Ad Nauseam

MICAH’S MUSE



Micah had all but given up on his dream of becoming a writer on the day that he met Muse. When he graduated from school with his Bachelor’s Degree in Creative Writing, he’d been filled with fantasies of becoming a best-selling horror author. Despite his professor’s constant harping that he should not write genre fiction, he still loved horror and planned to make his writing career with scary novels. He knew he’d have to start somewhere else first, so he took a position at the newspaper as a copy editor, telling himself it was just until he landed his first contract with a major publisher. Five years later, long years filled with writer’s block, interrupted by inconsistent streaks of stories that led to stacks of rejection letters so tall they fell to the floor every time he sat at his desk, Micah still worked at the paper, editing articles written by other people.

Micah learned all of the skills he needed to be a professional writer; but with perfect grammar, stellar clarity, and top notch mechanical skills, he still lacked the one thing he needed most: a story to tell.

No matter what he tried, he couldn’t seem to come up with a tale worth telling. Even his most exciting ideas fizzled out as soon as he moved from planning and note-taking to writing. The few projects he’d finished came back rejected every time he submitted to a new market. The rejections, generic form letters that did nothing to help him hone his craft, usually just said his story wasn’t a good fit for them. Even his mother quit supporting his dream a couple years ago. She changed the subject whenever he brought it up now, no longer offering words of encouragement.

With his head full of thoughts of giving up and resigning himself to the life of a newspaper editor, Micah didn’t notice the old woman until she spoke his name.

“Micah.”

Halting mid-step, he looked around, startled out of his reverie by the eerie voice. The sun shone brightly that day, but he felt cold as he glanced down at the woman squatting on the sidewalk in front of his apartment. A dense clump of trees at the building’s corner obscured most of her in shadow.

“Do I know you?”

“No, but I know all about you, Micah.”

The woman leaned forward from her crouch and became visible in the bright sunlight. Micah almost recoiled at the sight of her. As if she could sense his discomfort, the crone smiled, her few remaining teeth black with rot and her hair a snarled nest of greasy gray. Her clothing was filthy and repaired so many times that it seemed there was more patch to the dress than original material. On her feet was a pair of scuffed men’s loafers.

“Who are you?” Micah tried to look beyond the grime in an attempt to recognize her, but he felt certain he had never seen the old gal in his life. I’d remember someone this hideous.

“How about you just call me Muse.”

“Muse?”

“Yeah. That’ll do.”

Dark eyes of indeterminate color glittered from within the folds of a face so deeply lined and dirty that Micah thought a month of baths wouldn’t get it clean. The intensity of her gaze coupled with her repulsive smile made him uneasy. She doesn’t look like much of a threat, but street people can be crazy and unpredictable, he thought.

Time to move along. He started to step away.

“Now hold up, Micah.” Muse rose to her feet, moving more gracefully than he would’ve expected, though her joints popped as she stood. She hovered in the shadow cast by Micah’s towering frame. “I’ve got something for you, boy. Something you need mighty bad right now.”

Rummaging in a bag hanging over one hunched shoulder, she eventually pulled out a piece of paper to give him. When he didn’t take it, she thrust it at his hand, impatience darkening her creased face.

“Take it!” she snapped, and he reluctantly took the note and read it, barely able to discern what the spiky writing said. It looked like a website.

“What’s this?”

“What does it look like? Go type that in on the fancy computer you got in your office, and it’ll show you a contest for an anthology that’s taking submissions right now.”

“So what am I supposed to do about that?” Micah thought this whole episode with the strange woman seemed surreal.

“You’re gonna submit a story, stupid! And you’re gonna win.” Muse grinned again and let out a cackle.

“Listen lady. No disrespect, and I don’t know where you’re getting your information about me, but I’m not a writer. I don’t have anything to submit.” Micah tried to hand the paper back, but she held up one claw-like hand in refusal. He noticed her fingernails, long and twisted things, thickened and rimmed with black grime.

“Sure you do! You just don’t know it yet.” The blackened nubs of Muse’s teeth protruded haphazardly from diseased gums. Her horrible laughter turned into a wretched cough that folded her in half and made Micah fear she’d choke. He instinctively reached a steadying hand toward her, grimacing at the liquid hacking noises she made.

Without hesitation, Muse’s hands shot out with unnatural speed and clamped on either side of Micah’s face, fingers hooking behind his ears. He didn’t have time to react as she spoke a few words in a language he didn’t recognize and pressed hard with her thumbs into the center of his forehead before shoving him away and spitting an enormous wad of green phlegm at his feet.

“You crazy bitch!” Micah nearly fell on his ass as he stumbled back from the crone, rubbing his forehead. He could still feel the heat of her disgusting hands on his face. All traces of mirth left her face and when she spoke her voice carried a hint of menace, making goose bumps stand up along his arms despite the heat of the afternoon.

“The first one is free, Micah. Now go write your story.”

Micah hurried away, looking back only once to see that she had blended back into the shadows once again. It wasn’t until he made it up the three flights of stairs and locked the door of his apartment behind him, that he realized he still had the paper clenched in his fist. Shuddering at the memory of her touch, he tossed the scrap of paper into the garbage and went directly to the bathroom, taking a long, hot shower.

Nasty bitch probably gave me herpes! Not bothering to dress after his shower, Micah crawled into bed for a nap. The encounter had left him exhausted and he soon succumbed to a fitful slumber.

***

Micah woke that night disoriented and confused. He’d intended to only sleep for an hour, but the clock on the night table said it was past midnight and the harsh glow of the streetlights flooded the room through the open blinds.

Oh, shit! He had a project due in the morning and had intended to finish it after dinner. Micah crawled out of bed and pulled on a pair of clean boxers before padding barefoot into the kitchen to start a pot of coffee. It looked like he was going to have to pull an all-nighter if he held any hope of meeting the deadline. While the coffee brewed, he walked into his office (originally a second bedroom, but he put a desk and some filing cabinets in there) to turn on his computer.

After retrieving a cup of coffee, Micah returned to his desk with the intention of opening his files and working on the edit that was due in a few short hours, but found himself opening a new document instead. After a few moments of staring at the blank screen, he began to type.

Starting out slow, but gradually increasing in speed, his fingers flew across the keyboard as if on autopilot; and as the story took shape, it seemed to flow straight from his hands rather than his mind. A feeling of excitement like he had never known gripped him as the tale unfolded. Each new word he typed was as completely foreign to him as if he were reading them in someone else’s story for the first time.

He sat forward, intently reading to see how the story would end. After typing the last word, he wept, secure in the knowledge that the story wasn’t just good, but great. Now he just had to submit it, but what did he do with the paper?

Panic bloomed in his gut and he raced into the kitchen, digging through the garbage frantically, trying to find the slip of paper that he wadded up hours before. It sat at the very bottom of the can, as if the importance of it had added actual weight. Micah took the note into the office and typed in the website, gasping at what came up on the screen. It wasn’t just any publisher and it wasn’t just any anthology. He immediately recognized the name as being one of the biggest horror publishers in the industry.

My story in this book would be my ticket to the fast lane! After checking the guidelines for formatting preferences, he held his breath and clicked submit.

***

Micah spent the next few weeks writing in an attempt to take his mind off waiting for a response to his submission, but it didn’t help much. He knew that most places required at least thirty days and sometimes up to six months before they responded, but still felt himself slipping into a dark depression. He tried to tell himself it was waiting that was doing it, but knew it was the writing that caused his despair. No matter what he did to try and replicate the experience of that night, he just couldn’t do it. He had some ideas during that time, even some decent ones, but as before, they turned cold as soon as he tried to put them on paper. He was close to giving up again, when he finally got an email from the editor of the anthology.

Nothing could have prepared him for what it would say.

Not only did they like his story, they loved it! The email went on to say that it was the best story they had received in years and they would love to see more of his work. Maybe he had a novel length piece they could review? Micah’s heart nearly stopped when reading the editor’s opinion that he could be the fresh voice in horror they had been seeking for a long time. This response was an answer to his most deeply held prayers. He couldn’t believe his luck.

Micah wrote back promising the editor he would provide the synopsis for a full length novel within the next few weeks.

Then anxiety began to set in. He doubled his efforts to come up with something decent, spending all of his free time and even some afternoons at work trying to come up with an idea that would knock them out. As always, it was fruitless. All of his ideas hit a brick wall almost as soon as they popped into his head. Micah felt the pressure to come up with something great destroying him. The only thing worse than never making it at all, was the thought of making it once and never being able to do it again. He would rather die than become a one hit wonder.

He found himself checking the shadows by his apartment whenever he left, hoping to catch a glimpse of a nasty old woman in men’s loafers, but she never showed. Then, one afternoon, once his three weeks had almost lapsed and he had given up hope, Muse appeared at the deli.

She looked the same as that day on the sidewalk, maybe a little dirtier, when she sat down in the empty seat across from Micah. Being a creature of habit, he ate lunch at the same deli almost every day and was well known by the workers. The manager raised his eyebrows at Micah from behind the counter before shooting a pointed glance at the old woman. Shaking his head and winking at the man, Micah focused his attention on the hag, who smiled at him with a grotesque gleefulness.

“So you won, eh?” She reached across the table and took what was left of Micah’s sandwich, taking a noisy bite of the ham and cheese.

“Yes,” he said, glancing at the sandwich in her filthy hand and losing his appetite. “He wants a novel from me.”

Muse nodded her head and chewed, not responding. Micah waited, but still she said nothing, obviously enjoying his lunch. Micah looked at her, feeling disgusted and more than a little afraid.

“Well?” he asked, tired of waiting for her to respond. “Can you do it again?”

“Uh huh.” Muse caught his eyes with a level stare, popping the remainder of the sandwich in her mouth and swallowing before she continued. “But this time it’s gonna cost you.”

Micah had suspected as much, considering her parting words to him the last time they met.

“How much?” he asked, his tone business-like, as if they were discussing a housekeeping job rather than magic. The whole thing was crazy, but he knew that in some insane way, she had caused him to write the last story.

Muse waved her hand dismissively in his face. “I don’t want your money.”

“What do you want?”

“Call your boss and take the rest of the afternoon off. We’re gonna take a little walk to your apartment and I’ll show ya.” With that she stood and walked out the door, not waiting for his response. Micah had already paid for his lunch, so he hurried to catch up, pulling out his cell phone and placing a call to his the office to tell his boss that he had come down with a stomach virus and wouldn’t be in for the rest of the day. His apartment was only a few blocks away from the deli and Muse walked much faster than he would’ve believed she could.

Am I really doing this? Do I really want to let this creepy bitch into my apartment? Muse strutted up the stairs like a woman half her age, then waited expectantly in front of his door.

Who or what the hell is this woman? What if she wants sex? Micah couldn’t imagine how he would ever be able to fulfill his end of the bargain if that was the case.

“How do you know so much about me?” Micah asked, feeling very uneasy about letting her into his home.

“You don’t wanna know, boy. Now unlock that door and let me in. We have work to do and I don’t have all day to screw around on this.”

Micah did as he was told, unlocking the door and entering in front of Muse.

She didn’t seem to have much in the way of manners, so he saw no reason that he should go out of his way to act chivalrous to the hag.

Once inside, she spent a few moments peering around, her glittering dark eyes taking in everything in at once. Apparently satisfied with what she saw, Muse pushed a pile of papers off the kitchen table and sat down on the chair.

Muttering incoherently, she wasted no time upending her bag and scattering the contents onto the table. What looked like a pile of stones rested in a heap on top. Irregularly shaped and a mixture of odd colors, the stones, Micah imagined, were probably not rocks at all but rather the faded, glossy bones of small animals.

“Are you a witch?” Micah’s voice ended in a squeak, causing color to flood his face.

“Does it matter?” Muse looked up from arranging the bones and stones, her eyes narrowed and her mouth pinched.

“I was just wondering how you, uh, did what you did to me.”

“I can explain it to ya, or I can do it again. Which you want?”

“I need a novel. They are expecting a novel out of me and I can’t come up with one. I was hoping—”

“I know what you need. Now can we get to it?” She looked impatient and he suddenly feared she might leave.

“Yes, of course.”

Muse made a show of studying the pattern of the bits and pieces on the table, scrutinizing their layout for long moments before making minor adjustments. When she was satisfied, she nodded her head once and made a horrible phlegmy noise in the back of her throat before hacking a wad of snot a high school bully would’ve been proud of onto the pile. Micah grimaced.

“Time for your contribution.”

“My contribution?”

“I told you this one wasn’t free. Now get out your pecker, boy. Gonna need some of your spunk for it to work.”

“My what?” Micah stared at the hideous creature seated at his kitchen table, hoping he had heard her wrong.

“Come on! You jerk off every morning thinking about that reporter with the big tits. So just do it already!”

He stood frozen in place, his jaw slack. How in the hell could she know that? Muse made an impatient gesture at his crotch and Micah took a step back.

“I’m sorry. I think this was a mistake.”

“I guess so. Maybe you don’t wanna be a real writer after all.” She stood and made as if to gather her trinkets back into the bag, but Micah grabbed her wrist. She glanced sharply at him .

“I do want to be a writer. I do.” Unbuckling his belt and wondering if he had lost his mind, Micah pushed the flaps of his jeans aside and pulled his penis out of the slit in front of his boxers. He rubbed at himself mechanically, picturing the busty reporter while trying not to notice that the old woman’s eyes watched his every move with rapt attention. It was no good. He couldn’t masturbate with her watching.

“Oh for cripes sake!” Muse spit on her hand and grabbed his flaccid cock before he could pull away, stroking him in a rough and professional manner which left no doubt that she had done this before. To his amazement, he became hard almost immediately. As her gnarled hand gripped him in a fist and worked him relentlessly, he felt himself racing towards a ball-draining climax.

Hideous or not, she was about to get him off in a big way.

“Oh my God!” he shouted, gripping the table with both hands as he came, spurting his spunk upon the pile of rocks and bones in what seemed like an endless flow. Hearing a sizzling noise, he looked on in amazement as thin, blue smoke began to rise from the mess.

“God ain’t got nothing to do with this. Now breathe it in, boy! Quick, before it stops!”

Micah did as he was told, his head swimming as the sweet smoke filled his lungs. Still clutching at the table, he tried to stop the floor from racing up to meet him, but the world went black as he fell.

Waking a few hours later, Micah lay sprawled on the kitchen floor, his head aching and his cock still hanging limply out the front of his shorts. He sat up, rubbing an egg-shaped lump on the back of his head. The pile of stones on the table was gone. So was Muse.

The memory of that clawed hand jerking him off filled Micah with humiliation and he wanted to vomit, hot bile forcing its way up his throat. He walked with uncertainty towards the bathroom, intending to take a hot shower to wash away the memory, but found himself turning left into the office instead. Through no conscious effort of his own, he turned on the computer and opened a new document. Head still throbbing and stomach churning, Micah began to type.

***

“I’m getting the cue that we only have time for one more question. You, in the back. Yellow shirt.”

A shapely blonde in a tight yellow sweater stood up, smoothing her slacks over her hips nervously before speaking.

“Um, yeah. I was wondering. Your books are so great and scary. Where do you get your ideas?” She immediately sat back down, leaning forward in her seat as if she expected him to divulge the meaning of life.

Micah smiled at the woman before sweeping the entire audience with a mock serious look. This was a common question at public engagements, but it was one he enjoyed closing the night with. After a moment of silent contemplation to build the tension, (the blonde looked like she might actually fall off her chair) he spoke.

“My muse is one seriously twisted bitch, and she drives me relentlessly.” The MC thanked him and Micah nodded to the crowd before he left the stage to thunderous applause. No matter how many times he did one of these things, he still enjoyed the attention. He knew plenty of bestselling authors who hated these engagements, who resented having to make appearances for the sake of marketing and building a fan base, but not him. He loved the attention and adoration of his fans. He never became annoyed when interrupted during dinner by a fan requesting an autograph. He deserved the attention. He went through hell to get where he was now.

As the plane began to taxi down the runway, Micah noticed the woman across the aisle from him reading his latest book, The Devil’s Way. She smiled shyly at him when she caught him looking and he smiled back, giving her a little wink. Some days he felt like a f*ckin rock star. But as the plane got closer to home, his jubilant mood began to sour. His thoughts strayed from the crowd earlier in the night to Muse. The circuit was almost over and a movie based on the book was due to hit the theaters in just two weeks. His publisher would be expecting an outline for his next project very soon.

Muse.

Glancing across the aisle toward the woman once more, he looked at the demonic man on the cover of the book; something about the eyes was familiar. They reminded him of Muse’s demented stare. Suddenly he wasn’t so happy to see her reading it. He wondered if she would still want to buy his books if she knew the things he did to write them. Then again, with the way the world was, it might increase their appeal.

It had been the same thing after the second book as it had been with the first. Muse disappeared and Micah foolishly told himself he wouldn’t need her help next time. He told himself he would finally figure out the formula that would allow him to churn out a bestseller on his own. Then after weeks of agonizing at the keyboard just to type a few words, she showed up. It seemed as though she could smell his desperation.

The second book had required he take a life. It had been hard to kill the neighbor’s kitten and place its still warm body upon the stones. He liked cats and had nothing against his neighbors, but he needed a sequel to the first book. It was on the bestseller list for a solid twenty weeks. The publisher practically got on his knees and begged for another book.

In the long run, Micah figured, one kitten’s life wasn’t that much to give for fame and fortune, was it? But seeing that broken hearted little girl searching every afternoon after school for her lost pet had really made him feel like shit. Those teary blue eyes had ultimately made him move away. He had made enough money off the first book to buy a house in the country and the sequel was so highly anticipated it was predicted to top the charts upon release. He could certainly afford to move somewhere better, and thought maybe with a change of scenery he would find the formula to write the next novel by himself.

Six months in the country and Micah realized he still didn’t have what he needed to write alone. An overwhelming sense of panic sent him back to his old neighborhood where he spent the whole evening roaming, looking for his lost Muse. He searched street corners and diners, even went through the homeless shelter twice in his desperate search. Only when the snow became so heavy he feared he might not make it home did he finally give up.

I’ve f*cked up; she can’t find me. I can’t find her. My career is over.

When Micah pulled through the gate and up the driveway, his heart gave a funny lurch. Sitting on his porch, still dressed in the same raggedy clothing but sporting a heavy green army jacket, was Muse. He didn’t ask how she got there, how she had found a way through his security system. He had given up on asking her questions, always receiving cryptic and dismissive answers. She was there and he was grateful. It was all that mattered.

She didn’t seem mad that he moved away from her, but she did make him pay. After telling him she had his third novel ready, she once again handed him a sheet of paper, and this time all that was written on it was a name and phone number. She told him to call the guy and explained what he needed to ask for. Micah’s stomach twisted at the request, but he picked up the phone. Two hours later he was waiting in an alley behind the hospital, pacing by a door that read HOSPITAL PERSONNEL ONLY.

Bob came out on his break and lit a cigarette, looking around suspiciously before handing Micah a small wrapped bundle. Without a word, Micah handed him a wad of folded bills and it was over. Not a word was spoken between the two. Bob explained over the phone how he would obtain the objects, but it still didn’t make Micah feel better as he drove home, glancing down at the horrible package that lay on the passenger seat. He hoped like hell he wouldn’t get pulled over, knowing that if he did, despite his promises to the contrary, he would give Bob up in a heartbeat. What kind of person was willing to do this sort of thing, anyways?

When he walked in the door, Muse was waiting for him, the pile of stones and bones already arranged. He tried to hand her the bundle but she refused.

“Gotta be you.”

Micah took a deep breath and set the bundle on the table, gingerly unwrapping the plastic. He nearly shrieked when he saw the little hands, despite already knowing what the package contained. The baby had been stillborn, its body on the way to be cremated, so at least he wasn’t responsible for its death. He was glad that they weren’t pink anymore, the way a newborn’s hands should look, but it was still awful.

Chubby fingers the color of clay were clenched into tight fists, ending in bloody stumps at the wrist. They felt cool to the touch and still terribly soft. He turned his head to the side and vomited as he placed them on the pile, mindful not to get puke on the offering.

This time when he awoke, Muse was still seated at his table, eating ice cream directly from the carton. He stared at her in disbelief for a moment, willing her to disappear like a phantom. She remained real and nasty, smacking her lips loudly as she shoveled spoonfuls of rocky road into her nearly toothless mouth.

“Shouldn’t you be gone?” He knew he sounded cranky but didn’t care. That wretched old witch had made him collect baby hands for her.

“Got nowhere to go. I’m moving in with you.”

***

Micah took a cab from the airport, his mood darkening more with each mile he came closer to home. He figured at first that it wouldn’t be so bad to have her there; he was gone most of the time anyway. Book signings and public appearances ate up a lot of his free time. He had no steady girlfriend, preferring one night stands with women he met at conventions and book club appearances. It was easier for him that way, and he knew deep inside that if he were to let a woman get too close to him, he might divulge his secret.

Micah thought it really wasn’t that bad living with the crone at first. She didn’t eat much and spent most of her time in her room. He would occasionally run into her in the kitchen, or hear her cackling laugh coming through the closed door as he walked down the hall. She seemed to enjoy sitcoms quite a bit, reruns of Friends entertained her for hours. For the most part she left him alone.

She stunk, though. Over the months her stink permeated every room of the house, musty and rank, it was an old lady smell. Though she now had access to a shower every day, she never changed her clothes and never appeared any cleaner. Every accidental glimpse of her, every time he smelled her sickly odor, every time he heard her laughs muffled behind the door, she reminded him of how far he was willing to go for success. She showed him just how dark he was inside, to what lengths he was capable of going and what depravities he would commit for the next tale.

It was late and Micah stayed quiet as he entered. He was relieved there was no sign of Muse and that her bedroom door was shut. Exhausted from the trip, he headed straight to his own bedroom on the opposite side of the house and disrobed, falling into bed without even a shower.

He knew that within a few days, it would be time to discuss the next book with her, and he wondered how long he could carry on with this. He didn’t even want to think about what offerings would be requested after the baby hands, and despised the person he had become. With royalties from the movie getting ready to pour in, he seriously considered retiring and just investing the money he had already earned.

Maybe I’ll take a job at one of the big publishers as an editor. Hell, maybe I’ll start my own publishing company!

The ideas swirled through his head as he eventually fell into an uneasy sleep.

***

Micah plunged his hands into long hair, gently pressuring her to take his cock deeper into her throat. She didn’t gag or protest; she sucked him in deep, causing his hips to involuntarily thrust harder. He moaned while she made greedy noises with her mouth, and he began to pump furiously against her face, close to the most powerful release of his life. As he came hard, she continued, not shying away from his semen like so many other women, but gobbling it down as if she couldn’t get enough, he came again, surprising them both with the second burst.

As the spasms subsided and his heart rate began to decrease, Micah stroked her hair, realizing with a start that the tresses in his hand were no longer smooth and soft. His hands gripped the coarse and tangled mess, pulling her away from his cock and lifting her face to his own.

He let out a startled cry when Muse’s wrinkled face came into view, her rotting teeth exposed in a lascivious smile while saliva and semen glistened on her creased chin. Trying to push her away, his arms lost strength and fell by his side, paralyzed. He watched in horror as she crawled up his prone body, her sagging tits dragging along his chest, horrible and deflated, the wrinkled skin splotched with age spots

“Ooooh Lover!” she cooed in her raspy voice. “My turn! But don’t worry, I hear the older the berry the sweeter the juice!”

Muse straddled his head and sat on his face.

***

Micah bolted upright in bed, a scream lodged painfully in his throat and his heart hammering in his chest. Early morning sunlight streamed through the blinds, momentarily blinding him. As his confusion subsided, he realized he was in his own bed. Alone. Breathing a sigh of relief, he ran a shaky hand through his hair and it came back wet with sweat. His hair wasn’t the only thing wet; he realized with disgust that he had ejaculated during his dream.

That was some sick shit, he thought.

After a long shower, he stripped the soiled linens and dumped them in the washing machine with more detergent than necessary, before heading to the kitchen to make himself breakfast. As he cooked, he began to regain some sense of normalcy and he felt a strengthening of his convictions from the night before.

I can’t go on like this. I need to stop it. Maybe I will start my own publishing company. With three bestsellers, two of which are still on the charts, and a major motion picture based off my last novel, I have plenty of money.

“Are you ready?” Muse’s raspy voice startled him so badly that he dropped the spatula, his hand shaking when he bent to retrieve it.

She laughed, her eyes glittering like chips of black stone in her wizened face where she sat at the table.

“How long have you been there? I didn’t hear you come in.”

“Oh, for a while, boy. It’s time to talk about your next book. I need another offering.”

Micah stood in the kitchen looking at her for a long time, then dropped his eyes to the floor. I can do this. I need to do this.

“I’ve been thinking, Muse.”

“Do tell, son.” Her voice sounded amused.

“Well . . . ” He paused for a moment, considering what to say, before continuing in a rush, his words flowing faster than he could think. “I don’t want to do this anymore. I mean, I’m grateful for everything you have done for me, and we’ve had a good run at it. But I just think that it’s time to stop this. I want to retire and start my own publishing company. I will pay you whatever you want for what you’ve done.”

Micah looked up at her, not sure what he expected to see. Anger or maybe sadness, but she just smiled at him, her head cocked to the side.

“I see, boy.” When she spoke, her voice was soft, but crackly. “That’s too bad. Being a publisher is a respectable job, but I thought you wanted to be a writer. I thought you loved the life in the spotlight.”

Muse rose with dignity, turning her back on him to walk to her bedroom. On the way, she called to him over her shoulder. “Too bad you can’t do this after one more. This one was going to win awards.” Then she disappeared into the bedroom, leaving the door open behind her.

Micah was stunned. He thought he had achieved everything he wanted in life with the first three books, but the promise of an award winning novel flashed through his head.

Award winning. He had done very well for himself, but had won no awards. Now that would be something to end my career on, he thought.

Hating himself for being curious, calling himself a fool for even letting her bait him into considering doing one more, he still felt pulled. He walked down the hall and stood just outside the doorway, his expression serious.

“What award?”

Muse sat upon the single bed, her bag of tricks on the floor between her loafers. She didn’t have anything to pack, had brought nothing aside from the bag, no other clothing or possessions. Tilting her head to the side again and smiling slightly, she couldn’t hide the triumph in her eyes.

“This one will win the Bram Stoker Award. It may even put you at the top of the game.”

“What would I have to do?”

“You have to f*ck me. But don’t worry, boy. The older the berry, the sweeter the juice.” She cackled wildly.

Micah clenched his fists, a flood of anger making him want to pummel her face until there was nothing left. Muse only laughed harder.

“Ha Ha! I’m only kidding! It’s nothing so awful as that! I’m too old to give a shit about your little prick anyways.” She still snickered.

“So what do I have to do?”

“I need a heart. One you cut out yourself.” Muse was all business now.

“Are you crazy, old woman?”

“Perhaps. But it’s what I need. Now close your mouth; you look like an idiot.” She leaned forward on the bed, her eyes bright with anticipation as she told him how it could be done. “There are hundreds of homeless in this town. People no one would ever miss. All you gotta do is get one to come home with you, promise him money or food or something. And when he’s here—”

She clapped her hands together with a loud crack, and Micah jumped.

“I don’t know. I can’t kill someone.” Micah felt ill, the whole conversation unreal. He had done some hard things over the last few years in pursuit of his dreams, but didn’t think he was capable of cold-blooded murder.

Suddenly he wished more than anything he had never met Muse. He thought he’d give anything to go back to his lousy copy editor job, miserable but at least unaware of the depraved monster living within him. As much as he wanted to tell himself he wasn’t a murderer, he knew the appeal of that award was strong, and was starting to have an idea of how he could achieve it. It was crazy to even consider, but he knew that he would follow through. He wanted that award.

“Okay,” he said. “One more.”

***

The heart was warm and slippery in his hands and he almost dropped it on the floor, imagining he could still feel it twitching in his hands. The knife hadn’t been sharp enough to cut through the sternum, so he’d been left with no other choice than to cut the body nearly in half and get at it through the abdominal cavity. Even then, cutting through the thick vessels had been tough. He hadn’t want to damage the heart itself, so he had to go slow, unable to clearly see what he was doing through the gore. Soaked in sweat and covered in blood and body fluids by the time he finished, he smelled like the backroom of a butcher shop.

Micah laid the heart gently upon the pile of stones and waited. Nothing happened. He thought he had arranged them in the proper order. He sighed heavily and scratched his forehead, leaving behind a gory streak at his temple.

Despite the snarl of rage frozen on her features and the shocked accusation in her vacant stare, she had been surprisingly easy to smother. Cutting her open had been horrendous, her insides smelled worse than her outside, and he accidentally punctured the large intestine, releasing the ripe odor of shit and digestion into the room. Her slime seemed to cover every inch of him, he could taste it in his mouth, but he had gotten the job done. But it hadn’t worked! The stones just wouldn’t smoke. He wished he knew the correct words to say, those foreign, guttural mutterings of Muse’s. But he didn’t. It wasn’t going to work.

Micah walked into the kitchen with the intention of washing up a bit before considering what to do with her dismembered body, but stopped in his tracks. Micah flew into the other room and hauled Muse’s smelly corpse over his shoulder, dragging her entrails behind him as he entered the office and dropped her in a broken heap next to the computer chair. Her glassy eyes stared at him as he drummed his bloody fingers on the desk, waiting for the computer to boot up. Everywhere he touched, he left smears of gore, but he didn’t notice. He was caught up in the clarity of his task.

As the machine whirred to life, Micah sneered at the dead woman, visions of her hand jerking him off, dead kittens and the clenched fists of an infant, rolled through his memory. He placed his fingers on the keyboard as he worked a giant gob of snot up to the back of his throat. It felt hot and slippery in his mouth before he let it go, spitting the wad of green mucus into Muse’s dead face with a splat!

He watched the chunky spit roll over the contours of her craggy face as his fingers battered the words across the screen. He didn’t need to look at what he typed, he knew what they said.

Micah had all but given up on his dream of becoming a writer, he typed, on the day that he met Muse.