E2K: a journal for the new literary paradigm

Fiction

Tales from Beyond

by Steve Lazarowitz

Eric Darkling stared up at me from behind a cluttered desk. Perhaps it was an expensive one, but not enough of it was visible to make that determination. In the corner of the room stood a man, not unlike a wax casting. I wasn't even certain he was alive, until I saw him blink.

"Why are you here?" Darkling snapped.

"I'm here to apply for the job," I said as calmly as I could under the circumstances.

"Mr. Masterson, WHY ARE YOU HERE?"

I licked my lips and wondered if I’d somehow showed up on the wrong day. "The people at the employment agency . . ."

He cut me off. "I don't care," he said softly, "if the people at the agency flew you here in a DIRIGIBLE. WHY ARE YOU HERE?"

"I'm here because I feel that working for you will be the kind of experience . . ."

He didn't wait for me to finish. "WHY ARE YOU HERE?"

"BECAUSE MY PARENTS FUCKED, THAT'S WHY!"

The man in the corner had no more reaction to my outburst than to the rest of the interview, but I was mortified. This was Eric Darkling, creator of the hit TV series Tales from Beyond, the greatest speculative fiction writer since Rod Serling. I felt I'd made a terrible mistake.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Darkling."

"Don't apologize. What do I look like, your mother? That's the first rule. Never apologize for anything. If you do something I really don't like, I'll stab you in the eye with my letter opener. Now, why is it that you want to work for me?"

I was beginning to catch on. He wanted me to think. Whatever the standard answer, this man expected . . . no, demanded more.

"I want to make money."

"BULLSHIT! If you wanted to make money, you'd be anyplace but here. I've read your resume, seen your portfolio. You're a fine writer. You don't need me."

"You're wrong. I do need you, because though I am a fine writer, you're the icon. Who better to learn from? Do you think I want to subject myself to another critique group, surrounded by intellectual snobs that wouldn't know satire if it bit them in the ass? Do you think I want to spend the rest of my life selling short stories for a pittance? Oh no, Mr. Darkling. I want more from life. I want to fly. I want other people to look at me in awe. I want people to read my work and say, ‘that Asimov, he was okay, but Masterson, he's a writer’."

Suddenly, the room became very quiet. Even the man in the corner, the waxman, seemed more still than he had been a moment before. I could feel the pulse beating in my temple. My secret vision, a dream I’d shared with no one, had emerged from my lips unbidden. As a teenager, I had worshipped Asimov, so much so that my words now seemed almost blasphemous. I held my breath, waiting for a reply.

Darkling stared at me for a few long moments before breaking into a grin. "Welcome aboard, Mr. Masterson. I can call you Dan, can't I?"

Without another word, he tossed me a manuscript.

"Read it. Let me know what you think."

He turned away and attacked the keys of his antiquated typewriter before I had the chance to answer.

During the next months, I learned a lot. I learned the waxman was really Darkling's son, George. I learned George was a bit slow, but for some reason, Darkling kept him around anyway. I learned no matter what I did, it would be judged not on its own merit, but by Eric Darkling's mood. And I learned when the master was approachable, and when he was not.

Darkling was not an easy man to work for. The most obvious drawback was his frequent mood swings, which came without warning. Then there was his inability to tolerate stupidity. This was particularly a problem, because he was so intelligent, it was impossible to work at his level or speed. Consequently, I became the target of his ire on more than one occasion. I was just happy his desk was so messy, he could almost never find that letter opener.

The only person that took more abuse than I was George, who didn't seem to mind, or for that matter, notice. I suppose he was more used to it.

During the years of our association, we grew close. With the exception of George, I was the only one I knew who could stand to be with him for any length of time. The truth was, I didn't mind his verbal assaults. I understood his need for them.

Darkling was an immediate man, living in a world of waiting. I had never met anyone like him, which I suppose is fortunate. I'm not certain the world could handle two such men. Darkling was a rabid dog, a dictator and a petulant child, all in one. Yet he had the most brilliant mind it has ever been my pleasure to see in operation. For that privilege, I would take all the abuse in the world.

Of course, there was the other side of Darkling most people never saw. Days when he’d finished one of his great scripts, or thought of a new plot that, as he put it, sang to him. Then he would be all smiles and we'd find a restaurant and spend the night talking about what we had accomplished or what we were about to. These incidents didn't happen often. That they happened at all was enough.

The last such occasion found us at the Blue Spot, dining on the most expensive seafood on the west coast. I allowed Darkling to order, as I always did. George was not around, and though I didn't know why, I wasn't curious. The less I saw of George, the happier I was.

Darkling was in fine spirits. He ordered champagne to toast the completion of his newest script. I understood exactly how it felt, having written two of my own for the series and having been heavily involved in half a dozen more. Which didn't change the fact that, whatever I accomplished, I still felt like an amateur beside him. He poured himself a glass of champagne and stirred it with his index finger. Then he lifted his glass and regarded me through swirling bubbles.

"Well, we've done it again. Another masterpiece." He grinned and emptied the glass in a single swallow.

I'd had relatively little input in this particular script, but Darkling was never stingy with credit and I'd learned long ago not to contradict him.

"This is one of the best, I think."

He lowered his glass and looked at me. "You think? Almost a contradiction in terms, no? This is the best. The finale. I'm never going to be able to top this one."

I chuckled. "That's what you said last time."

The waiter approached our table, but Darkling waved him away, shaking his head and laughing.

"So I did, but this one is... special. Surely you realize it. I might as well retire now. I've written it all. These are the last words I will ever need to put to paper. I'm purged, I tell you, purged!" He threw back his head and guffawed like a madman. I joined him in his mirth.

"Until tomorrow," I said, as I poured my first glass of bubbly. I never consumed as much as Darkling, nor did I live life with such blatant force. It was another of the things I loved about him.

He shook his head, but did not speak until he swallowed another gulp.

"Nay, 'tis not so, my good man. The master knows when the symphony's over. Another note would be too much for the human ear to endure."

He turned toward the kitchen. "Waiter. WAITER! WHAT THE HELL DO WE HAVE TO DO TO ORDER FOOD?"

The waiter came running, his face a mask of politeness, his eyes sharing a mixture of worry and anger. Having worked with Darkling for a few years, it was not the first time I’d seen the expression.

"I'm sorry, Sir. I didn't know you were ready to order."

Darkling looked at me. "Did you hear that, Dan? He didn't know we were ready to order." He turned back toward the waiter. "Now why the hell would I be in a restaurant if I wasn't fucking hungry?"

The waiter looked at me. I shrugged. There was certainly no way I could control him. Darkling opened the menu, the transgression forgotten. He was like that. Once he moved on to the next topic, he never looked back.

That night we ate and drank and laughed like schoolboys, but by the time I reached my car, we had hashed out most of the details of the filming. Still laughing, I slid behind the wheel, started it up and drove out to my house in the hills.

In spite of that fact that I owned a place in Topanga Canyon, I hardly ever spent the night. Almost since the beginning, Darkling's mansion had become my home. I even had keys. After a long day, it seemed pointless to drive for an hour, to get two hours sleep, wake up and drive back. This was especially true, because if I stayed in the guest room, I could get four hours sleep and be at work as soon as I awakened. This odd arrangement had led to more than one speculation about my sexual orientation, but I didn't really care. Let people believe what they wanted.

I had just fed the fish and was watching them swarm about in a frenzy, when the phone rang. I never took my eyes from the tank.

"Hello."

"Dan?"

I recognized the voice immediately. "Yes, George, what can I do for you?"

"It's my Dad. He don't look so good."

I felt my body tense. "What do you mean?"

"Well, he fell asleep sitting there and I tried waking him . . ."

"Is he breathing?"

"I think so."

"Hang up. I'm calling an ambulance."

I placed the receiver down without waiting for an answer. As I raced to my car, I pulled the cell phone from my pocket and dialed 911. I impatiently answered each question, painfully aware of how much time it took. Finally, it was done and an ambulance would be dispatched.

I drove the way teenagers drive while playing video games. I never questioned my own mortality or the fact my recklessness might cost someone their life. I strained forward, as if somehow, my will could make the car move faster. My mind had room for only a single fact. Something was wrong with Eric Darkling.

By the time I reached his estate, EMTs were already loading him into their vehicle. As one of the medics emerged from the back and walked around to the passenger side, I could see the lines of tension on his face. Whatever had happened to my friend was serious.

I followed them to the hospital, ignoring both the speed limit and the traffic lights along the way. It didn't matter that there was nothing I could do. If the worst case was to present itself, I should be there with him.

I remember little of the actual trip, nor do I recall the exact words that earned me entrance to the emergency room. I was a writer. Words come as I need them. I needed them that night. If only, somehow, my words could've been potent enough to save him. Alas, it was not to be.

I found him lying on a gurney, face gray as ash. He managed a tight smile when he saw me. I knew then it wasn't good. I stood by his side and looked down at him.

"I told you this would be my last work."

I tried to keep my voice light, but I don't think I fooled him. "Don't be ridiculous. You have so much more to give."

He shook his head. "I've said it all, Dan. There's nothing left."

"Nothing, huh? What about the story we spoke about last fall? The one with the alien tree as the protagonist. And the son that wanted his father out of the way. You never wrote it, did you? You loved that idea."

The transformation his face went through was almost frightening. It was as if he had been resigned to death, until that moment.

"I can't die now. I have to write that story. And the one about the Cassandra Colony. And that other one about the creativity machine. I'd almost forgotten."

"Who said anything about dying? You just have to fight, that's all."

He looked at me and tried to rise. "I can't...go...yet, I have to finish. Don't take me. Please, God, don't take me."

I felt a chill as I realized he wasn't speaking to me. I took a step back and looked around. I could almost feel another presence. I was fascinated in spite of myself.

"I didn't mean it. There is more left to say. Please, stay back... aaaaahhhh!"

I would have screamed for a doctor, but his cries drew them as effectively. He was sitting upright and his screams continued until there was nothing left. I was certain it was momentum that carried the noise forward and that at some point during that explosion, his soul was taken from him.

I couldn't have been far off, because when they lay him back down, he was already dead. I backed off and watched from a distance, their attempts to resuscitate him. Nor was that distance strictly physical. I was wrapped in a cocoon of pain from which I suspected I would never emerge. Eric Darkling was gone and would never write another word.

I didn't stay. There was nothing I could do. I turned and stumbled through the corridors, for all the world feeling almost like a spirit myself. It was then I realized the world is full of spirits. They just happen to be encased in bodies for a moment.

I made my way through the emergency room, then the waiting room. Off to the side, I saw George sitting and staring off into space. I couldn't face him then. I should have gone over, but didn't relish having to break the news. The world was a painful enough place at the moment. I continued past and out the doors before he noticed me.

I drove home that night, through the surreal setting that had once been Los Angeles, and everywhere I looked, embodied spirits went through the motions of living, unaware of how close to death we all really are.

I didn't sleep that night. I wasn't certain I would ever sleep again. The call came the next morning as expected and I was loathe to answer it. I wanted the world to go away. I wanted to be left in peace. I wanted Eric Darkling back.

In spite of my anguish, I picked up the phone. I have always been able to separate my feelings from my responsibilities.

"Hello."

"Dan, Tom Greenspan, WPCT. You've heard the news?"

I was there dammit. "Yes."

"It's a shame. A damn shame. But the show must go on, you know. Do you think you could make it to a twelve o'clock meeting today?"

I'm never going anywhere again. "No problem. Just name the place."

"Great. We'll meet at my office. We have to replace Darkling, at least for the remainder of the season."

Replace Darkling? Impossible. "I'll see you at noon."

I hung up before he could drive the stake further into my heart.

I had been to the Towers before, but never alone. It was odd to be there without the master. That last time we'd come, a dozen people stopped us to shake his hand and heap words of praise upon him. Those very same people passed me by as if I was invisible.

The office was as I remembered. Too neat to be a place where people actually worked. This was a place of planning, not execution. I was surprised to find George there as well, though I shouldn't have been. I made my way to the proffered seat. After easing myself into it, I turned to study my friend's son. He looked as if he were lost and wasn't certain he would ever find his way home. It hadn't been easy for George, living with Darkling, but living without him was sure to be harder. And I was in no position to help.

I had little doubt they would hand the reins over to me. I was Darkling's personal assistant and had worked on most of the episodes in one capacity or another. Furthermore, he had taken me into his confidence about scripts he'd yet to write. There was no one else properly positioned to fill the master's shoes. Not that I felt I was on his level, but regardless, I was the only game in town.

The conversation that day had been little more than a formality. Tom told me so after the meeting. It would have to be cleared by the higher ups, but in a few days at the most, I should be hearing from them. In the meantime, keep myself available. They would have no problem renegotiating my contract to cover my increased responsibilities. No one asked me the most important question of all. Was I up to it?

As I wouldn't have been able to answer with any degree of certainty, I didn't bring up the point myself.

The next three days were what I imagine Limbo might be like. I hung suspended between existences. My old life was over and my new one had yet to begin. I didn't speak with anybody, and I switched off the ringer on my phone after the first five calls from reporters. The last thing Eric Darkling would have wanted was for his passing to turn into a media circus.

At Darkling's request, there had been no funeral. I was glad for that. I wasn't sure I would have attended anyway. We used to talk about death sometimes, when we were out celebrating. Darkling had always thought of it as the greatest adventure. My own views on the subject were somewhat more pessimistic.

His wish to be cremated was carried out sans audience. I did my best not to think about it, for all the good that did. No matter how I tried to ignore it, a hole had opened in my world. A horrible gaping thing, that by the very nature of its existence, commanded my attention. My days were waking nightmares, my nights, all but sleepless. I wondered if I would ever feel whole again.

During those days, I checked my answering machine frequently, skipping over the messages from the press. Other than the media, I received surprisingly few calls. Perhaps those who knew me best, understood my need for privacy.

When at the end of the third day my doorbell rang, I was surprised. Few people would come all the way out here without calling.

"Who is it?"

"It's Tom."

The network, it seemed, had made its decision.

I unlocked the door and opened it. My house wasn't guest ready, but as he had shown without warning, he would have to deal with it. I was, at that point, certain he needed me more than I needed him.

"Come on in," I said. "Sorry about the mess."

He entered, holding a thick manila folder in his right hand. I glanced at it briefly. If that was the new contract, they weren't wasting any time.

"We have to talk."

I motioned for him to sit, but didn't join him. He lowered himself onto the sofa. "I know you were very close with Eric. It was my idea that you take his place."

"I appreciate that," I said.

"Network management has found someone else."

I sat down, slowly. Someone else. Impossible.

"Who is it?"

He paused for a second, while my imagination ran wild. I thought of every great writer I knew. It would have to be someone with clout. Then he spoke, and I felt the room spin.

"It's George."

"George!" I sputtered. "The guy's only barely literate. They can't be serious."

Greenspan shrugged. "I had the same opinion as you, until I saw the script."

"What script?"

He handed me the envelope. I opened it and removed a sheaf of pages. From the moment I glanced at it, I knew two things. It had been typed by a professional and George Darkling had had nothing to do with it. I skimmed the first few pages and it was all there. The perfect setup, the initial surprise, the arrival on the scene of the main character, all beautifully laid out, like a scribed symphony. After a few long minutes I placed the manuscript back into the envelope.

"And George wrote this?"

"I know it sounds impossible, but according to him, he did. That is unless, Eric wrote it and George found the copy."

I shook my head. "Not possible. I was involved in every one of Mr. Darkling's projects."

"That's what I thought. The Network executives saw it, and there was little discussion."

"But George couldn't have written it."

He rose. "You can't prove that, I suppose."

"No, of course not."

"That's what I thought. We'd like you to stay on, in your previous position."

I stood there stunned, hoping he wasn't asking what I thought he was. I remained silent.

"You know, as George's assistant."

I had to think about it. Working for Eric Darkling had meant something to me, working for his son was another thing entirely. On one hand, I could stop the show from falling apart, on the other, I wasn't certain I could stand to be in that kind of relationship with Eric's slightly deranged son. Finally, I nodded.

"Of course, I'll stay on."

After all, when the management found out just how bad things were going, someone had to be in place to pick up the pieces.

I walked Greenspan to the door and held it for him. After I closed it, I went to my rolodex and started going through it. Someone had written that script for George and I had to figure out who.

The next three months are hard to describe. I'm not even certain I want to. By mutual agreement, we worked at our office at the studio, a place I wasn't completely certain Eric Darkling had ever visited. It was a good thing too. Working out of the mansion would have been a terrible distraction for me.

At first, George and I got along as well as can be expected, but as time passed, he started acting more and more like his old man. I had been willing to take Eric Darkling's abuse, but his son's... that was another matter. Often we ended up screaming at each other and I believe it showed in the quality of those episodes.

Regardless, George continued to turn in superior quality scripts that I could swear were beyond his ability. I had no doubt he had a ghostwriter, but for the life of me, I couldn't imagine who. I could almost recognize the style. It was similar to Eric Darkling's work and yet, also substantially different. No matter how much time I spent on the matter, I could think of no one who could turn out such a high volume of quality work. I couldn't have managed it myself.

I soon became obsessed with finding the author. It seemed a shame to me that someone was writing Tales from Beyond and wasn't getting credit for it. If nothing else, I just wanted to meet the man once, to tell him how much I admired his skill.

Thus on an evening when George and I were supposed to dine with some of our sponsors (at the behest of the studio) I bowed out, making some excuse about coming down with a bug. That sort of thing wasn't in my contract anyway.

I didn't head for home, as I said I would, but rather made my way to Darkling's mansion. George had been living there the whole time and, as it was paid for, had no reason to move. I had just assumed that sooner or later he would sell it. I didn't really care much about that. Without Darkling's influence, it was just another house anyway.

I used my key and entered, glad he hadn't changed the lock. I hadn't expected him to. I knew I had plenty of time. Those network dinners were forever. I moved through the dark and empty house, once again, feeling like a spirit. Everything was exactly as it used to be and that disturbed me. After so many months, something should have been misplaced. It was asif I had been here only a day ago. It was eerie.

I climbed the stairs toward the second story. Across the landing was the guest room, the place I slept whenever I spent the night. To the right was the library and Darkling's office, where we did most of our work. I almost dreaded seeing that place again, for fear it would rekindle my despair. Still, it might contain some clue as to the identity of the mysterious writer.

When I reached the top of the stairs, I turned. To my surprise, the office light was on. While I was still convincing myself to move closer, I heard the sound of typewriter keys striking paper. Whoever it was, was an excellent typist.

I moved quietly, though I was certain that as long as the typing continued, no one would hear my approach. When I reached the door, I held my breath. Then I pushed it in and stared.

The typing stopped. The writer turned to look at me, a slightly surprised expression upon his familiar face. I was looking at Eric Darkling.

"It's about time you showed up. Don't you know there's work to be done?"

I stood there astonished. "But you're dead."

The ghost shrugged. "You can't hold it against a guy."

He turned to his side and lifted a manuscript from a pile on his left. He tossed it to me. I caught it without thinking.

"Start reading. It's going to be a long night."

"BUT YOU'RE DEAD!"

"I understand that, but what does that matter? You were right. I had a few more stories left in me."

"Why didn't George tell me?"

"He doesn't know."

"What?"

"Most of the time, I work through him. Takes a hell of a lot less energy than it does to manifest myself enough to type. If I don't concentrate, my fingers sink right through the keys. Oh, George really thinks this is his work. Don't go trying to tell him otherwise, he won't believe you anyway."

I sat down and looked at the sheaf of paper in my hand. It was familiar, because it was Darkling's style. It was different, because death changes a man, but for all that, Eric Darkling didn't seem all that different from when he had been alive. Suddenly Tales from Beyond had become just that.

"What's it like?"

"What's what like, Mr. Masterson?"

"The afterlife?"

He looked at me. "Who the hell has time for the fucking afterlife, when there's work to be done?"

He turned back to the typewriter. He wouldn't answer the question and I would never ask it again. That's the way it was between us.

I opened the manuscript and started to read, content to have finally met George's ghostwriter.

Steve Lazarowitz is a writer with a singular goal. He tries to make people think. His short fiction has been compared to The Twilight Zone, which very much appeals to him. He is best known for his e-publshed short fiction and fantasy serials. He has recently moved to Hobart, Tasmania, where he writes full time.