The land of dead flowers: (A serial killer thriller) Read online

  The first time Max had dreamed about this house, he didn’t thought much of it. He had forgotten about it almost immediately after he woke up. The second time, he thought his dream was just a reflection of things he had seen during the day. He and Anna talked about moving from their apartment in Manhattan to New Jersey, but couldn’t decide if it should be a house or a townhouse. It was probably his subconscious telling him what to do. He believed in intuition, like most writers. Could any of them explain where their ideas really came from? Where did they get the words, the characters, the details? Some said it was the cosmos, some claimed they had angels on their shoulders, while others had a muse flying around, playing a harp. Max looked at the world as realistically as possible. He didn’t believe in little green men, ghosts, or messages from the world of the dead. He believed in his subconscious, his intuition, and in the fact that no one could completely understand how the brain worked. That was why he wrote mystery and would never try a supernatural thriller or fantasy.

  This house, day after day appearing in his dreams. It didn’t generate superstitious thoughts, but it did make him wonder. He had never had a repetitive dream before, if he didn’t count the ones where he went up and down stairs. The stair dreams always happened in different surroundings, with different moods, with some kind of a unique and surrealistic plot. With the house, everything was simple. It stood along a sunny street, in the middle of the block. Just stood there. No monsters came out of it; no people lingered nearby. Max had never been inside the house, but watched it from afar. He saw the façade and the fence. He saw the door and three windows. Two windows were on one side of the door and one on the other. The windows had been curtained off. The curtains’ colors changed; sometimes they were blue, sometimes green. A cozy, little house on a cozy, little street. Only Max woke up with an uneasy feeling, as if behind those cozy walls there lived a monster. If he directed his dreams, he would go inside the house or at least find an opening in the curtains and peep in. Unfortunately, it wasn’t possible.

  Something fell in the other room and Max was startled. He swam out of his thoughts, saying goodbye to the evaporated mirage from the ceiling. He smelled freshly brewed coffee and eggs cooking. His stomach groaned.

  “Yes, that would be good. It would be good to get up. It would be good to get some food.” Max sat up on the bed, pulled his sport pants from the back of the chair, put them and his T-shirt on, and then went to the kitchen.

  He stopped at the door and watched his wife—who was dressed in skinny jeans, a white shirt, and red heels—collecting the shattered pieces of a blue cup from the floor into the dustpan. Brown spots splattered on the floor, stove, and white doors of the cabinets.

  “Need help?”

  “Huh? What?” She gazed up at him. One of her eyes had makeup; the other one was clean.

  “I asked if you need help.”

  She shook her head, and her red, wavy hair bounced as she grabbed the last of the debris and threw it in the garbage can, along with the dustpan. She then came to her senses, gasped, pulled the dustpan out and dropped it near the garbage can.

  “I haven’t eaten,” Anna said as she grabbed a sponge out of the sink. “I haven’t eaten yet.”

  “I’ll clean it,” Max said, taking the sponge from her hand and returning it to the sink. He would clean up later. That was another reason he enjoyed working from home; he didn’t have to hurry. “Sit and eat.”

  Anna washed her hands and sat at the table. Then she slapped her forehead, jumped from her place, and started putting scrambled eggs onto the plates.

  “Let me do it.” Max approached his wife, but she waved him off. “Why are you so distracted today?”

  Usually, he was the one distracted and clumsy, while Anna excelled in focusing and concentration. Usually. Actually, she always knew what to do, had never been lazy, or pushed aside business until Monday. She had done a lot of things for him, but he was pedantic and punctual. She didn’t care about scattered things, dowdily hung clothes, or papers around the table. It was the difference in their upbringing. Her parents did everything for her; he took care of himself.

  “I sent my cover yesterday.” Anna threw plates filled with scrambled eggs on the table, and once she sat down, she started to eat.

  “Are you going to put makeup on your other eye?” Max asked.

  His wife stopped chewing abruptly and rushed to the bedroom. She returned with her eyes underlined the same way and smelling of her favorite perfume with flowery notes. Max thought she had told him the name of it, Pretty, or something like that. Max had already tried his eggs, surprised that his wife hadn’t burned them. When she was nervous, not only could the eggs burn, but also the whole house.

  “Why are you so stressed?” he asked as he watched Anna trying to catch a piece of scrambled egg on her fork.

  She stopped, concentrated, and grabbed the food.

  “Because they already turned me down once,” she said with her mouth full.

  “Because you didn’t let me tell them you’re my wife.”

  Anna put her fork to one side then thought better of it and continued eating.

  “Because I wanted to do it myself. How can I brag about my success if I haven’t done anything to earn it? You made yourself.”

  “What do you mean you haven’t done anything? Who draws the covers?”

  “I’m not talking about that.” Anna stood, found orange juice in the refrigerator, filled two glasses, and put one in front of Max.

  “Anna, you’re a talented artist. You can show your talent on business cards, just as good actors show their acting abilities in small parts, but you are capable of more. Why am I telling you this again? You already know this.” Max took a sip of juice and winced when his teeth ached from the cold drink.

  “I’ve told you to use paste for sensitive teeth,” Anna said. “You found a publisher without any help.”

  “So what? I was lucky. Besides, there are more writers than artists. Enough already.”

  “I’m not going to stop working.” Anna finished her juice, and took her empty plate and glass to the sink. “I have to make coffee again. Want some?”

  “Yeah, thanks. Ann, you don’t have to quit if you don’t want to. You satisfy your financial needs there and you need to glorify your creative side. We don’t have financial problems. You remember that, right?”

  “When you become a millionaire like King or Rowling, then I’ll quit. Maybe.”

  “Then we’ll take a cruise around the world.”

  Anna looked relaxed; she smiled and made coffee without an accident.

  They often dreamed about traveling. So far, they had visited countries in Europe and also China and India. An innumerable amount of souvenirs from those places overtook their kitchen and their refrigerator. They wanted to travel all around the world, step where civilized people rarely stepped. They wanted to enjoy the exotic, experience new sensations.

  The media called Max—a young, successful writer. It took three years for his books to get on various bestselling lists. Now, at thirty-two, he was a writer, whose name was often mentioned in papers and magazines, and he was invited to popular TV shows. Every one of his new mysteries had appeared in the top twenty on an Amazon rating list even before an official release. He was negotiating two of his books with movie studios. It was enough for a nice apartment in Manhattan, a couple of cars (he had a Mercedes and she wanted nothing more than a hybrid Lexus), and for traveling when time permitted.

  “You woke up last night,” Anna said as she took his plate and put two cups of coffee on the table.

  “Really? I don’t remember.”

  “Once.” Anna sat back at the table and sipped her coffee. She looked normal now. More often than not, he could calm her down. “You mumbled something. I didn’t understand, asked you to repeat, but you didn’t answer.”

  “So, I didn’t wake up, just talked in my sleep.” Max drank his coffee. He had a great wife; she didn’t even forget to add sugar in his
cup.

  “Oh, sorry, how could I make such a mistake? Of, course, you just talked, Mr. Stevenson.”

  Max smiled.

  “How far along are you?” Anna asked.

  “About thirty thousand words to the end.” Max stretched. “But you know what?”

  Anna waited, but then asked what he wanted to say.

  “I decided to start a new book.”

  Anna raised her eyebrows, and took another sip of coffee.

  “Why? What happened? You’ve never started another book before finishing something.” Anna didn’t write books, but she knew the technical aspects of the process. Max initiated her into all the secrets. He enjoyed talking to her about everything concerning his writing: plot, characters, word count, editorial changes (he hated the last ones like any author and he couldn’t avoid them in spite of his popularity).

  “I can’t get rid of this idea. I dreamed of that house again.”

  “Really? It’s definitely weird.”

  “I’m starting to believe in the supernatural.”

  “Right. Just don’t tell me that you got your new idea from the universe or a little voice whispered it to you in the night.” Anna wrinkled her nose. She also was a realist in spite of her artistic personality. She still believed in supernatural things more than he did. For example—ghosts. She didn’t talk about it seriously, turning everything into jokes, but Max believed there was a place for the supernatural in her heart.

  “No, no. No voices.” Max moved his empty cup to the side. “But I want to start this book. It’s calling me.”

  “Okay.” Anna sniffed. “Talk. Who, who, why?”

  Anna meant who was killed, who was the killer, and why did he kill.

  “These I don’t know yet, but I want to try a different genre.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Supernatural.”

  “So, you’re serious.” Anna laughed, carried the empty cup to the sink, and sat down in front of her husband again.

  “I knew that was going to be your reaction,” Max said.

  “Sorry, Cat. You told me—never! Not supernatural. You can’t even read it.”

  “I like King and Koontz, you know that. And I told you the never part about fantasy. Dragons, elves, all that … stuff.”

  “Fantasy is not always dragons and elves.”

  “It doesn’t matter. I’m not going to write fantasy, but a dark, supernatural thriller. Maybe even gothic.”

  “Gothic?”

  “An old house. Ghosts. That’s what it’s going to be.”

  The skepticism on Anna’s face was too obvious, and Max thought that maybe he should get upset. Just in case. She’d always supported him. What was different this time?

  “Aren’t you late for work?” he asked.

  “I’m leaving in a minute.” Anna smiled. “Don’t pout, Babe. I just need to adjust to that thought. What do you think Foxtail will say about it? What about your readers? Did you think about your poor readers?”

  “I’m not the only one to change genres. King and Koontz are successful in a few.”

  “You write mysteries, Max. Not even thrillers.”

  “So what? If it’s necessary, I’ll take a pen name.”

  “Foxtail won’t like that for sure.”

  “He’ll have to deal with it.”

  “Some writer I know has star-fever.”

  “Why not? Sometimes change is nice.”

  “Supernatural.” Anna tapped her fingers on the table. “Okay. I like supernatural and many people out there read it. Ghosts, gothic … as you say stuff. A talented person is talented in everything. Good luck, Stevenson.”

  She stood, kissed Max on his forehead, and left the kitchen.

  “By the way,” Anna yelled from the hallway, “I’ve read more supernatural than you. Consult with me.”

  “Sure,” Max answered thoughtfully. He remembered the house on the empty street. A dead house. A ghost house.

  “I just don’t believe in ghosts!”

  “I know, Ann.”

  “I’m leaving!”

  “Bye.”

  The door banged, but Max didn’t stand. Somebody killed a person in that house, Max thought. No one had lived there since. Too much of this already. I need something new.

  “Ghosts kill people? Scare them?” Max stood and started making coffee. “Kill them, but not all of them, only the ones with dark souls. Not that new. I need a secondary story. Right. Ghosts are not the main characters, a killer will be, and he’s going to be alive. A serial killer. Hmm. He moved to a ghost house … Or not …”

  Max picked up the cup of coffee and went to his computer. Surprisingly, today, he didn’t turn it on first thing after getting out of bed.

  CHAPTER 3

  “I decided to write something in a different genre.” Max lounged in the chair. He held a TV remote in one hand and his cell phone in the other. On the other end of the phone, his agent, Ian, fell silent.

  “Did you hear me?” Max stopped on some soap opera to not get distracted and put the remote on the coffee table by his chair.

  “I did, I did. I’m trying to figure out if you’re kidding or being serious.”

  “I’m serious. Does it sound like a joke?”

  “Okay, okay. Interesting, interesting. And what are we going to have?”

  “We are going to have a supernatural thriller.”

  “Supernatural thriller. Right. Supernatural. A supernatural thriller from Max Stevenson. I mean, your fans will follow you, it may be interesting for them, but most of your readers wait for your mysteries. What about critics? They’ll say your best days are over. You know they will say that. They don’t like writers jumping into a different niche.”

  Usually Max didn’t argue with Foxtail. They agreed on most of the publishing questions. Max took easily any criticism and changes. With Ian, they often talked about Max’s next book. Sometimes about a new contract with more exciting numbers in the royalty line. They had never discussed what his next book was going to be about. Max Stevenson was a popular mystery author, and it was supposed to go that way until his brain dried out of ideas and his hands refused to type on a keyboard.

  “You know, I don’t care what they’ll say.”

  “What about your readers? Do you care about them?”

  “Ian, that’s a foul blow and it’s pointless.”

  “What happened? I mean … are you bored in your niche?”

  “Not that. I just have a brilliant idea.”

  “Okay. What is it about?” Foxtail asked it as if he was doing Max a favor. Only the writer knew that this agent would spoon feed him and wash his feet if the writer asked, because Stevenson had sold more books than anyone else on this agent’s list.

  “Ghosts, revenge, love.”

  “Hmm.”

  “What do you mean hmm?” Max turned the TV off, because in spite of his disinterest in the action, the blonde in a bathing suit that suddenly appeared on the screen had snatched his attention. Although the conversation was meaningless with a predictable finale and brought up out of respect, he didn’t want to divide his attention.

  “As far as I remember, you weren’t exactly keen on any kind of fantasy or paranormal,” Ian said.

  “So what? I didn’t like sushi, but put a plate of California rolls in front of me now and they will be gone before anyone else picks up chopsticks. I’ll say this—if you are not interested, there’s always Amazon. Or Pippin.”

  “Max, let’s not play games. How long have we known each other?” They had known each other for six years, and Foxtail was aware that Pippin, the head of the largest New York agency, tried to entice Stevenson into his legion of writers before every contract renewal. “Try supernatural, I don’t mind. What about Napoleon Complex?”

  “It’s fine. Fifty thousand words.”

  “You’re almost there. Maybe you can finish that one first and then start the ghost one?”

  “I can’t. This book’s calling me. You have to und
erstand.”

  “Yeah. You writers are crazy. Then you’re going to finish Complex, right?”

  “I will, sure.”

  “When can you finish this supernatural thing?”

  “Ian, I’m a writer, not a fortuneteller. New genre. I don’t know. I’ll try as always.”

  As always, had usually been nine months. In the beginning, Max wrote faster and brought a book every five to six months. He was excited, ideas pushed forward, he could sit by the computer day and night. He was tired of this fast tempo, and didn’t see much sense in it after the need for money lessened, so two books in a year and a half became the norm.

  “Don’t let down your readers. You know, they are waiting.”

  “Sure.”

  Max said bye to his agent. His readers waited for his books with less excitement than his agent waited for his account to fatten up a bit. He got out of the chair, stretched, and went to the bathroom to take a shower. Max decided to drive to Watervliet. He had never seen the house from his dreams, but he could describe it in detail. It became real to him, but he still wanted to find something similar.

  Max had no idea why he picked this town for his exploring. He probably had seen the name somewhere and remembered it. He had no idea if this was something he needed, but when he woke up this morning, he’d already known his destination. He was going to Watervliet to look for a location for his new novel. Usually, if he needed some specific material for his books, he searched the Internet. If it was an old, abandoned church or some hospital for the mentally ill, or if he had to learn about a particular murder method, the work of a medical examiner or details of investigation, he called his friends, professionals who consulted him with pleasure and pride. Afterward, in book’s acknowledgments, they were praised for their help and that made them even prouder. These types of conversations Max held over the phone. In other words, he had never left his home to collect material. He didn’t have to learn about a subject in order to write about it in his book.