“Don’t Fear the Reaper”—Denmark + Winter
Sifting through the thousands of emails and short stories my assistant "handpicked" for me out of the tens of thousands we received leads me to two conclusions. One, this new generation of writers is a fucking joke… and two, I need a new fucking assistant.
Janine, my aforementioned assistant, has been entrenched in her position for years now, so her being replaced is a pipe dream. I only meet with her a few times a month, and even that’s too much for me. I'd rather keep people at a distance, and that includes those who work for me.
A Princeton grad, Janine’s not all dumb. Perhaps she really did choose the best submissions this country's top writing programs have to offer and my plans of finding a co-writer are just futile. I can't imagine working with a single one of these so-called writers recycling other people's stories into their own ten-page drivel. I've read some version of Psycho at least a hundred times already. Stephen King clones? Don't even get me started.
I pull up a blank email and angrily jab at the keys.
Janine,
I find it incredibly hard to believe that this is the best of the best. Am I losing my fucking mind here, or are you losing your touch?
- Your Unhappy Boss
And sent.
I couldn’t give two fucks about her feelings. I refuse to read another word of this shit.
Almost immediately, Janine responds. She knows well enough, from her years working for me, that I do not wait around for a response. Phone alerts will always remain on and loud enough to wake the dead.
EA,
So sorry for the last few batches. Unfortunately, this seems to be the best of what's come in. I do have some good news though. I just read a fantastic story. Edwin, just read the name…
-Janine
I open the document and scroll down the title page, stopping immediately. I let the cursor flash over the name. Are my eyes deceiving me? Miranda Cross… Miranda, Miranda, Miranda. Oh, how the name sends a surge of adrenaline throughout my body, like the electric tingling you get beneath the skin when the dealer hands you a full house, when life calls out loud and clear, Today, is your day!
Miranda, to most, means nothing. It means nothing to those who don't value the art of the written word. Who don't appreciate the classics. Who can't appreciate quiet legends operating right beneath their noses.
Miranda, to me, is a way of life.
I was fifteen years old and just entering the world of tainted fantasies and dreams of carnage when I randomly stumbled onto The Collector by John Fowles at the public library. Another moment when everything seemed to line up perfectly.
The Collector, for you uneducated fucks, is about a man, Frederick Clegg, who collects butterflies as a hobby. They are his life. But eventually, they just aren't enough to quell his need to collect, to contain, to control. That's when he decides to take a girl he's been obsessed with for some time. After careful preparation, he drugs and kidnaps her before keeping her locked in his cellar in an attempt to make her fall in love with him.
The name of that girl? Miranda Grey.
My obsession with the book led me to research everything about it. I found that many serial killers were equally obsessed with the book. Some even carried a copy with them on their murderous conquests. Eventually, my research led me to the Holy Grail, the inspiration for my kill shed, and the reason EA Mercer is splattered on best-seller lists across the world—Leonard Lake and Charles Ng.
Lake and Ng saw the beauty in The Collector just as I do. They respected and appreciated the need, the yearning, the ultimate desire to control other people. They understood that, as a stronger, smarter human being, it is our prerogative—no, our duty—to rid the world of lesser humans. To take what we wish and do what we want with it. We are the masters. They are the slaves.
Lake and Ng built their own kill shed in the wooded mountains of California, where they tortured, raped, and killed women, all while taping their endeavors. Sometimes they killed whole families to get rid of witnesses. The tapes, I sadly have never been able to get my hands on. However, Ng drew a few of the murders in almost childlike fashion, with crayons and jagged, uneven lines. One of them depicted him placing a baby over a burning charcoal grill. Not my style, per se, but inspiring nonetheless!
Yes, Miranda Cross will do just fine. Now it's time to see if her story carries any weight. But if I have to guess, I imagine it will knock me right on my ass. The universe lines itself up for me sometimes, and when it does, nothing can stop me.