The Book Deal
By: Matt Cowan
Tags: Writing, Horror, Publishing, Fiction, Short Story

When he had finished, he knew it was the best thing he’d ever written.

He put his pen down with ink-stained fingers, then hefted the manuscript in his hands, feeling the weight of all those pages, all those words and the hours of toil and doubt that had gone into them, and he smiled.

His old leather chair complained as he leaned back and gazed at the bookshelf: the first editions of all six of his bestselling, award-winning hardbacks sat apart from one another like dominoes, looking back at him. He hugged the manuscript to his chest, closed his eyes, and sighed deeply.

The smile slowly dropped from his face.

It was always hard to say goodbye to a book that he’d just finished, especially one as good as this. But he knew it’d hurt more the longer he left it — this was the seventh time he’d done it, after all. He flicked through the thick sheaf in wonder at the product of his mind and will, then he struggled out of his leather chair and walked towards the fireplace.

The flames licked the air, forming the same image that he always saw staring back at him: the inhuman face that cajoled and leered, amused at what he thought of as his craft.

In one practiced movement, he threw the manuscript into the fire, removed the poker from its holder, and pushed the already curling, blackening pages deeper into the heat. He took the letter opener from the mantelpiece and re-opened the old wound in his thumb. Making sure not to waste a single drop, he shook his blood into the fire, where it hissed, briefly dyeing the flames black.

He placed his thumb in his mouth, trying to deny what infantile comfort it brought him, and waited until what he had written was consumed by the mocking face.

He did not forget to recite the arcane words.

When his novel was reduced to ash, he went back to his desk and sagged into his old leather chair. His tears dropped unnoticed onto the desk as he put away his stray papers, ink pot and pen into the top drawer, then switched on his computer. While it croaked to life, he turned to look at his books on the shelf and realized that he would have to build another one for his latest publishing sensation, as he kept a space before every book to remind him of what each had cost him.

He had no idea what he was about to write, in truth he didn’t care. All he knew was that the words came by themselves, and that each story sold more than the last (up to thirteen million now, with two film adaptations in production).

Did he regret making the deal? He had everything he’d ever wanted after all: fame, fortune and, more importantly than that, the grudging respect of the literary world.

He wasn’t sure how long it would continue, or if this was the last one. And, if it was, what he would then do with his life, though he knew that his soul was forfeit.

His fingers tapped the keys at one-hundred-and-eighty words per minute. Chapter two already, and he’d barely even glanced at the words appearing on the screen.

He had thought writing was the hardest thing, until he’d destroyed his first manuscript all those years ago.

Burning his work never got any easier.

But a deal’s a deal.