A High Price To Pay

“So Richard, it has been said in the past how can one man write so many bestselling novels, many of which have been turned into hit films. You seem to burst onto the literary scene less than a decade ago and here we are now discussing what is it a dozen best sellers, three Oscar winning screenplays and a number of other awards! Is there a secret to your success?”
Richard looked over the desk, basking in all the praise from the presenter. He still had to pinch himself everyday. Ten years ago he was a nothing, working every hour god sent him in dead end jobs, to keep a roof over his family head. For what? Just for his wife to have an affair with the chef in the hotel he was a night janitor in. She ran off leaving him and taking the kids with her. Hah she thought she was leaving a life of mundane drudgery with a hopeless husband who wouldn’t equate to anything, and now look at him a multimillionaire author talking on desert island discs about his greatness 

Concentrating on the question just asked him, did he have a secret? Well yes but not one he was going to divulge on national radio so instead he just gave her his usual stock answer. 
“Well thank you Lauren is there a secret piece of alchemy that turned me from Richard Collins a night janitor at a hotel into Richard Vincent the author? Well unfortunately no, just a lot of hard work. There is no shortcuts, you just have to persevere until a story comes out of you. Every morning before breakfast, I will write down ideas for stories that I may flesh out into a short story, then if I think the story has legs, I will turn it into a rough manuscript then polish it till it gleams.” 

This was partially true, he did indeed write down ideas every morning but the truth was the ideas all came to him in his sleep. 
He could vividly remember the first time it happened. It wasn’t long after Susan his wife ran off with the smarmy chef. Richard had hit rock bottom, he lost his job due to turning up drunk, the kids had stopped visiting as he was so bitter about everything. Nothing was going right. One night he went to bed berating his lot when he went to sleep he dreamt about a boy on a boat, drifting at sea. A fishing trawler came across him picking him up, they fed him and looked after him. That night they had the biggest catch of their lives. The captain couldn’t believe it thinking they were going to struggle to break even. Richard woke up slightly bemused but thought he would write down his dream. Next night he dreamt the boat went back out to the same area and caught nothing. Convinced the boy was bringing them luck they went to the hospital where he was being treated for malnutrition and exposure. The crew of the trawler kidnapped the little boy and took him with them locking him into the hold of the boat. Once again they hit a massive shoal of fish making a fortune. Richard again wrote down this part of the story. Each night more of the story came to him till at the end he had a full novel. Not knowing what he should do with it until in a dream a name of a publisher came to him, sending it off the next day he got an immediate response. And as they say the rest is history. Every night he dreams about a story that builds up over several nights he would then write down the dream. The stories did have a theme running through them, someone down on their luck discover something that makes them successful but by the end of the book they have had to pay a great price. This all began ten years ago and now he was the best selling novelist in the UK.

Driving home after the recording of his desert island disc episode was aired he was slightly non plussed to see a stranger standing by his gate, warily he stopped his car by the stranger. Stepping out of the car walked up to him.
“Excuse me you are in the way of the gate please move yourself.”
The man looked him up and down then responded “Richard Vince, I know your secret, you are dreaming about your stories aren’t you? I recognise the theme. Tell me I’m wrong”
Richard eyes narrowing, started to splutter. “How dare you, I have you know I’m a great writer. The best of my generation, as the telegraph said. I’m a bloody genius”
The man shook his head sadly. “No, no you’re not, you get the stories literally fed to you as you sleep then you write them down. I bet you don’t know what you are writing down do you? I bet the stories now just write themselves.”
Richard his mind reeling, there was truth in what this little man in a tweed jacket and oversized hat was telling him. He couldn’t even tell you what his last story was, he had found the story written in his best copperplate writing in his notebook by the side of the bed, he just sent it to the publishers without even reading it and now it’s trending as the number one bestseller. It was true every story seemed to have less and less actual input from Richard’s conscious mind but why rock the boat was his philosophy, each book more successful than the last. He felt in his bones the big one was just around the corner. A story so momentous it would cement his name in the literary annals of greatness. 

The man with the hat was talking again. Richard refocused. “Let me tell you a story, a story about a loser whose life was on the skids, lost his wife and kids due to alcohol and gambling. Ringing any bells, sound a bit like your life? Well this loser had a dream one night about a recipe for an exquisite Italian dish. In the morning he made that dish giving it to friends who declared it the best meal they ever had. The next night he dreamt about another meal, and so on and so on. His meals became world famous. But he didn’t know at the end what he was cooking, what the meal was. That man was found dead in bed. His face was hollowed out, his body nought but skin and bones. On the death certificate cause of death was malnutrition, but I had seen him just two nights earlier. Large as life, one could even say corpulent. On that night he confessed to me about his dreams and his meteoric rise to success. After his death I started digging about and through the ages I discovered dozens of cases of highly successful people, from all walks of lives that had meteoric rise to the highest echelons in their given fields. All of them ten years later found dead in bed. All with death certificates saying severe malnutrition. That sounds unlikely to be a coincidence doesn’t it? I’ve decided to make it my mission to find the ones who looked like they may be next and you Richard are the one I’ve targeted to be the most obvious next victim. 

Richard by this point was properly rattled, it was all true, he didn’t know how the stories were coming to him and how they were being written. All he knew was he was immensely wealthy and respected, the two things he never had before his dreams began. Pulling himself together he looked at the small man with the ridiculous hat a little closer. “Ok hat man if I was to admit to you there may be some truth in what you’re saying, you reckon I’ll have these dreams till one morning I shall be found dead just a skeleton of a man due to what exactly? 
The small man nodded with a gleam in his eyes he stated boldly “A demon I have named Dream Feeder, it fattens up it’s victim by giving them the thing they most want, self respect,fame, feeding their id making them into superstars and when the person has become so bloated on their own belief of self importance it will suck them dry taking back everything it had given them till they are just a dehydrated husk. A nasty little demon, but it’s not too late for you. You can save yourself.” 
Richard had heard enough, Demons sucking the life force out of the rich and famous. That was surely the role of the media and especially critics! “Ok you weird little hat man, I don’t know what your angle is. But whatever it is I’m not buying it. Besides I know the big one is just round the corner. I can feel it. A story that will go down in the annals of literary history. I’ll be up there with Orwell, Tolstoy, Dostoevsky. I will not be forgotten. The little man sighed. “Then it’s too late for you the demon is within just waiting to take back what you owe him, the payment for fame is I’m afraid very high. You are too far gone. I’m sorry for wasting your time. I must go to see if I can save a well known newsreader who ten years ago was living on the streets begging for money and is now the highest paid newsreader in the country. Interesting that isn’t it.” Richard looked at the man once more feeling a frisson of fear. “Ok look what if I believe you, how do I stop dreaming anyway. Is there a way out of it?” 
The small man took his hat off underneath it was a sheet of very old looking parchment paper. “Hold this parchment, it’s been soaked in holy water and blessed by a man of god. Namely me, I am father O’Donnel priest and demon hunter. As soon as the dream starts call out this sentence. I terminate the contract, dream about ripping up the sheet of paper. It works I promise, the demon will stop feeding you and move on. They have to abide by these metaphysical laws it binds them to this world. Break the contract and survive. Don’t break it and die, it is as simple as that. I must go now. Do the right thing Richard and may god be with you. 

The small priest pulled out another piece of parchment from his pocket and placed it under his hat then nodding he turned and briskly walked away, watching him recede into the darkness Richard got back into his car. Pressing a button on his dashboard he watched his gates swing open. Driving up the paved drive till he reached his house. Stepping out of the car he walked up to the house, opened the front door walked into the frontroom and slumped onto a chair, he was still properly shaking. Getting back up he walked over to the drinks cabinet, opening it he pulled out the bottle of whisky. Tonight he was going to get properly hammered. Several glasses later Richard weaved his way up to his bedroom, as he lay on his bed clutching the piece of paper in his hand he soon drifted off to sleep. That nights dream was so vivid. About a baby being born on a circus floor. The father rushing in killing the mother then subsequently being killed himself by the circus folk. The baby being brought up by the circus but he isn’t normal. He becomes a killer. 

It was a very exciting story, Richard remembering what he was holding in his hand was about to shout out I terminate this contract, when his dream changed he was in a crowd waiting to see who’s name was going to be read out. Someone in a suit at the front of the large hall held up a piece of paper. “And the winner for the Nobel price for literature goes to Richard Vincent.”

Doris cycled up the driveway to the front door. Looking up at the large mock Tudor house she sighed, thinking once again what an ugly house it truly was, just goes to show no amount of money can buy class. If she was rich she would buy a beautiful thatched cottage with a rose garden. Not much chance of that now her husband had left her for a floozie in his office. Opening the key safe on the wall she extracted the key and let herself in. Soon she was busy bustling around cleaning the hallway. Going into the frontroom she cleaned and hoovered. Stopping at the drinks cabinet, checking no one was watching she took a big swig out of an opened bottle of whisky. Knowing the owner won’t miss it she put the bottle in her bag. Eventually she wandered upstairs to do the bedroom. There in the master bedroom she found the late Richard Vincent, lying half out of bed. Doris could tell he was dead straight away. As an ex nurse she was used to seeing dead people but she was still shocked by what she saw. He was so thin, barely an ounce of flesh on him. Sitting down heavily on an antique chair Doris called 999 on her mobile. Whilst she waited she spied a notebook by the side of the bed. Picking it up she saw several pages of handwritten pages. Reading them she soon got lost in the story of a baby being born on a circus floor. As the police and ambulance came she gave her statement. Letting her go the police officer told her to go home and get some rest, it must of been a terrible shock. she collected her bike and cycled home. That night she finished reading the notebook she had purloined from the dead authors bedroom. Going to bed she dreamt about a killer clown in a circus and how his story became an urban legend. Waking up she wrote in the notebook the next part of the story.

 She couldn’t wait for the next night, she felt maybe this will be her chance to pull herself out of poverty. Maybe she will be the next big thing.

THE END