Wendell Prologue - Friday March 23, 2012

Perhaps it is the way the light is hitting the door’s sleek, metallic surface. Maybe it is the constant ticking of the clock on the wall. Could it be the fly buzzing near his ear? Or the humming of cool air rushing through the vents? Whatever it is, it is making Paisley Decker hate being in his own office. His chestnut eyes flit over every bit of furniture in the room, resting finally on the empty chair directly across from him on the other side of his large desk.

Maybe that is what it is. Is it that the chair has no occupant? That the fine leather seat is still empty after he has been waiting for an hour?

Decker heaves a heavy sigh, his shoulders shuddering in his grey suit jacket. No, that is not it. He knows exactly what has him so worked up, but he is trying his hardest not to think about that.

A thick stack of paper sits neatly in front of the plump and burly man. On the front page, printed in tiny letters, the words Untitled, by Felix Haydn stare up at him. Decker closes his eyes to them, lifting a large hand to his stress-lined forehead. He becomes irritated with his cap, playing with its brim until he yanks the grey Gatsby-styled accessory from his balding head. Perspiration settles along his receding hairline, and it serves to intensify his discomfort.

Where is Felix?

A sudden clicking noise jerks Decker from his bent position at his desk, and he straightens just in time to see a young man enter his office.

Felix, tall and gangly and impossibly thin, is wearing a loose and wrinkled black v-neck sweater, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Fastened to a pair of tan slacks and clinging to his bony shoulders are white suspenders that match the laces of his black Converse. His hair is a rumpled sooty mop, sideburns sweeping his ears, and he peers at Decker with grey eyes through a pair of thickly rimmed Costello glasses.

Decker’s lips twitch in a poor attempt at a grin as Felix approaches and takes a seat in the leather chair, a small huff escaping the cushion. Thinking that seeing the man sit in front of him should be more of a relief, Decker attempts to smile again, but he glances down at the large stack of paper and knows why he is incapable of looking pleased.

“Felix.” Decker nods once.

“Paisley.” The nod is returned as the young man clasps his hands neatly in his lap, bringing an ankle to rest on his knee. His apparent ease further unsettles Decker, who pulls his cap back on to hide his hairline.

“It’s good to see you again,” Decker lies. “It’s been a long time.”

Felix shrugs. “We spoke on the phone a week ago.”

“Ah, but how long had it been before that?” Decker replies. “Nearly a year! It’s just nice to see your smiling…face” He gulps, noticing that Felix is not smiling at all.

“Right,” Felix says evenly. “But I was always in reach.”

“Still, you had me worried there for a while.”

“You were just worried that your greatest income was running out on you, Paisley.”

Decker balks. “Not at all. But you didn't tell me where you were going and you either avoided or never returned my calls--”

“Because you kept barraging me about a new story,” Felix interrupts him with a scathing look. “Now you have one. So what do you want?

Writers, Decker thinks to himself, stung. This rebellious attitude is not unfamiliar to him. He has been working with young Felix Haydn for a few years now, still reeling from the success of the author’s first graphic novel. Millions of copies have been sold since its release three years ago, and its sequels are just as glorious. Decker’s wallet is very heavy thanks to the insolent young man glaring at him now, and he dare not upset his money-maker.

“It’s about this manuscript,” Decker begins, tapping the large stack of papers on his desk with a chubby finger.

“What about it?”

“It’s a novel, for one thing. You’re famous for comic books.”

“So I’m not allowed to branch out?”

“It’s just that you might lose the fans that are just attracted to your art,” Decker explains apologetically. “If we try to have this published, could you at least throw in some illustrations?”

Felix tears his grey eyes away from the businessman, making annoyed clicking noises with his tongue. “I guess. I do remember every detail perfectly.”

Decker’s lips curl into his first genuine smile of the morning. “Good. Then we’re getting somewhere.”

Felix raises an eyebrow, but does not turn back to his manager. “You have more to bitch about, I assume?”

“Well…This story…”

The truth is that Decker is horrified by this story. While Felix’s work has earned a respectable following amongst fans of the horror genre, he has never shown up with ideas as…disquieting as these. His first two books were set to fantasy, which seemed to be Felix’s true calling. But this? To think these ideas are anything but made-up? Decker is no doubt the first to admit that there are people who would love this book. There are always a few freaks out there who dig this shit, he thinks. Why not? This sort of thing attracts the strong romantics out there. But it is not what Felix’s story is about that bothers Decker.

It is that it feels like…

Feels so…

Real.

“…It’s written strangely.”

Another tsk. “It’s written like a diary.”

“Dates and everything.”

“Exactly like it happened,” Felix affirms.

“You think that sells?”

“Always sales with you.”

“Sales are important. The sales make this your official career.”

“Right,” sighs Felix. “My career…”

Decker licks his lips, knowing where this is going and not liking it at all. “Yeah. And I’m only here to help you with out.” When Felix does not respond, he continues. “So fine. The diary format thing can work. It’s worked for others, it can work for us. But you should add some pictures. That’s what you’re famous for.”

Felix is tonguing his cheek, vexed. Decker ploughs on with a dry throat.

“Maybe you can make it look like photography or something?” he suggests timidly, rubbing the back of his neck. Then he adds under his breath, “Well, not that you particularly need it to feel more real.”

Felix looks at him, an eyebrow perked.

“I just mean this story is…” Decker sighs. “It’s pretty fucked up, Felix.”

Felix nods once but says nothing.

Decker, feeling uncomfortable, rolls his shoulders in their sockets and straightens his back. “I mean, where did you come up with this? You needed a year to give me this?”

“What are you getting at?" Felix asks, studying Decker’s nervous body language with a quick up-down.

“The content is--”

“Paisley,”  Felix lowers his foot to the floor and hunches over, eyes boring into his manager with an intensity that instantly silences the older man. “You asked me for a story. I spent a year writing this. This,” he jabs at the stack of paper on the desk, “is what I wrote. And this,” he jabs again, “is what you get. Publish it if you want. I’m not hurting for money. But don’t tell me you have a problem with it now. If you called me here to preach to me about story-telling, then go write your own fucking book. Because I’m not going to take any shit from a suit behind a desk.”

He never raises his voice.

Decker feels a single bead of sweat slide from his temple down to his neck, where it nestles in the collar of his shirt. “It’s just that the content is disturbing, Felix.”

“I’ve never claimed to write books for kids, Paisley,” he answers sarcastically.

“Really disturbing.”

“Yeah, I guess. But that’s what I’m already famous for. That’s what sells, isn’t it?”

It is Decker’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “You were thinking about sales when you wrote this?”

“No. But you demanded I have something to give to you as soon as I got back in town, so--”

“So you never meant for this – this diary, right here -” Decker points to the papers once more, “to be a story?”

“No.”

Decker furrows his brow, troubled. “So then what is it? Ramblings?”

“That’s what I did over the last year.”

Decker’s eyes widen to the size of saucers. “What?”

Felix grins.

Suddenly, things that distressed Decker only moments before seem meaningless. The cold atmosphere. The metallic tint to everything in his office. Even the buzzing fly has disappeared. All Paisley Decker can see is the horrifying smile on Felix Haydn’s lips. He is smiling a twisted smile, an unnatural smile. He smiles a smile that says the terrible events chronicled on that thick stack of paper all happened.

And that he enjoyed them...