A Writer's Nightmare

A Writer's Nightmare Part 2

Nightmare.

I shudder again.

Thank god he's behind bars, I think.

At almost the exact moment I think that, the phone rings.

I get up and grab my phone off a tiny little side table.

"Hello?"

"MICHAEL!"

I jump. It's the manager of the publishing company that's been publishing my books. Also known as William Ashton.

He's very loud. Often.

"O-oh! Good afternoon, sir!"

"Who said it was good?!"

"Um, well-"

"ANYWAYS, have you seen the news, Michael?!"

"Yes, I have, actually. What about it, sir?"

"What about it?! What do you mean, what about it?!"

I don't even answer before he continues.

"This is PERFECT! Absolutely perfect!"

I blink.

"Excuse me, but...what's perfect?"

I hear a sigh from his end.

"Look, Fritz," he says impatiently. "This is an opportunity. Just use your brain for a second."

He pauses for a moment, like he usually does before he tries to make a point.

"So, you've got this guy. Calls himself 'Nightmare', been going around killing kids, making every parent terrified. He's finally been caught, good. But tell me this; what do we know about him?"

I hear a thunk! that sounds like Ashton hit his desk.

"Nothing. Nada. Zip. Zilch. Zero. We don't know who he is, where he came from, why he's doing this, heck, we don't even know his name! So... do you know what people would love?"

I don't like where this conversation is going, so I don't answer.

"A biography. The biography of a serial killer. Michael Fritz, do you have any idea how well that'd sell?!"

"Probably very well, sir, but... why are you talking to me about this?"

"Well, while your work hasn't sold well, no one else is available to write-"

I interrupt him. (Quite a risky move.)

"So, you want me to write 'Nightmare's biography...?"

"Precisely! Now you're getting it!"

I feel cold. My mouth is rather dry, and I find my free hand clutching the arm of the couch.

In short, I'm scared.

"S-sir..," I stutter out, "with all due respect... I-I really don't think I can..."

As though I didn't say anything, he keeps going.

"Great, great, so you should be getting a phone call from the prison they're keeping him at, sometime around Saturday afternoon. They'll explain more then."

I try to speak, but find I can't.

"Alright then, goodbye."

He hangs up.

I set the phone down on the table, and sit on the couch.

I'm trembling in fear, my heart pounding, my eyes firmly focused on nothing at all.

And all I can think is,

I have to talk to a serial killer.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Saturday comes far too quickly.

I wake up at 7 A.M. sharp, in a state of anxiety.

All day long, I can't stop looking at the phone, just waiting for it to ring.

Yo estoy mucho nervioso.

Whoops, wrong language. That was Spanish.

I'm sitting on the couch now, nervously fiddling with a loose thread. It's 3 P.M., and I'm incredibly tense. I feel like a compressed spring, ready to pop up at anytime-

And then it rings.

"HOLY-!"

I fall off my couch, in a desperate attempt to reach the phone quickly.

Scrambling to my feet, I manage to grab the phone, and pick up.

"H-hello?"

"Hello," a male voice says. "Is this Mr. Fritz?"

"Um, y-yes."

"Good afternoon, Mr. Fritz. Your employer, Mr. Ashton, has informed us that you wish for permission to frequently visit one of our prisoners, with the intention of interviewing him for a biography. Is this correct?"

For just one moment, I ponder how bad it would be to say no.

The next moment, the urge is gone.

"Yes."

He continues talking, but I'm barely listening. I only catch a few words, and I think I'm supposed to go over there.

Eventually, I hang up. Somehow, I manage to pull on a gray sweater, grab a notebook and pencil, and walk out the door.

I lock the door, and continue down the stairs to the lobby, trying not to think too hard about where I'm going. I just know it's two blocks away, so I can walk there.

I only take a few steps outside before I'm shivering from the cold. Frost City is aptly named, as it's always cold here. In January, though, the temperature is downright freezing, below it usually.

Still, I keep walking, despite the cruelly chilly wind. The entire city seems gloomy and gray, strangely reflecting my mood as I find myself thinking about what I'm doing.

Oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god... I have to talk to a man who killed SIXTY people! SIXTY!! And most of them were just kids... Why am I doing this?!

I mentally slap myself.

Relax, Mike... You'll be fine, they won't let him hurt you, obviously! I mean, it's not like they'll just put us in a room and say "Have fun!"...

"YOU'RE KIDDING."

"No, Mr. Fritz, I am not," says the guard nearly dragging me down a hall.

"As I have said about ten times, he is unarmed and quite well-behaved, and there are cameras that are being monitored. You will be fine, I assure you."

I'm nearly in tears, I'm so scared. My legs are only moving because if they didn't, I'd fall over. I'm still holding my notebook and pencil somehow, even though my brain is barely functioning.

We reach a door, with one of those tiny windows to peek through. The guard open the door, and just about throws me in.

"I will return when your time is up, Mr. Fritz," he says, a tad stiffly.

He then leaves, shutting the door behind him.

:3
952 words.
It's only gonna get longer from here on in.

~~T.S.