There's only one problem with getting paid to create nightmares: nobody believes the ones that are real . . .

At first Greg Davidson thought there was a problem with his printer. But after the town’s residents were found murdered, mutilated in the same chilling fashion his printouts described, he realized he had an even bigger problem.

He had moved to a small upstate town, hoping to start his life over after a divorce. Once a bestselling horror writer, he thought he could pull his career back on track by changing genres and beginning a new novel. Except it seems that Karma has intervened—after years of creating nightmares, he has found that he cannot escape them. Has, in fact, stumbled right into one.

To make matters worse, the murderers aren’t even human. If they were werewolves, vampires, or zombies—something right out of a horror novel—Greg might at least have an idea how to deal with them. But they aren’t. They are entirely different. Entirely . . . worse.

Now Greg must pair up with the only person who doesn’t think he’s insane—his attractive neighbor’s teenage son—and together they must stop evil before it has a chance to ravage the town and destroy life as they know it, including Greg's second chance at love.

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                                                                                                   Prologue


    The news said it was a pack of stray dogs, but he knew better. Hell, he’d seen them. The only problem was, when you were getting paid to create nightmares, nobody believed the ones that were true.

    Greg Davidson walked down the aisle, shoving boxes and cans into his basket. He did this without thought, not caring to check what he was putting in. There was hardly anyone in the store and he didn’t have to fight for items or navigate his way through crazy shoppers running for sales. The only customers he encountered were two women with their baskets pressed together, engaged in conversation.

    “I heard the police found another body,” said the first, a skinny woman with too much eye shadow. “What’s that make the count now? Twelve? Fourteen?”

    “Too many,” said the second. “I told my husband we should leave town before it’s too late, but you know how men are.”

    “Yeah, stubborn bastards. Everyone else is leaving and we’re stuck with the only two who would work through the apocalypse.”

    Greg pushed past, barely giving them a glance. He stopped when a box of chocolate chip cookies caught his eye. He tossed it in with the other food. Before it even had a chance to settle, he was off.

    For the little one, he thought. 

    When he got to the register, he nearly abandoned the basket. He was third in line, and the woman currently placing her items on the belt moved with the speed of a sloth. What made him stay was the simple fact that they needed to eat.

    The line moved painfully slow until a single customer, an obese woman in a one-piece pullover, stood before him placing two bags of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups onto the belt. Greg felt an urge to shout Put that back, you fat bitch, you’re only going to make it worse but decided against it. It didn’t matter. Let her enjoy it. She wouldn’t live long enough to see the fat plaster to her thighs anyway. Although that might not be entirely true . . . some of them didn’t die. Some of them weren’t that lucky.

    After the obese woman waddled off, the clerk totaled Greg’s order.

    “That comes to thirty-two ninety-five.”

    Greg handed her his MasterCard. She took it with a wrinkled, palsied hand. With the way her fingers trembled it was a wonder she could even operate the register.

    “Is this credit or debit, sir?” Through her dentures sir came out thurr.

    “Credit.”                        

    She swiped his card with visible effort.

    “You sure have a lot of items, and along with that portable grill I’d have to guess you’re going camping.”

    “No.”

    The clerk wasn’t dissuaded. 

    “Well, if you’re not going camping, are you going hiking? I’ve done my fair share of each. Except we didn’t have things like portable grills back in the day . . .” She paused, reminiscing, then said, “You’d actually be amazed at what ‘the day’ used to be like.”

    Greg didn’t care. He shifted from foot to foot. The only thing he wanted the old woman to do was hand him back his credit card. On second thought, she could keep it. He put his wallet back and was just about to push the basket away when she held it out to him. Greg grabbed for it. At the last second she pulled it out of reach. “You know, there’s a coupon on your receipt. You can only use it if you’re a rewards member. Would you like to sign up?”

    “No.”

    She waved the credit card in front of his face. “It won’t take long. I promise.”

    “Don’t worry about it,” Greg said. “I really have to go.” He wanted to get back to the car. He wondered how the three inside were doing.

    “Oh, but they pay me to worry about it, sir. It’ll just take a moment.”

    He knew a lie when he heard one and walked off, muttering, “Have a good day.”

    He didn’t even turn around when the clerk ran after him with his credit card.





                                                                                         Five Days Earlier:

                                                                                      Friday, October 25th



                                                                                                                                 Chapter 1


    “You homo! Everybody, look at him, he’s wearing eyeliner!”

    “Fuck you!” Billy Reeth shouted back.

    It was a typical reply and a typical day in Billy’s life. Ever since his father killed himself and his mother started seeing Michael Vortex—that asshole with the silver BMW—Billy needed an outlet. He tried drawing, reading, and painting but when all those things failed he found music. And that’s what worked. The musicians understood. Their ballads were composed with the perfect harmony of grief and rage. It was as if they had written the songs exclusively for him. And whenever he felt depressed, he would just turn on his iPod and drift away, blocking out the constant verbal arguments between Michael and his mother. Blocking out the sound of Michael’s meaty palms slapping her face. And blocking out Michael ranting about how her son was turning into a faggot and that Helen should send him off to military school before it was too late, even though he already thought it was.

    Dealing with these things at home taught Billy to become almost numb to what the kids shouted at him at school. He shrugged off the bully’s comeback and sat at the wobbly table in the corner of the cafeteria with his friends.

    “I thought lunch would never come,” he said, putting down his backpack.

    Jaime looked up from his drawing. “Yeah, tell me about it. School bites my ass.”

    Tommy and Kathryn agreed. She twirled a pink lock of her two-tone hair. “Did you have Science yet?” she asked Billy.

    “Not yet. Why?”

    “ ’Cause we did.”

    “Yeah,” said Tommy. “Sucked. Garison gave us three pages of homework.”

    Billy rolled his eyes. “Seriously?”

    “Yeah. Who the hell gives three pages of homework in one class?”

    “Bad teachers,” said Jaime.

    “Speaking of Science,” Kathryn said, “where was Phil?”

    Billy pulled out his lunch. “He wasn’t in class?”

    “No.”

    “That’s weird. Maybe he’s sick or something.”

    “Sick?” said Jaime. “Again? Is that even possible?”

    Kathryn folded her legs into a pretzel and leaned her colorful head on Tommy’s shoulder. Tommy put his arm around her. “You know how Phil is,” he said, “kid’s two hundred and thirty pounds and has a diet of Pepsi and Doritos. What do you expect?”

    “That he’d be the one to get caught by a watchdog, not get sick again. That’s just too much bad luck, even for him.”

                                                                                                                †

    On the other side of town Philip Vaus lay in bed, feverish and weak. Posters of Hawthorne Heights, Underoath, and LIGHTS stared down at him from black walls. His iPod lay facedown on the dresser, his laptop discarded on the floor. What had been blasting a day ago and displaying YouTube videos was now dead and silent.

    His ears hurt. They constantly popped as though he were on an airplane. His eyes bothered him also. His shades were drawn against the sun and his room was bathed in darkness. The scar on his cheek, a memento from a childhood accident, stood out against his pale skin.

    Phil had been sick before, but never like this. He felt disconnected. Detached. And his leg itched where the dog had bitten him. 

    “Phil, do you want some soup? Maybe some water?”

    His mother’s voice was loud, even from the other side of the door. It sounded like it was being shouted through a megaphone.

    “No,” Phil said. Food was the last thing on his mind. Just the thought of it made his stomach turn. He sat up with great effort and brushed the long black hair out of his eyes.

    “Are you feeling any better? Can I come in?”

    “No,” he repeated.

    He heard her hesitate and then finally leave. Her footsteps were gunshots, and he cringed as they exploded down the hall.

    He wiped his hand across his forehead and it came away damp and unpleasant. The room started to spin.