The Dark Game Read online

  Question: What makes you think you can win this competition?

  Answer: Because I wrote a great book once, and I know I can do it again.

  She assumed the dreaded question would come eventually. Wells had done his homework, after all.

  Question: If your book was so wonderful, why did your career crash and burn?

  Answer: Because I experienced success too early, received too big an advance. Then I realized I wasn’t as skilled as I thought, and I crumbled under the pressure.

  Yes, Lucy thought. Painful, raw, humiliating. But true. And truth was everything.

  Roderick Wells entered the room and her thoughts scattered.

  Now that she saw Wells in better light, he resembled an old-time Hollywood movie star. He was tall, his silver hair slicked back and a trifle wavy, just like the characters in those classic films from the thirties and forties. He wore charcoal trousers and a pale blue shirt open at the collar. It was obvious he’d once been exceptionally handsome, but his age showed around his eyes and the loose folds of his neck. His forehead was deeply furrowed. There were liver spots on his cheeks, white whiskers along his jaw that his razor had somehow missed. His hair, too, she realized upon closer inspection, needed a good trim. It stuck up in stray tufts around his ears. His eyes were a trifle bloodshot and underscored by discolored pouches of skin.

  Wells eased into the wingback chair and took in their scrutiny. “Are you dismayed by my appearance?”

  “You’re exactly the way I pictured,” Anna said.

  Wells looked pleased. “Truly?”

  “Not me,” Tommy said. “I expected someone a lot older.”

  Wells laughed softly. “Any other surprises?” he asked.

  “Your house is so far off the grid, I feel like we’re on another planet,” Sherilyn said.

  “Removing myself from society,” Wells said, “was the only way to quarantine my madness.”

  They laughed, and a good deal of the tension dissipated.

  “Ah,” Wells said. “It’s nice to see your real faces.”

  They laughed again, but not as heartily this time. Lucy caught a few of her peers casting furtive glances at each other.

  “Now that you’ve seen I do in fact exist, I’d like you to bring me your works-in-progress.” He patted an end table. “Place them right here.”

  As one, they complied. Anna got there first, Tommy and Elaine trailing after. Marek placed his atop the pile and was followed by Will, Sherilyn, and Evan. Lucy went next with Rick following.

  As Lucy returned to her seat, she noticed Bryan had been waiting with his neatly bound manuscript clutched before him. Jaw set, he placed his novel on top of Rick’s.

  Wells stood. “That’s an efficient beginning, and as we all know, openings are vital to a great story.”

  Murmured assent from the group. Something tickled at Lucy’s mind, a nameless stir of misgiving. She thrust it away, told herself she had to focus. Wells might pick her novel first.

  “Therefore,” Wells said, bending to scoop up the manuscripts, “from the flames of this sacrifice may you rise anew.”

  And with that, Wells hurled the manuscripts into the blazing fire.

  Chapter Five

  Tommy leaped to his feet. Several of them gasped, and Elaine said something Lucy couldn’t make out. Then came a pregnant, unbelieving silence. Though fifteen feet away, Lucy felt a blast of heat as the thick reams ignited. Loose sheets of paper curled and blackened, sending charred scraps with glowing red edges floating out of the fireplace. Wells regarded the group, his expression serene.

  “What the hell?” Tommy said hoarsely.

  “Mr. Wells,” Elaine said, “I’m sure everyone backed up their work. Destroying one copy is hardly ensuring a new start.”

  For the first time, Marek’s affable demeanor slipped. “But it’s the only copy we have here.”

  Lucy’s lips formed a grim line.

  Wells stared steadily back at her. “You disapprove, Miss Still?”

  “It was cruel,” Lucy heard herself saying.

  “Perhaps so,” he allowed. “But it was necessary.”

  “But sir,” Evan broke in, “the gesture was symbolic at best. Even if the others didn’t back up their work – a possibility I find difficult to fathom—”

  Tommy shot him a fierce glare.

  Evan went on uneasily, “—I’m sure we all remember what we’d written in our novels.”

  Tommy muttered something under his breath.

  Wells interlaced his fingers. “Do you have a comment, Mr. Marston?”

  Tommy glowered at him, licked his lips.

  “Nothing?” Wells asked.

  Tommy stood there mutely, seeming to shrink before Wells’s withering stare.

  “Then sit down.”

  Looking ill, Tommy did.

  Wells surveyed the group. “I did you all the greatest favor anyone can do for a new writer.”

  He caught the way Elaine shifted in her chair. “And before you claim to be anything but a novice, remember that I’ve read your work and know your limitations.”

  Elaine folded her arms, her bracelets clinking together.

  Wells sat and sighed contentedly. “An effective teacher goes to extremes to assist his pupils. Before I can make you better writers, I must make you stronger people.” He studied them as he spoke, and when his dark eyes lingered on one of their party for longer than the others, Lucy scooted forward to see who it was.

  Rick. Oddly enough, given her earlier reaction to him, she’d forgotten all about him during the manuscript burning. He looked like a man who was being punished for some unexpiated crime, who was both anguished by his punishment yet darkly pleased by it. The result was an expression both ghastly and ancient, as though Rick were an elderly man masquerading as a young one.

  Wells said, “Don’t mourn your novel, Mr. Forrester. You’re about to see the world as it really is.”

  Wells stared at Rick.

  Whose expression transformed into horror.

  Chapter Six

  Rick was drowning in Wells’s eyes, those obsidian pools sucking him into their icy depths.

  Yessss, Wells cooed in a voice Rick was certain only he could hear. Yes, Mr. Forrester, you see what I am, don’t you?

  Rick tried to look away but couldn’t. Wells had him in his grasp, and he knew it. Knew how powerless Rick was against this mental onslaught.

  Look at me, Rick. Look…at my…face.

  Wells changed.

  Wells’s cheekbones protruded and pulsed, his chin elongated. The teeth tapered into bestial points, the lips stretching in a joker’s leer. But the eyes…those coal-black eyes…they pinned Rick to the chair, crucified him, and reveled in his torment.

  Rick realized why no one could find a recent image of Roderick Wells, why he never showed up to accept awards. Because if someone did gaze at the man too long

  (he’s not a man)

  it would drive you insane, you’d get lost forever in those murky black tarns, those wells – the aptness of the name slammed into him – and once you sank into those stygian waters, you’d be lost, irretrievable. Jesus God, couldn’t the others see what was happening?

  He’s a demon, Rick thought. A beast.

  Wells’s eyes began to glow. I am infinitely more than that, Mr. Forrester. I am your eternal fate. Now drown in my eyes. Suffocate in my embrace.

  Rick fought for control, strained to move his arms, his feet, to utter a whimper, for Christ’s sake. But he couldn’t, could only watch in impotent dread as the black eyes grew lambent, the hellfire within raging. The leer broadened, the teeth like dripping pikes. Wells’s face became a lunatic death mask, and when he spoke, his lips never moved.

  I know what haunts you, Wells gloated. I can summon it here to claim you.

 
Rick’s vision grayed, his breathing reed thin. But unconsciousness would be a haven now. Just when he believed Wells would lunge at him and rip out his throat, the demon released him. As if no time had passed, Wells once again addressed the group. Rick sank in his seat, enervated.

  “For you to become what you most desire,” Wells said, “you must devote yourselves to this experience entirely. You must open yourselves to me entirely. I must receive your unmitigated trust.” He gestured toward the fireplace; the heat rolling out of it shimmered like a desert road at noonday. “This is your past. I am your future.”

  Rick’s pulse began to decelerate. By degrees, the terror of the psychic attack – how else could he explain what had happened? – dissipated. He armed sweat off his brow, took a deep breath, and concentrated on Wells.

  “What I did with your trifles felt to you like an act of viciousness, a bullying liberty taken by a man who has won every major writing award.”

  Rick’s heart rate was normal now, the grasp of terror slipping away. He glanced about the group, decided the others hadn’t seen the demonic Wells. It hardly seemed possible. My God, had he nodded off and dreamed the whole thing?

  “But awards don’t make me a writer,” Wells said.

  “I couldn’t agree more, Mr. Wells,” Elaine said. “Critics only champion what other critics praise.”

  Wells tilted his head. “Go on.”

  “If you bow at the altar of the right person, you’re accorded privileges.” She glanced at Lucy. “Like big advances and glowing reviews.”

  Tommy was nodding, the horror at witnessing his work reduced to ashes apparently having subsided. “That’s damn straight. It’s why some of the best writers never make a penny.”

  Wells was smiling.

  “What?” Elaine asked.

  “You know what, Miss Kovalchyk.”

  “You think I’m wrong?”

  “You and Mr. Marston are repeating the mantra of the unsuccessful writer.”

  Tommy frowned. “You said awards didn’t matter.”

  “That’s not what I said.”

  Elaine brushed a lock of blond hair off her temple. “I don’t see the difference.”

  “Clearly. If you did, your illusion would be shattered, and you’d be faced with the stark truth.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “Your writing is shit.”

  Elaine gaped at him. She glanced from face to face, searching for an ally. She turned back to Wells, her chin drawn in with rage. “If my writing is so horrendous, how did I graduate with honors? Hell, why did you choose me?”

  “You have potential, Ms. Kovalchyk, but your voice is tinged with a thousand toxins.”

  Elaine stood. “I don’t have to listen to this.”

  “No one’s making you,” Anna said.

  Rick turned to Anna, noticed how the firelight had dyed her hair Halloween orange. Her gaze was utterly bloodless.

  Elaine put her hands on her hips. “And what the hell do you know? You’re not even old enough to buy booze.”

  “I’m twenty-three.”

  “See? You’re a child.”

  Wells smiled. “Miss Kovalchyk is seething because we’ve diverged from her mental script.”

  Elaine rounded on him. “My mental script?”

  “You imagined reading your work to us.”

  “You have no—”

  “You imagined dazzling your peers, very much the way you dazzled in your farcical classes—”

  “Farcical?”

  “—and like your smug professors, you assumed I would nod knowingly in recognition of your talent and gaze into the fire as you transported me with your sublime prose.”

  “You don’t know anything about me,” she said, but her voice was small.

  “I know everything about you, my dear. Your solipsistic tendencies and your revolting pretentiousness.”

  Tears brimmed in Elaine’s eyes. “Tell me what else is wrong with me. Right here in front of the others.”

  “‘In front of the others’,” Wells repeated in a musing voice. “Yes, those are the key words, aren’t they? What we do and say in front of others prevents us from becoming what we might become. Our social masks merge with our flesh to alter, for the worse, our true selves. Take Will,” he said, turning in his chair to face Will Church.

  Will’s eyes widened. The poor guy looked like a dozing audience member who has awakened to find himself onstage in some magician’s perilous trick.

  “Mr. Church suspected his driver of sabotaging his arrival.”

  Will hesitated, said, “It crossed my mind.”

  “You were correct.”

  “I knew it!”

  “You were delayed because you lack confidence, Mr. Church. You also suspect yourself of being lazy. That’s because you are lazy. You are constantly tardy, and due to this unfortunate habit, you repeatedly expose yourself to situations that prey on another flaw – your debilitating self-doubt.”

  Will looked like he might be sick.

  “You were made to enter last, after the others had become passingly acquainted. You dreaded this scenario, you lay awake fretting about it.” Wells rested his cheek on a fist. “Tell me, Mr. Church. How did it feel?”

  “Awful. Like being the new kid in school.”

  “And how do you feel now?”

  “I’m not sure what you want me to say.”

  Wells’s expression hardened. “It’s not what I want you to say. It’s what I want you to do.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Stop being a coward.”

  Will flinched.

  Wells turned to Elaine. “Will has flaws, but he’s more than he thinks he is. You, however, are considerably less. Like Tommy, you have sought shelter in the last refuge of the stunted artist: the belief that those who are successful got there by clever subterfuge.”

  Rick heard himself asking, “What was the point in humiliating Will?”

  Wells smiled. “I’m giving Mr. Church what he needs – a verbal cuffing and a dose of confidence. I’m also providing Miss Kovalchyk and Mr. Marston with what they require – a proper humbling.”

  Tommy turned his sullen face toward the fire. Elaine slouched in her chair, arms crossed.

  “How are we supposed to finish our novels now?” Bryan asked. “My files are in Minnesota. There’s no way I can go on without referring back.”

  “You’re to create a new story.”

  “A short story?” Marek ventured.

  “A new novel.”

  Evan smiled. “With all due respect, sir, we’re only here for six weeks.”

  “And you,” Wells said, his grin reptilian, “have forgotten whom you’re addressing.”

  Evan’s eyes widened. “I’m sorry, Mr. Wells,” he said in a small voice.

  “You will listen for inspiration,” Wells said, his voice slightly hoarse. The effort of speaking so much, Lucy decided, was a strain for him. “That isn’t to say you will riffle through your mental notebook of stale ideas. You will listen to your subconscious, and when you hear its voice, you will write.”

  “Write what?” Bryan said, eyebrows knitting together. “That pile of pages you just incinerated represents the last four years of my life.”

  “Then you’ve wasted four years.”

  Bryan looked pleadingly at the others, but no one came to his defense.

  Wells glanced at Marek. “You, Mr. Sokolov, will be our first reader. Tomorrow night.”

  Marek’s mouth twitched. “If you’d like.”

  Wells’s grin didn’t waver. “I’d like.”

  Marek seemed to sink in his chair.

  Wells surveyed them. “What you will write will be true to yourselves. But the novels will have one commonality.”

  “And that is?” Sheril
yn asked.

  “Horror,” Wells said. “Everything begins with horror.”

  Sherilyn’s eyebrows went up. “Horror? As in, vampires and werewolves and big-breasted starlets being terrorized?”

  “What’s wrong with that?” Tommy asked, grinning.

  Evan sat up primly. “I’m a playwright. Not some lurid scaremonger like Stephen King.”

  “I’d kill to write like Stephen King,” Rick said.

  Evan threw up his hands. “I’ve never read a horror novel in my life. How do you expect me to write one?”

  “The only thing I expect of you,” Wells said, “is to stop mewling.”

  Evan stiffened.

  Wells rose. “Search for inspiration. If you cannibalize your past work, I’ll send you home. We’ll meet at six tomorrow evening. I expect five thousand words.”

  Elaine gaped at him. “What?”

  “I’m not your mother, Miss Kovalchyk. I’m not here to hold your hand. If you don’t possess the toughness or the will to produce, you can return to the sea of failure in which you were adrift. Remember,” he added, his bloodshot eyes widening, “only one of you can win.”

  Elaine fell silent and fiddled with her bracelets.

  Wells eyed them all grimly. “Get to work. If you fail to produce,” he went on, “there will be severe consequences.” He moved toward the door.

  “What,” Sherilyn said, “you restrict our diet to bread and water?”

  Wells stopped at the threshold of the library, the shadows darkening his face. “I don’t believe in half measures, Miss Jackson. You’d be wise not to test me.”

  Chapter Seven

  Rick lay in bed and gazed at the ceiling. He’d studied under demanding teachers, played for tough coaches. Unless they weren’t very bright – a few had been dumber than dishrags – he never minded being pushed, could endure a verbal lashing, or in the case of his high school football coach, a four-hour practice with full pads in a hundred-degree heat.

  But Wells.…

  He rolled over and listened to the grandfather clock tick. He discerned its antique ivory face, the shapes of a moon and sun limned by the starlight. Was everyone, like him, lying awake?