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He deleted them all with a frustrated growl. “Fuck me.”
He’d come to here to find inspiration, to recharge his creative batteries, but instead, he’d found nothing but suspicious locals, a best friend who didn’t want anything to do with him, and a thick mental fog that refused to lift.
“Come on, Conn. You can do this. You’ve done this a hundred times.” But even as the words left his lips, doubt gnawed at the edges of his mind. He hadn’t been able to write horror in more than a year, since finishing The Shadows Within, and while his recent attempt at a self-published police procedural had been fun, it had not been well received by fans or critics. They wanted horror from him, and nothing else.
He looked at the shelf above his desk, where his previous novels sat in a neat row. The spine of each book bore his name, but they might as well have been written by someone else. He couldn’t believe he’d ever crafted those chilling tales of suspense and horror, not when he was struggling to form a single coherent sentence now.
What if he couldn’t do it again?
What if he’d run out of darkness to share with the world?
The darkness had always been with him for as long as he could remember. He’d had paralyzing night terrors as a child, and at the encouragement of a therapist, he’d started writing his nightmares down as a way to exorcise his demons. Then he’d started crafting those nightmares into stories, and submitting those stories to publishers, and, suddenly, he was a published author before he even finished high school.
He’d always thought being a full-time author was his dream. He’d attempted other things— college, military, a string of random full-time jobs. It was all interesting for a while, but none of it held his heart in a chokehold like writing.
Except now he was starting to think it was more a curse than a dream.
Veronica used to tease that he had everyone fooled, because the girls in high school always thought he was “sweet,” but she knew the truth. He wasn’t sweet. He had a shadow self that thrived on terrifying people. And maybe that was true. He always loved to hear that his books kept readers awake, staring into the dark, afraid of what lurked there.
He pushed back from the desk with a sigh and went to refill his coffee mug, his footsteps echoing in the silent house. This small two-bed, one-bath cabin was tucked away from the highway on a forested road that overlooked the ocean. The place was secluded and moody, with its dramatic views from the back deck, its thrift store decor, and cedar shake siding grayed by decades of salty ocean wind. It was supposed to inspire him, and yet his mind remained stubbornly empty. He stood at the window, gazing out at the dense forest surrounding the cabin. Just beyond those trees was Veronica’s place. He hadn’t seen her since the day he’d tried to comfort her three weeks ago, and she slammed the door in his face.
Connelly sipped his coffee, contemplating his next move. He knew he should try to make things right with Veronica, but she clearly wanted nothing to do with him.
His phone rang, interrupting his thoughts. Glancing at the caller ID, he silenced it without answering. His agent could wait. Right now, he needed to clear his head.
Leaving his useless laptop behind, he headed outside into the chilly air. The days were slowly getting longer and warmer, but the evenings still clung to the chill of winter. Hands in his pockets, he strolled down the dirt road that connected their cabins. Maybe he’d get lucky, and Veronica would at least agree to talk to him this time...
Connelly didn’t get far before his phone rang again. Letting out an irritated huff, he fished it from his pocket, fully intending to silence it once more. But then he saw the name on the screen— Arthur Martens.
Against his better judgment, he answered. “Hey, Arthur.”
“Conn, my boy! How’s the writing going?” Arthur’s voice was warm and booming, belying the cancer that was slowly chewing away at his insides.
“It’s... uh, going,” he said evasively.
“That good, huh?”
“I’ve had better writing sessions.”
“It’ll come to you. It always does.”
He scuffed his boot against a rock. “Yeah.”
A beat of silence.
Arthur drew a breath, and Connelly steeled himself for the question.
“So… I wanted to ask about Veronica. Have you spoken to her again?”
“No.”
“Listen, I called her yesterday, and she sounded…” He trailed off as if he didn’t know how to finish that sentence.
“She won’t see me, Arthur. I’ve tried.”
“Yeah, I know she’s been giving you the cold shoulder, but she’s still working through everything.”
“I get that.”
