Scream (2 page)

O THIS IS THE PART OF THE BOOK WHERE I GET TO THANK
all those who played a role in the production of this story.
If I thanked everyone, this volume would compete in page
tally with some of the great epics in history. I won't do that to
you. So to keep things reasonable, I'll limit my acknowledgments to the core contributors. This in no way diminishes the
role or contribution of everyone else, but sometimes frugality is
necessary, and in an effort to spare a few trees and do my part
in saving the planet, I must practice self-control. Here goes:

Thank you, Jen, my dear wife and constant supporter, for
praying for me, loving me, and (let's be honest) putting up with
me. In short, for being the best doggone wife a man could ask
for. You deserve an award. Seriously.

Thank you, Laura, Abby, and Caroline, my sweet trio of
giggles, for bringing so much brightness and laughter into my
life. You're the best daughters any daddy could want.

Thanks, Mom and Dad, for your prayers, encouragement,
and love.

Thank you, Les, my wise and knowledgeable agent, for
your guidance and counsel. I know I couldn't have done this
without you.

Thank you to my editors, Debbie Marie, Lori Vanden Bosch,
and Deb Moss, for your sharp eyes, careful suggestions, patient
ways, and constant encouragement. Another sweet trio.

Thanks to all those who have prayed for us, encouraged us, supported us, and fought this battle with cancer alongside us.
You are dear to me, and I really can't say thank you enough.

Thank you to everyone else who encouraged me in my
writing, offered advice or assistance, and urged me onward and
upward. Sorry I can't mention each of you by name, but hey,
you're joining me in sparing a tree. That's something.

And lastly, thank You, Jesus, for saving me. Your promises
make that appointment with death a sweet reunion waiting to
happen.

HEY SAY GOD WORKS IN STRANGE AND MYSTERIOUS
ways. Well, I'm not going to argue with that. I've seen my
fair share of the strange and mysterious coming from the
hand of God.

As of the writing of this preface (which happens to be occurring during the editing phase of this book), I am in a battle
with colon cancer. It's not what I ordered, not what I had in
mind, and definitely was never part of my plans, but it's what
I got. It's funny (not ha-ha funny, but strange and mysterious
funny) how life can change with one phone call. It was March
of 2008, and I was at work when I received a phone call from
the gastroenterologist, the doctor who, days earlier, performed
a colonoscopy on me. I'll never forget the feeling of utter solitude, the way the world seemed to literally stop spinning on its
axis, when he said, "I'm very sorry, but you have colon cancer."

I was thirty-five at the time, excited about preparing to
release my first novel, The Hunted, planning my future, and
suddenly I was thinking about death. That vapor that is my life
had been disturbed and had taken on a new shape.

Now I think about death all the time. Cancer has a way of
doing that, of reminding you of the frailty of your existence,
the brevity of life. Of reminding you that we're all just walking
on a thin sheet of ice that can crack or break at any moment.

But thinking about death is a good thing. The wise king
Solomon wrote, "We must all die, and everyone living should think about this." (See Ecclesiastes 7:2.) Good advice. Thinking
about death forces us to think about life, something most of us
don't do nearly enough. And thinking about life forces us to
think about how we're living our life, something all of us should
do a lot more of.

Anyway, I don't mean to bore you with all this macabre talk
of death, but honestly, it's what's on my mind now. And ironically (here goes that whole strange and mysterious thing), it's
what Scream is about. I find it funny (again, not in the ha-ha
way, but in the interesting way) that I'm battling cancer, being
reminded of the brevity of life and the imminence of death,
experiencing firsthand how quickly life can shift on us and
everything can change, while I'm reworking my novel about
just that ... the appointment with death we all must keep.

Strange and mysterious.

-MIKE DELLOSSO

HANOVER, PENNSYLVANIA

AUGUST 2008

There's nothing certain in a man's life except this:
That he must lose it.

-AESCHYLUS, AGAMEMNON

Death is a debt we must all pay.

-EURIPIDES

Now, this bell tolling softly for another, says to
me: Thou must die.

-JOHN DUNNE, MEDITATION 17

It is appointed unto men once to die, but after
this the judgment.

-HEBREWS 9:27, KJV

ARK STONE COULD STILL SMELL THE GREASE ON
his hands.

No matter how hard he scrubbed or what fancy soap
he used, the residue remained, stained into the creases of his
fingers and caked under his fingernails. In a way, though, it was
comforting. At least something in his life was still predictable.
He gripped the steering wheel of his classic Mustang with both
hands and willed his eyes to stay open. The hum of rubber on
asphalt was almost hypnotic. It had been a long day at the shop,
and he was ready to go home, soak in a hot shower until he
puckered like a raisin, and get cozy with his pillow.

Outside, the headlights cut a swath of pale yellow light
through the dense autumn darkness. Stars dotted the night like
glitter on black felt. A pocked moon dangled low in the sky in
front of him, a cratered carrot on the end of an unseen string,
leading him home, home to the comfort of his bed.

His cell phone chimed the theme from The Dukes of
Hazzard. Mark turned down the radio and flipped open the
phone. It was Jeff Beaverson. "Jeffrey."

"Hey, buddy. How goes it?"

Mark glanced at the dashboard clock-10:10. "Kinda late for
you, isn't it?"

Jeff laughed. "You know me too well. I was at my parents' house installing a new hot water heater, and it took longer than
I thought it would. I'm heading home now. Gonna walk in the
door and drop myself right into bed. You in the car?"

"On my way home."

"Boy, you're putting in some late hours."

"Yeah, business is good right now. Keeps my mind off... stuff.
You know."

"I know, buddy. I've been thinking about you. Thought I'd
check in and make sure we're still on for tomorrow."

Tomorrow. Saturday. He and Jeff were scheduled to meet for
breakfast at The Victory.

On the radio, John Mellencamp was belting out "Small
Town."

"Yeah. Seven o'clock. You still ... kay with ... at?"

"Sure. Where are you? You're breakin' up."

"Mill Road. Down ... oopers Hollow... lasts a ... ittle"

Mark paused and tapped his hand to the beat of the music.
Jeff's voice boomed into his ear. "Am I back? Can you hear me
now?"

"Yeah, I can hear you fine now," Mark said with a laugh.

Jeff snorted into the phone. "I always lose my bars along that
stretch. Hey, I've been meaning to ask you..."

Jeff's voice was suddenly drowned by a hideous screaming.
Not just one voice, but a multitude of voices mingling and
colliding, merging and blending in a cacophony of wails and
groans, grunts and cries. A million mouths weeping and
howling in bone-crunching pain. Agony. As if their skin was
being peeled off inch by inch and their burning anguish was
somehow captured on audio. It rose in volume, lasted maybe five,
six seconds, then stopped just as abruptly as it had started.

Mark clicked off the radio and pressed the phone tighter against his ear. Goose bumps crawled over his arms. "Jeff? You
OK, man?"

There was a pause, then, "Yeah. Yes. I'm fine. What the blazes
was that? Did you hear it?"

Mark massaged the steering wheel with his left hand. "Yeah,
I heard it. Sounded like something out of some horror movie."
Or hell. Weeping and gnashing of teeth. "Weird."

"Maybe our signals got tangled with something else. Weird
is right. Anyway, I've been wanting to ask you-and we can
talk more about it tomorrow if you want-how are you and
Cheryl doing?"

Mark clenched his jaw, pressing his molars together. Cheryl.
Don't make me go there, Jeff. It's too soon. "I don't know. I
think it's over."