailing from there on out. I mean, I was wrong. That much is evident now. I should have seen the signs. “In A Mortal Way” was never meant to be any more than a standalone story. I had tied up all the plot lines nice and neatly. The dead were dead, the living were living and there wasn’t anything to be said on the subject. 

The idea was floated, and I was drawn to it like a moth to a flame. Never mind that I had no idea where to take things past the first book. Or that I hadn’t written a word since Mortal Way found a home. In my head, I was taking a break. A well-deserved rest after pouring my soul into the book. And I needed some space after. All that touring and traveling had taken it out of me, and I was tired. 

I was never short of ideas, snippets of stories jotted down in the battered notebook that followed me everywhere. It seemed easy didn’t it. Once the contract was signed, I’d peruse those coffee-stained pages, trying concepts and scenes on for size, fitting them into the world I had created. Easy. No problem. Not a bother. 

Except, when that advance hit my bank account, enough to keep me comfortable for a few years, and I finally sat down to write again, the words just didn’t come. The blank page on my computer screen became a screaming void. The blinking cursor taunted me with its steady cadence. And my mind became a cacophony of overlapping sentences and ideas. 

Day after day, week after week, month after month I struggled. Sitting at my desk, staring at the screen for twelve hours a day, a steady stream of coffee, nicotine and weed sustaining my fruitless non-activity.  

I tried; I really did. But every time I put my fingers on the keyboard to start typing, the images and ideas that had been so clear in my head only moments before fled, deserting me when I most needed them. 

I didn’t know how to cope with that. I’d never had writer’s block before. Never had to deal with that absence, that complete and total lack of inspiration. Surely somewhere within my notes, there was a hint of an idea, a tiny nugget of gold that would lead to a prosperous vein. If I could just keep chipping away, just keep probing at the cracks, the facade would fall away to reveal what I needed.  

I read and re-read Mortal Way, a self-flagellating pursuit that resulted in nothing but crushing despair and apathy. I started to question my talent, my success, my love for the written word. Pretty soon, a decent splash of whiskey joined my morning coffee, a desperate counterpart to the cheap bottles of red that had become a staple of my evenings 

But that page stayed blank. That cursor continued to blink its steady rhythm, and I continued to spiral. 

I want you to understand, I’ve always been a neat person. Everything in my life arranged just so. But as my desperation took hold, this all began to slip. First it was the silly things, skipping shaving for a day, or leaving a few coffee mugs in the sink overnight. But soon, I found myself tending to a month of beard growth, an untended mane of hair that refused to behave and stacks of dirty dishes that had migrated from the sink to the kitchen counter, and then to the dining table. An exodus of crockery and silverware that was only halted when demand exceeded supply and clean plates and teaspoons became a precious commodity. 

If you’d described that scene to me even a year ago, I would have said I’d reached rock bottom. An unkempt, perpetually hungover and washed-up one hit wonder.  

The truth is, that wasn’t rock bottom. Back then I could never have imagined how far one could fall. 

I started to ignore calls from my agent. Pushing back the hard conversations I didn’t want to have. I just needed a few weeks, just a few more weeks. If I could just find a rhythm, a modicum of cadence, some kind of steady flow, then everything would be alright. Editing and manhandling the books into shape would be an easy job, once I got the bones of the story down on paper. That was the hard part, I reassured myself, it will all come together. 

But that moment remained elusive. 

After one particularly bad day, when my pours were particularly heavy handed, and I lacked the enthusiasm to clean a glass for my wine, instead opting to use my dirty coffee mug so I didn’t have to leave my desk, I finally broke. I needed to make the call; admit I was a failure and move on with my life. Did it matter after all? How many aspiring writers never even came as close as I had to fulfilling their dreams? I’d had a taste of success, of the life that I wanted, but maybe it simply wasn’t meant to be.  

I’d made up my mind. I’d call my agent in the morning and put an end to the whole, horrid affair. Then, not wanting to think any more about the matter, I resolved to drink myself into oblivion that evening, wreathed in a cloud of smoke and watching b-movie horror until the world, and my problems, ceased to exist. 

I pulled on my last respectable set of clothes, although that in itself is a misnomer, and doused myself in a week’s worth of deodorant to hide the smell of smoke and stale wine. The off-license was only around the corner anyway, and it was late. Who was going to see me? 

That was when I met her. 

~ 

On any other day I would have passed her without notice. In the depths of my self-destructive plunge, women were the furthest thing from my mind. I can’t tell you to this day what it was about her that caught my attention. She was pretty sure. But not in an eye-catching, stop dead in the street kind of way. She was leaning nonchalantly against the wall of the shop, a cigarette dangling loosely in one hand and her phone in the other; her thumb slowly swiping across the screen.  

I nodded at her as I passed, and did my best to utter a “Good Evening” that didn’t sound like a primordial grunt as I reached for the door. That was when she looked up from her phone at me.  

I remember that moment with utter clarity. The look of surprise on her face before it morphed through confusion, recognition, and disbelief before her eyes lit up and a smile spread across her face.  

‘In A Mortal Way, right?’ 

Her voice was bright and clear, with just a faint edge of uncertainty and hesitant excitement underpinning her question.  

I stopped and stood for a moment with my hand on the door, head half turned towards her in surprise. It only took those five words to realise how isolated I had become. When was the last time I had an actual conversation with another person? Days? Weeks? 

My cheeks flushed in embarrassment at her words. Did I want myself, as I was at that moment, to be associated with something that had been my proudest achievement? What do they say? Never meet your idols. 

I wasn’t that far gone to assume my writing was important enough to anyone, at least to that extent. But neither did I want the image of who I was to be tarnished by what I had become.  

I should have just shaken my head and kept walking. Claimed a passing resemblance to the author in question and moved on. But something in the way she was looking at me gave me pause and I turned to face her fully.  

‘Not at my best I’m afraid, but yes.’ 

My voice was harsh in my throat, the words catching awkwardly. Christ, when was the last time I talked? At least more than the few short grunts required to buy alcohol.  

She turned to face me as I spoke, and her eyes widened even further. 

‘I’m a huge fan, sir. Ummm…uhhh…would you mind signing my copy?’ 

I stepped back instinctively as she moved closer and reached into her bag. It had been so long since I was in voluntary proximity to someone that the closeness felt too intimate, too claustrophobic.  

Then I saw her copy of my book. A battered, dogeared mess. The pages warped in one corner by a visible coffee stain. The cover wrinkled and torn and vertical lines running down the whole width of the spine.  

I’ve never been precious about my own book collection. To me books are made to be touched, handled and loved. There are no books more precious to me on my shelves than those that I have read and re-read repeatedly. I felt a deep stab of pride at the condition of her copy. It had clearly been read multiple times, carried on her person, slept on as she dozed in bed, sat near her as she had her morning coffee. It was worn in the way that a favourite pair of shoes or jeans become battered and faded over time. 

Only two years from publication, my book was clearly no Tolkien or King, something that had been carried from childhood, a cherished copy that was reached for again and again over the years. It seemed to me at that moment that the condition of her book was the greatest compliment she could have paid me. It had been part of her life. She had lived with it and reached for it a humbling number of times in its short existence. 

So, when my immediate response was that I didn’t have a pen, you might understand just how flustered I was by the situation. But despite my fumbled, ineloquent words, she just laughed, a bright tinkle under the light of the streetlamps, and slipped a pen from her bag.  

‘Of course. Ugh, silly me. Why would you?. If it’s not too much trouble?’Her voice tinged with embarrassment as she held out the pen to me 

I took the pen and book from her and opened it on the cover page.  

‘Umm…who do I make it out to?’ 

‘Callie would be just fine.’ 

I scrawled something pithy — I was going for heartfelt, but so was my life — on the page, and signed my name with a flourish and handed it back to her. Before she took it back, she looked me in the eye and swallowed. 

‘Can I ask a question?’ 

‘I’ll do my best to answer. But if it’s about the next book. I don’t know. I hate to disappoint, but progress has been slower than I would have hoped.’ 

Her eyes dropped in disappointment, and I felt like an absolute prick for my gruff, blunt manner. But before I could apologise, she set her shoulders and looked back at me.  

‘It was, I guess. I hope you can find your inspiration again. I am dying to find out what happens to Meghan after she gets away.’ 

If she hadn’t taken the book from my hand at that moment I would have dropped it.  

Meghan. Of course! How had I been so stupid? 

I had tied up all the plot lines in the first book. Or at least I always thought I had. But towards the end of the book, only a handful of pages really, I had alluded to something in that character’s past that had since gone unexplored. What a fool! Two years of gradual decline and self-destruction, and in the space of a minute, less even, this woman, a random encounter just as I was on the verge of giving up entirely, had provided me with the key to my salvation. 

Even as I stood there, staring awestruck at this unassuming woman, the story was beginning to form in my head, images and dialogue forcing their way to the front and banishing all the pain and self-doubt I have inflicted on myself. 

I felt my mind clearing for the first time in years, the noise and the conflict draining through the hole that Callie had just ripped in the fog that clouded my mind.  

‘Are you okay?’ 

Her bright cheery tone broke me from my trance, and I realised I had slumped back against the wall, staring blankly at the streetlights overhead.  

‘Yes, yes. Sorry, I uhh…sorry. I think I just figured something out to get me back on track. Thank you. You’ve been a great help.’ 

She smiled at me, and if I knew then what I know now, I would have recognised the smug look in her eyes. The satisfaction that curled the edges of her smile. But I was too blinded by the intense rush of inspiration to pay any notice. 

With another rushed apology, I left her standing outside the off-licence and headed back towards my apartment, words, images and emotions hammering against my temple. I felt like I was going to explode if I didn’t get the words out, release them after years of inactivity. 

I won’t bore you with the details, but once I got back to my apartment, I fell into a trance. The world ceased to exist around me. There was just the story, and nothing else. That weekend was a flurry of writing, I’ve never experienced anything like it. The words flowed from my fingers and onto the screen like a dam had burst inside me. I forgot to eat, drink, sleep, wash. The desperate need for the next drink, the next toke, was gone. Replaced by an all-consuming need to express the story that until a few days ago I didn’t even know existed. 

I finished sometime on Sunday night and sent the first draft to my agent before falling into a stupor. When I awoke, on Tuesday afternoon, I had a plethora of missed calls and an inbox full of hurried emails. They loved it, read it straight through. Better than the first they said. They sent it straight on to the publisher when I didn’t get back to them. They didn’t even see the need for edits.  

Still in shock from the unexpected nature of what had just occurred, I looked across the room and caught a glance of myself in the mirror. I barely recognised myself. I looked old, grey streaking my previously dark hair, my beard long and dishevelled, and my shoulders hunched and narrower than I remembered. When was the last time I even looked in the mirror? 

You might call that the moment that I hit rock bottom. The moment of clarity when I realised that I couldn’t keep going on the way I had been. 

But you’d be wrong. 

~ 

My second book hit with an even bigger fanfare than the first. More sales, more nominations, more awards, more invites, more touring. If the first book had turned my life around, then the second revolutionised it. I cleaned myself up, put back on the weight I lost, got sober and bought my first house. 

I thought my troubles had ended with “Death’s Bastard”. It was more open-ended than the first, leaving a clear path for the third book. No problem, I thought. I would settle down after the touring and promotions died down and get to work on the last book. Not at the frantic pace of the second, but certainly without the two-year gap in productivity.  

Six months after I returned from my last signing, that wasn’t the case and I found myself once again sitting in front of a blank page, in nicer surroundings this time, wondering how it had all gone wrong again. 

And so it was, almost a year to the day after my encounter with Callie, that I found myself once again standing outside the off-licence with a growing desperation twisting my gut.  

I don’t know why I had expected to see her there, or why my heart fell in disappointment when she wasn’t standing outside, smoking her cigarette and doom-scrolling. I hesitated at the door, I knew this wasn’t the way, but the memory of my previous experience was still fresh in my mind. The aura of uncontrolled panic and anxiety. All I could think of doing was taking the edge off, even for a few hours.  

I pushed open the door impulsively before I could lose my nerve and stepped inside.  

And there she was. Standing by one of the shelves, cradling a bottle of Chianti and inspecting the label diligently. When she looked up at me, my heart-stopped, until that look of recognition came into her eyes and that subtle smile spread across her face.  

‘You’re looking well for yourself Mortal Way. Your last book caused quite a sensation, didn’t it? Well-deserved I’d say. Not many people know how much you’ve suffered for your art.’ 

Her new demeanour came as a bit of a shock to me. The first time I’d met her she’d come across as shy, if a bit forward asking for my signature. This time however, she radiated a brash confidence that caught me off guard.  

‘At a loss for words? I thought you’d found your inspiration again. Or have you lost it?’ 

I stared dumbly at her. Her previous satisfied smile on her face took on a nasty texture, resembling a sneer more than anything else. I didn’t know what to say, and even if I did, she continued before I could say anything. 

‘I’m surprised you broke so easily. With your success, you’d think you’d have more room to negotiate. Oh well, so’s life. You need some help again?’ 

I nodded slowly, still unsure of myself. I mean I didn’t think it could hurt at the time. The last time I met her; it had just been a few words that sparked my inspiration. How could that hurt anyone? 

She put the wine down with a shake of her head. 

‘No quality in this world anymore. Right come on. Let’s go.’ 

She pushed past me out of the shop and led me down the street. 

‘See your problem, Mortal Way, is that you are writing about things you don’t know. That you don’t truly understand. If you want to truly be great at what you do — and it’s not all that difficult really, you’re not a Homer or a Shakespeare by any stretch — then you need to experience it for yourself.’ 

We turned a corner, and she led me across the road and into the park. It was mostly empty at that hour, not yet closed for the evening, but still dark enough to make me uneasy. No one hung around the park after sunset, unless they had business to conduct. 

She led me down one of the side paths, that I guessed led towards the lake, and I was surprised to see someone still out running. A man, less surprising than a woman, but it caught me off guard. 

Without warning Callie started to run towards the jogger, her voice raised and hands flailing in the air above her head.  

Before I had a chance to think, the man had slowed to a stop next to her, and she raised her arm and pointed in my direction. He looked up, and took a step towards me, then fell to his knees. Confused, I took a step towards him and watched as he lurched forward and hit the ground face first.  

In the shadows I didn’t see the knife protruding from his back until I was right on top of him. 

‘What the fuck Callie! What have you done?’ 

‘I’ve done nothing Darling. He’s not even dead yet. And won’t be for hours. It will be a long lingering death.’ 

‘I’m going to call an ambulance then.’ 

I want you to know that at that moment, I’d had enough of whatever game she was playing. Nothing was worth that. But she just laughed as I turned to leave 

‘And who are they going to believe? You? Or the poor woman accosted by a perverted writer, who went on to kill an innocent bystander who intervened? They’re not going to find my fingerprints on that knife. Maybe you should look closer.’ 

I turned back, the skin on my neck prickling.  

Returning to the body, I bent down and examined the handle of the knife. It could have been any knife really. Just a standard cheap kitchen knife. Except for the slight piece of melted plastic at the end of the handle, from where I had carelessly let it overhand the stove top.  

‘What the fuck have you done! You fucking crazy bitch! Why are you doing this to me?’ 

Callie smirked, the nearest streetlamp casting sharp shadows across her face.  

‘You asked for this. You wanted inspiration, well there it is. Now you know what it is like to see someone being stabbed in the back.’ 

‘You think this is going to help me?’ 

‘Heavens no! That’s the next part. You’re going to put this poor man out of his misery.’ 

I recoiled and then froze. There was no way out of the trap I had fallen into. My fingerprints were going to be all over that knife. Entrapment? Was that the word? Catch-22? Damned if I do, damned if I don’t? 

I looked back over at Callie, and she just shrugged back. A lazy motion, as if she was bored and just wanted to get things over with. 

‘You have a choice. Leave and you’ll spend the rest of your life in prison. Or do what I tell you to, and you will continue to find the success that you crave.’ 

I looked between the mad woman and the dying man with a sense of growing inevitability. And I reached for the knife. 

I am speaking the truth when I say I don’t know what took over me then. But when I came to my senses, I was back in my house, slumped in the shower, cold water spraying my face. The runoff, slowly meandering towards the drain, stained red. 

I was terrified. But everything was clear as day once again. The entirety of my next book was floating there at the front of my mind. Just sitting there, ready for me to take. So once again I let that alien feeling take its hold on me. Three days later, my next manuscript was with my agent, and they were already singing my praises. 

~ 

If you’ve looked into me, which I’m sure you have, then you’ll know that my third book outsold the other two combined. Production and broadcast companies coming out of the woodwork to bid for the film rights. More awards, more money, more fame. And another three book contract from my publisher.  

Yes, I know. It was blood money. I didn’t even really understand it that morning. Not until I turned on the news anyway, saw online articles about a brutal knife attack in the park, and read the descriptions that had been leaked onto some less than savoury news sites I used for research. 

I was physically sick. Everything about that night in the park matched exactly with the events in my story. I panicked and almost turned down the deal. I planned to claim burnout. I wanted to take time off from writing for a few years. 

But when I called my agent, they weren’t having any of it. They were understanding sure, empathised with the stress and tension of producing three bestselling books in as many years. They were already worried about the strain, so they had hired a Personal Assistant for me, in fact they were already on their way over to meet me. 

The moment I hung up the phone, there was a knock at the door. When I answered, Callie was standing outside. That sadistic knowing smile stretched across her face.  

I tried to say no. I tried to back out. But every time she had me down to rights. Pictures, recordings, video. Every single act of violence and depravity that I committed in the name of inspiration, fame and fortune. All there, held in front of my nose like a poisoned carrot. 

I know that I said I tried. But each time it became just that little bit easier. The money, the fame, the success. It was intoxicating. By the time I started to write my seventh book, there was no need for her to threaten me anymore. She just pointed me in the right direction. By book ten, she didn’t even need to go with me.  

By book twelve, I was picking my own targets. 

When it came time to start work on my thirteenth book, she was gone. 

~ 

That’s when it all came crashing down. Whatever charm, whatever magic, or supernatural force she was exerting on me. Whatever it was that was allowing me to churn out bestseller after bestseller, it went with her. I tried to do book thirteen the right way. I swear I tried to sit down and find the skill and talent I had lost years ago. But nothing came. There was just a yawning void of mediocrity and disappointment.  

And that’s when you caught me. 

When I killed that girl, that poor girl who stayed behind at the playground after her friends left. I stood over her body with the bloodied bat and waited for the inspiration to come as it had so many times before. But there was nothing. Just that endless nothing, and her battered body lying at my feet. 

I don’t know what she wanted, or how she did what she did. I don’t even think I care to know anymore. I did the things that I did. Some of them willingly. But I will fight to my dying breath that I was never given a choice.  

I don’t know if you’ve seen the news recently. That journalist who just published the book profiling me and my actions? She was standing front and center in the crowd when he accepted his Pulitzer. Right there. That fucking smile plastered to her face. And I swear that she looked directly at me though the camera. 

Right into the fucking camera. 

None of that will matter after tonight though, will it? 

I refused my last meal you know. All I requested was a bottle of cheap bourbon and a joint. They denied the second half of my request. 

I suppose we can’t have it every way, can we? 

Keith O’Sullivan is a writer, poet, father, and general purpose nerd, living in the scenic wonderland that is West Cork. An avid consumer of Horror (especially the weird and the gothic), Fantasy and Science Fiction, they are currently splitting their time between finishing their first novel and producing a speculative fiction podcast, Tales Under A Broken Sky, where they spend way too much time exploring the horrific, macabre and fantastical through the mediums of prose and poetry.