Read Between the Lines

Kevin DeLange first noticed Ernest Bell because of the coffin. Not an actual coffin. Kevin had seen enough of those in 41 years and had no particular desire to see another anytime soon. This coffin existed in a short story he'd written for the weekly contest on a website where hundreds of people competed for $250, bragging rights, and the opportunity to spend the following week obsessively checking whether strangers liked them.

               Kevin's story was called The Second Burial. It ended with a man named Daniel opening his father's coffin after becoming convinced his family had buried the wrong body. Daniel pried open the lid, looked inside, and found himself. Not somebody who resembled him. Himself. Same clothes. Same wedding ring. Same scar above the eyebrow. The final line was:

               Daniel touched the scar above his own eye and felt the corpse smile beneath his fingers.

               Kevin had been particularly proud of that line. Most readers seemed to understand what he was doing. Their interpretations differed, which Kevin liked. Maybe Daniel was dead. Maybe the corpse was his future self. Maybe the entire story had been told from somewhere between life and death. Kevin deliberately hadn't explained it because explaining everything was how horror became an instruction manual. Then Ernest Bell commented.

               Great story Kevin! Really creepy! One question though. Were Daniel and the guy in the coffin twins?

               Kevin stared at the comment. Then he laughed. He typed a polite response thanking Ernest for reading and saying he'd intentionally left the ending open to interpretation. Ernest replied 11 minutes later.

               Thanks! So they were twins?

               Kevin didn't answer. The following week Kevin wrote about a woman whose husband disappeared during a hunting trip. For three years she mourned him. Then she discovered human teeth embedded in the tread of her snowblower and remembered that she'd suffered a head injury the winter he'd vanished. The final scene showed her standing in the garage, staring at the machine while fragments of memory returned. Ernest commented within an hour.

               Another good one! Did her husband ever come back?

               Kevin read it twice. He clicked Ernest's profile. Ernest Bell was 44, lived somewhere in Idaho, and had submitted seven stories to the website. His profile photograph showed a broad man with a reddish-brown beard standing beside a bass boat and holding a fish. His biography consisted of three sentences.

               I like horror and thrillers.

               I have always wanted to be a writer.

               I tell it like it is.

               Kevin had learned to fear anyone who advertised the third sentence. Still, Ernest seemed harmless. The next week Kevin wrote about a surgeon who discovered that every patient he'd pronounced dead was standing outside his bedroom window. Ernest:

               Why didn't he call the cops?

               The week after that, Kevin ended a story with a woman discovering photographs of herself sleeping on a stranger's phone. Ernest:

               How did he get the pictures?

               Kevin replied:

               That's the question.

               Ernest answered:

               Yeah, that's why I asked.

               Kevin laughed so hard he nearly dropped his phone. After that, Ernest became something of a ritual. Kevin posted on Fridays. Ernest misunderstood by Saturday. Sometimes Kevin could predict the question before it appeared. A murderer washed blood from his hands while red and blue lights flashed through the kitchen window.

               Who called the police?

               A woman discovered her childhood imaginary friend had been paying property taxes on the abandoned house where she'd grown up.

               How did he have money if he was imaginary?

               A dying man woke in his childhood bedroom and heard his dead mother downstairs telling him breakfast was ready.

               Did the hospital discharge him?

               That one nearly killed Kevin. Other writers noticed. The website's regulars began waiting for Ernest. One commenter wrote:

               I'm not reading Kevin's stories anymore. I'm just reading them so I can guess Ernest's question.

               Another replied:

               Same. I was positive he'd ask who called the police last week.

               Ernest apparently didn't understand those comments either. He continued praising Kevin. That was the strange part. He wasn't a troll. Ernest genuinely loved Kevin's stories.

               You're one of my favorite writers on here.

               Another awesome one Kevin!

               Don't know how you come up with this stuff.

               Then inevitably:

               One question though...

               Kevin started screenshotting them. His wife, Amanda, called them Ernestisms. This was their little secret. His friends asked for updates. Kevin even felt a little guilty about laughing at the man. Ernest was supportive. He read every story. He left encouraging comments. In an online world populated by people who could find a reason to call you an asshole for donating blood, Ernest Bell was relentlessly positive. He just couldn't understand a fucking ending. Then somebody gave Kevin an idea.

               It happened beneath The Man Who Wasn't Thursday, a story Kevin thought was about as subtle as a brick through a windshield. The protagonist woke on Friday morning and discovered everyone else believed it was Thursday. Every calendar said Thursday. Every television station said Thursday. His phone said Thursday. Only he remembered Friday.

               At the end, he went to sleep. When he woke again, it was Thursday. Again. Ernest commented:

               Good one Kevin! Did he accidentally go to work on the wrong day?

               A writer named Laura replied:

               Kevin, I dare you to write one even Ernest can understand.

               Kevin laughed. Then he stopped laughing. He stared at the comment. Amanda was reading beside him on the couch. "Oh no," she said.

               "What?"

               "I know that face."

               "What face?"

               "The one where you're about to waste eight hours doing something incredibly stupid because you think it's funny."

               Kevin smiled. "I have an idea."

               "Of course you do."

               The following Friday, Kevin published Tom Needs Help. Tom was a reader. Tom loved horror stories but couldn't understand them unless the author explained absolutely everything. Kevin abandoned subtlety by paragraph four. Tom read a story about a man entering a basement despite being repeatedly warned that something downstairs ate people. Tom wondered why the man disappeared. The narrator explained.

               The creature ate him, Tom.

               Tom remained confused.

               He is dead.

               Tom wondered whether the man might return in the sequel.

               No, Tom. He was eaten.

               Halfway through, the narrator began addressing Tom directly.

               Tom entered the basement.

               The basement was dangerous.

               Tom had been told the basement was dangerous.

               This means Tom should not enter the basement.

               Tom entered the basement anyway.

               Then:

               If you are wondering why Tom did this, it is because Tom is an idiot.

               Kevin laughed through most of the writing. Amanda read the finished draft and covered her face. "You're an asshole."

               "It's affectionate."

               "It absolutely is not."

               "He'll know I'm kidding." She looked at him. Kevin reconsidered. "Okay. Everyone else will know I'm kidding." The story went live at 7:03am Friday morning. By noon, it had 26 comments. People loved it. Several said it was the funniest thing Kevin had written. Laura commented:

               I cannot believe you actually did it.

               Someone else wrote:

               Now we wait.

               Kevin knew exactly what they were waiting for. At 2:17pm, Ernest Bell arrived.

               This was hilarious Kevin! Probably my favorite story you've written. Finally, one where the ending made sense! Was Tom based on anybody?

               Kevin stared at his screen. Amanda came running when she heard him choking. She found him doubled over at the kitchen table with tears running down his face. "What happened?" Kevin handed her the phone. She read the comment. "Oh my God."

               "I can't breathe."

               "Don't reply."

               "I'm not."

               "Kevin."

               "I'm not!"

               They weren't the only ones who found it funny. Within minutes, Ernest's comment accumulated replies. Most were harmless. Laughing emojis.

               Perfect.

               This cannot be real.

               Then somebody named David Carver wrote:

               Jesus Christ, Ernest. It's you.

               Kevin stopped laughing. "Well," Amanda said.

               "Yeah."

               "Can you delete that?"

               "I can't delete somebody else's comment."

               "Report it."

               "For what? Explaining literature?"

               Kevin refreshed. Nothing. Five minutes passed. Then 10. Then 23. Finally, Ernest replied.

               What do you mean?

               David answered:

               Tom is you. Kevin wrote the story about you because you never understand his endings.

               Three minutes passed. Ernest wrote:

               That's not funny.

               Kevin's stomach tightened. He typed a response.

               Ernest, it was meant as a joke. You've been incredibly supportive of my work and I appreciate you reading every week. No hard feelings intended.

               The reply came almost immediately.

               You made me look stupid.

               Kevin considered several answers. He chose none. An hour later:

               You let everyone laugh at me.

               Then:

               I thought you respected me.

               Kevin closed the website. By Sunday, he'd mostly convinced himself it was over. By Tuesday, somebody was dead. The victim was a 48-year-old insurance agent named Kenneth DeLange who lived outside Boise. Kevin learned about him because Ernest sent him the article. No explanation. Just the link. Kenneth DeLange had been found beaten to death in his garage Monday night. His wife had discovered him beside his car. Police hadn't announced a suspect. Kevin stared at the surname. DeLange. His surname. His phone vibrated. A private message from Ernest.

               Wrong Kevin.

               Kevin called the police. The next 48 hours became interviews, phone calls, screenshots, questions, and the peculiar horror of watching strangers become extremely interested in everything you'd ever posted publicly. Ernest Bell had disappeared. His house was empty. His truck was gone. The bass boat remained. Police believed he was heading west. Toward Oregon. Toward Kevin. "Go somewhere else," the detective told him.

               Kevin and Amanda did. For one night. Then Ernest killed another man. Kevin Delaney, 53, of Ontario, Oregon. He was stabbed in a motel parking lot. Kevin stared at the dead man's name on the news report. Kevin Delaney.

               DeLange.

               Delaney.

               Close enough for Ernest. Another message arrived.

               Getting closer.

               Amanda read it over Kevin's shoulder. "Oh, Jesus Christ." Kevin didn't answer. "He thinks he's narrowing it down," she whispered.

               Kevin looked at her. "What?"

               "The names. Kenneth DeLange. Wrong first name, right last name. Kevin Delaney. Right first name, almost the right last name."

               Kevin stared at the message. Getting closer. Something cold moved through him. The police thought Ernest was hunting him. They were wrong. Ernest was reading him.

               And Ernest Bell was the worst reader Kevin had ever known. Which meant Kevin knew exactly how to write the ending. Thirty miles outside Burns stood the remains of St. Bartholomew Regional Treatment Center, a medical facility that had closed in 1998 after decades of treating cancer patients from across eastern Oregon. Most of the complex had been demolished. One concrete structure remained because tearing it down cost more than leaving it to rot.

               The radiation wing.

               Kevin knew about it because he'd researched it for a story two years earlier. The treatment bunker had walls several feet thick and a steel door designed to seal the treatment chamber. The machinery had been removed years ago. The warning signs remained. So did the maze of concrete corridors below the main level. Kevin remembered something else. An old mechanical security system. The detective thought Kevin had lost his mind when he explained the plan.

               Amanda thought worse. "You want him to find you?"

               "No."

               "You want him to think he's finding you."

               "Exactly."

               "That distinction isn't making me feel better."

               Kevin wrote through the night. Not a good story. Not an elegant story. A story for one reader. He titled it The Last Comment. It described a writer named Calvin hiding from a man named Eric. Calvin fled to an abandoned medical facility in eastern Oregon. Kevin included enough details to identify the location. The cracked sign beside the highway. The collapsed western building. The faded radiation symbol. The concrete corridor leading underground. Then Kevin wrote:

               Calvin knew Eric would never understand what he was telling him.

               He posted it. Police were furious. Amanda called him insane. Kevin waited. Six hours later, Ernest commented.

               I understand this one.

               Kevin smiled. "No," he whispered. "You really fucking don't."

               Ernest arrived after dark. Kevin watched through cameras police had installed around the building. Ernest was bigger than his profile photograph suggested. He carried a hammer. He entered through the eastern doorway exactly as Kevin's story suggested he wouldn't. Inside, Ernest found the first page taped to a wall.

               Eric followed the writer downstairs.

               Ernest went downstairs. Second page.

               The hallway on the left would have been the obvious choice for anyone incapable of understanding what Calvin actually meant.

               Ernest went left. Kevin watched from a command van half a mile away. One detective stared at the monitor. "Jesus." Kevin said nothing. Third page.

               Only an idiot would mistake the red handle for the emergency release.

               Ernest pulled the red handle. A steel partition dropped behind him. The detective looked at Kevin. "You knew he'd do that?"

               Kevin watched Ernest continue down the corridor. "I've been reading his comments for nine months."

               Ernest didn't hesitate. That was the incredible thing. Every warning became an instruction. Every implication became its opposite. Every sentence proved the same thing Kevin had spent months learning. Ernest Bell could read words. He couldn't read meaning. The final page waited inside the old treatment chamber. Ernest entered. He saw it on the floor. Kevin watched him pick it up.

               Eric finally reached the room where the writer was waiting.

               There were two doors.

               One led to Calvin.

               The other led nowhere.

               Eric smiled.

               For once, he knew exactly which one the author wanted him to choose.

               Ernest looked at the two doors.

               One was marked EXIT.

               The other had no label.

               Ernest smiled. He chose the unlabeled door. It opened into the old radiation vault. Ernest stepped inside. The detective pressed the control. The steel door closed. For several seconds, nothing happened. Then Ernest tried the handle. Again. Harder. He began pounding.

               "KEVIN!"

               Nobody answered. Ernest attacked the door. The hammer sounded pathetic against reinforced concrete and several inches of steel.

               "KEVIN!"

               Eventually Ernest noticed another sheet of paper taped to the wall. He ripped it down. Read it. Read it again. Kevin had written only four lines.

               Eric reached the end.

               The writer was never inside.

               There was only one person the trap had ever been built to hold.

               The reader.

               Ernest stared at the page. Then at the camera. His face changed. Not understanding. Something worse. The awareness that understanding existed somewhere nearby and he couldn't reach it.

               "What does that mean?"

               Nobody answered. Ernest looked directly into the camera.

               "What the fuck does that mean?"

               Silence.

               "KEVIN!"

               He slapped the paper against the steel door.

               "WHAT THE FUCK DOES THE ENDING MEAN?"

               The detective looked at Kevin. Kevin reached for the microphone.

               "You."

               Ernest stared into the camera.

               "What about me?"

               Kevin closed his eyes. Of course. He almost laughed. Almost. Police entered the bunker 12 minutes later. Ernest Bell surrendered only after they opened the chamber and put four guns on him.

He kept asking where Kevin was.

               Three weeks later, Kevin published again. He hadn't planned to. Amanda thought he should take a few months off. Maybe forever. Ernest Bell was being held without bail on two murder charges and enough additional offenses to ensure he'd spend most, if not all, of whatever remained of his life behind concrete walls. Kevin couldn't stop thinking about him. Not the murders. Not even the bunker. The question.

               What about me?

               For months, Kevin had thought Ernest's comments were funny because Ernest never understood endings. Now two men were dead because Ernest didn't understand something else. Humiliation. A joke. Context. The possibility that being wrong didn't mean everyone else was conspiring against you. Kevin titled his new story Read Between the Lines.

               He wrote about a writer who mocked a reader. A reader who became a killer. A killer who followed a story into a room from which he couldn't escape because he'd never understood what the story was actually telling him. Kevin changed the names. Mostly. The story ended with the writer returning home. He sat at his desk. He opened the contest website. He read the comments. The final sentence was simple.

               For the first time in his life, Kevin DeLange knew exactly what his ending meant.

               Kevin clicked Publish.

               Then he went downstairs and poured himself a drink. Amanda had gone to bed an hour earlier. The house was quiet. At 12:43am, his phone vibrated. Kevin smiled despite himself. Someone had commented. He opened the website. The smile disappeared.

               The username was ErnestBell44.

               Kevin stared at it. Ernest didn't have a phone. Ernest didn't have a computer. Ernest was sitting in a county detention facility more than 100 miles away. Kevin opened the comment.

               Great story Kevin! Really creepy!

               His mouth went dry. Another line appeared beneath it.

               One question though.

               Kevin stopped breathing. The typing indicator appeared. Three dots. Gone. Three dots again. Then the rest of the comment appeared.

               If Ernest is still locked up, who just came into Kevin's house?

               Kevin stared at the screen. For once, he didn't understand the ending. From somewhere downstairs came three slow knocks. Kevin stood. Another knock. Not at the front door. Inside the house. His phone vibrated again. A second comment had appeared.

               You always say the reader is supposed to figure it out.

               Kevin looked toward the bedroom. Toward Amanda. Then toward the dark hallway. Three more knocks. Closer this time. His phone vibrated.

               So figure it out.

               Kevin backed toward the bedroom. The floor creaked downstairs. Once. Twice. Then stopped. His phone vibrated one final time. Kevin looked down.

               Don't worry Kevin.

               If you don't understand the ending, I'll explain it to you.