C. LaSart - Ad Nauseam - 13 Tales of Extreme Horror

“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 fuckin 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 fucked 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?