Ezekiel's Shadow

by David Ryan Long Narrated by Richard Ferrone

Overview

Acclaimed novelist David Ryan Long won the Christy Award for best first novel with this moving story about the power of faith to reshape lives. Ian Merchant is a best-selling horror writer with two problems--a wicked case of writer's block, and a stalker who haunts him. When he experiences a profound spiritual encounter, Ian emerges as a new man. But how can he atone for the sins of his past, which line bookshelves in stores across America?

Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly - Publisher's Weekly

Long's first novel offers a promising plot. Protagonist Ian Merchant, a bestselling horror writer, has writer's block, and his own life seems a horror story: he's being threatened by an unknown stalker. Seeking relief from his creative dry spell, Merchant goes to the Utah desert, where he has a life-changing experience, becomes a Christian, and is memorably baptized in a river. Returning from the trip to his home in Connecticut, he must wrestle with what it means to be made new in Christ, knowing that his identity and livelihood are wrapped up in his horror novels. Not only is he plagued with guilt about his life before he became a Christian, but he must also continue to survive the stalker. Asked by his editor to keep a journal of the mysterious stalking experiences, Merchant comes to realize that all roads led to his conversionDeven his writingDand that he is a new creation after all. While the premise is intriguing, the narrative shows several typical flaws of a first novel. Apart from Merchant, most of the characters are flat, more like caricatures than real people, and the dialogue is inconsistent. Often the plot is fuzzy, as though pertinent information has been inadvertently omitted. The stalker, for example, inexplicably saves the life of Merchant's wife; another important character goes missing midway through the novel, and readers never discover what happened to him. While Long's talent for building suspense bodes well for his future as a Christian novelist, more careful crafting would showcase it. (Feb.) Copyright 2000 Cahners Business Information.

Product Details

BN ID:	2940170029730
Publisher:	Recorded Books, LLC
Publication date:	02/15/2008
Edition description:	Unabridged

Read an Excerpt

PROLOGUE

Ian Merchant tried to write of death but found no words. Though the bookcases in his office sagged beneath the weight of his previous efforts—over a half dozen tomes devoted to darkness and terror—when he closed his eyes now he saw only the real thing, and it was nothing he wanted to put to paper. Howard Kepler had died in the worst possible way, and anything Ian wrote seemed cheap and simple compared to what his friend and mentor had suffered. Shutting down his computer, Ian scribbled a note for Rebecca, who was still at her evening class. Then he fled his house for a quick car ride into the bustle of downtown Titansburg, hoping the change of scenery might provide answers to the two fierce questions that dogged his days and dreams— How will I ever write another horror novel? And, Who am I if I can't write anymore?

Entering a quiet café at the end of Gryphon Street—too far to walk for most of the summer tourists still clogging the town—Ian ordered an iced coffee and seated himself next to a window, under a chrome lobster-pot sculpture that dangled on fishing line from the ceiling. Out of habit he pulled a note pad from his jeans pocket, but he doubted that it would be filled with words by evening's end. Or at least the right words—sentences and scenes that he could send to his editor to prove he was still Ian Merchant, horror novelist. Staring at the blank square of paper before him, the same two questions whispered through his mind, and he had to look up to keep from shuddering.

Dusk was slowly gathering. With the darkness, the café window clouded with Ian's own reflection, a face journalists had described with base poeticism ever since his first nightmare had tumbled into bookstores a dozen years ago. His brown eyes were always "brooding and grim," his jaw "set," his brow "angry." They never failed to notice the thin scar that followed the curve of his chin. Ian stared at himself now, his image growing clearer as the evening's darkness swam in off the Connecticut coast. He recognized nothing of what those reporters had seen.

Instead he saw weariness and sorrow and frustration all piled on shoulders that had never been very broad in the first place. The odd thing, though, was that he didn't feel the weight of all his concerns as deeply as in years past. They affected him, to be sure—his eyes were heavy and somber, his brown curls were snarled—but beyond those feelings was something larger, something new for which he had no words and could only think of as life. It didn't make the questions, the worries, or the grief disappear, but it did make them manageable, as though their full weight didn't land on his narrow back. In April, when he'd visited Howard Kepler in Utah and gone on a weekend hike that ended in glory and a shallow baptism, Ian had felt all strains disappear. Upon returning, though, the same blank page stared him in the face, and the same demands flowed in from Louis, his editor. Then Howard died and the worries continued to gather. Ian didn't know how much longer he could hold them off. The questions needed answers, and so far he had found nothing that resembled a solution.

Voices roused Ian from his thoughts, and in the window's reflection he saw three men pass his table, heard them whispering his name as they settled into their chairs just to his left. If one approached he'd know they were tourists; if they let him be, they were townies, content to let their local celebrity have a few moments' peace without haranguing him for an autograph. Minutes passed without any of the men returning, so Ian allowed his eyes to move from the window to his empty note pad. He picked up his pen and tried an exercise he'd used in college, writing the first word that came to his mind. Vacant. He paused for a moment, pen ready, but like every other word he'd written in the past weeks, this one refused elaboration. He tried the exercise again and once more was granted a single word. After a half dozen more tries he had a neat column of words that meant nothing and could have been a laundry list for all their significance. He was about to try just once more when a voice interrupted.

"Is this where you write all your stories?"

Ian turned. One of the men who'd passed earlier, a thick-torsoed man with buzzed salt-and-pepper hair, waited for his response. Next to him a much younger fellow with a ruddy goatee grinned across the table. The third had disappeared for the moment.

"No," Ian finally answered. "Just thought a little java might prime the pumps. An old college habit."

The first man smiled. "Prime the pumps? I thought your words never stopped."

Ian shrugged; he didn't want to say his source had gone barren. Thankfully, the third of their party—a wiry fellow with a noticeable hitch in his step—returned with his drink, and the three men went back to their conversation. Ian looked to his pad, picked up his pen, and again wrote the first thing that came to him. It was easy.

Dry. Then— I have run dry.

Not the words he wanted to see. He tore the sheet from the pad and was balling it to be thrown out when the fellow at the table nearby spoke once more.

"Mr. Merchant," he said, "we were wondering if you could help us with something." Ian turned to look at him. "It's a writing question, and we figure since you're an author, why not go to the expert?"

Ian answered two questions about point-of-view for the men after they'd introduced themselves, and while they were thinking up a third he sat back and looked at them, wondering if a more incongruous mix could ever have gathered in the name of a writers group. In a way it pleased him, because it showed their dedication, but in another way it was just plain odd. He looked from one to the other and took each in, thankful for the break from his mute pen and barren pad of paper.

On Ian's left rocked Kevin Contrade. At first Ian thought the man had a spasm, perhaps even something medical, but soon he realized it was just a habit, a quick and constant bounce of the hips that kept the man nearly always in motion. Other than that, Ian knew little. Contrade hadn't asked a question yet, hadn't volunteered any personal information, hadn't even sustained more than a few seconds' worth of eye contact.

Next to Kevin sat Jaret Chapman, who'd needed the others at the table to back his claim of being twenty-four. Not only was his face young, but his entire demeanor struck Ian as collegiate. The incessant way he stroked his goatee, the sudden bursts of conversation, even his phrasing resembled the flock of undergrads who spent their summer breaks waiting tables and tending shops throughout Titansburg as a way to be on the coast. It didn't help that Jaret had said he was a seminary student—still mired in classes, still under the educational gun.

Finally, on Ian's right was Peter Ray, who said he was the owner of a camping outfitters store a few miles away. The man looked as though he'd spent more than a few days scaling mountains and hiking vast stretches of thick forest. He was in his upper forties and his hair was graying, but his shoulders were massive and the cut of his arms shamed Ian a little. Still, his voice was gentle and his eyes and face reminded Ian of someone he couldn't place but knew he liked. He was still trying to make the connection when Jaret asked the next question.

"How important do you think it is to have an ending in mind when you write?"

Ian nodded. It was the question that supposedly divided the artists from hacks like himself, and he'd argued it at writers conferences more than a few times. Now it seemed like a quaint idea, silly even. How could he be worried about an ending when his beginning was nowhere in sight? He blinked once or twice, pushed that thought away, and answered as best he could.

"I think there's no question that if you write toward an ending you limit your story's possibility. But that's not always a bad thing. Focus, especially at first, is good. Plus, if you have a deadline looming, it helps to take the straight path rather than the long and winding one." He hoped he didn't wince as he spoke. The men seemed not to notice.

"Is that how you typically write?" asked Kevin finally.

"Typically," Ian answered, aware that nearly all his words now were tinged white with lying. He wanted the subject changed quickly, so he asked how the group had formed. Pete and Jaret both turned their heads toward Kevin, and for a fraction of a second the man stopped rocking. Just as quickly, though, he picked it up again and explained.

"On my off hours from teaching, I'm a part-time editor at the Titan," he said, then paused. "The weekly paper?"

Ian nodded.

"I get free classifieds—big whoop—and put in an ad about starting a writers group. These two answered, and here we are. Actually, one other guy called as well, some freak from South Joneston." He rolled his eyes a bit. "He told me over the phone that he was a vampire. I said, 'Unfortunately, the group is full.' But I suppose you've seen those folks once or twice in your life."

Ian nodded. He'd come across nearly everything in his years of author tours—a guy who thought he was a vampire was mild compared to some of the people who showed up.

"Who was the weirdest?" Jaret asked. The young man looked as if he wanted to be shocked.

"Well," answered Ian, thinking, "there were lots of people with their teeth filed to fangs. They always scared me. And I met a woman who somehow managed to make all her clothes out of tanned ostrich skin." A thought came to him. "The weirdest, though, was probably the guy who'd been tattooed with jaguar spots all over his body." Ian shook his head and added without thinking, "Thank goodness I'm done with all that."

The others stared at him. Kevin's rocking stalled once more, and Jaret cocked his head slightly. Ian finally realized what he said as Pete leaned forward onto one of his massive forearms and fixed Ian with his steady gray eyes.

"Done?"

The way it was said, mildly yet with great weight, and the concern in the man's eyes finally triggered recognition for Ian. Something about Peter Ray reminded him greatly of Howard Kepler. Kepler had been a tiny elf of a man, skipping across the desert like a hungry jackal, while this Pete was thick and solid, but still, each had a way of looking at Ian that made him feel exposed and understood at the same time. They saw into him—transparent as could be—yet managed to like him regardless.

"You're giving up on book signings and author tours?" Pete now asked.

Ian shook his head noncommittally. He was still trying to figure out this absurd link between a man who'd led him to the very throne of God and a second man he knew not at all. Rationally there were a number of reasons to simply ignore the similarity, but Ian knew life couldn't be lived on those terms anymore. Irrationality was the reason he'd visited Howard Kepler in the first place, and the same inexplicable urging that had led him to Utah—and then to his knees—nudged him now about Peter Ray.

"Well, I'm just not sure I want to be a horror novelist for the rest of my life."

Silence followed. Jaret's mouth parted in surprise, and Kevin resumed his bouncing with even more vigor, though he kept his head down and refused to make eye contact. Ian knew the next words would have to be his own, and he suddenly felt ludicrous sitting there, opening his life to a table of strangers. Peter Ray was not Howard Kepler. He cleared his throat and gave a thin smile.

"Of course, it could be just a literary midlife crisis—Faulkner giving up novels for a chance to pen Hollywood dialogue." The others smiled with him, and the joke seemed to break the tension. He knew he needed to get out of there before he managed to say anything else ridiculous. Standing, he apologized to the men for rambling and said he needed to get home to the wife and dog. The young fellow, Jaret, was the first on his feet, offering his hand and thanking Ian with two pumps of his arm. Kevin and Pete stood next and nodded, saying it was great to get help from a real-life writer.

Ian shook his head. "You guys are as real-life as I am. Trust me." He thought for a second and added, "It's great to see, really great. This is what it's all about."

The others laughed, and Jaret told Ian to make sure to tell his editor that the next time he saw him. Either that or set up a fund himself for wannabe writers who frequent cafés in the name of art and coffee.

Ian wheeled his Jeep Cherokee out of Titansburg and finished three miles of the quarter-hour drive home before he realized he'd been thinking about the writers group the entire time. They'd reminded him of his best days in college, when chapters flowed from him as though he were a stenographer and every week he'd have a new bundle of pages to give to a cluster of friends and English majors willing to chime in with opinions. Now, especially since Howard died, he had Rebecca and Louis and that was all. The great circle of literary friends he expected after he published his first novel never appeared, and though he had his admirers, people who'd supply a blurb or two if needed, there was no queue of folks ready to twist a phrase on his behalf or his arm to make him write.

Catching himself and the small curl of self-pity, Ian snorted and asked himself aloud what exactly he would turn over to such a gathering if it existed. He had nothing. Just this drive back home and the loneliness of waiting for his wife to return from her graduate school class. The silence that stilled his fingers and cluttered his brain every time he sat at his computer was the important thing. For years he'd written and flourished without the help of others, and he needed to know why he couldn't now.

He swung the Jeep around a sharp turn, shifted in his seat, and answered the question as simply as possible. He could no longer write of death and fear because his friend and mentor had died terribly and alone in the desert. Any fiction seemed tawdry compared to the real thing. It was the reason he'd given the few people who'd asked what was wrong, because it was the most reasonable explanation that came to him. Now he wondered how true it was. A car approached with its headlights bright, and Ian flashed the driver and then sped by into the dark. Above, a broad smile of moon shone with pewter light, warming a thin cloud that drifted before it like a lampshade. Ian's Cherokee dived down a gentle hill and when it came up the backside, the trees thinned and he was high enough to catch a glimpse of the ocean's expanse spread out to the east like some great pool of ink. Just as quickly, he was back among the trees and thinking about his problem.

Others close to him had died, and he'd never stopped writing. Diseases had pared away family members until they looked slight enough to slip their skins. Hearts seized up and vessels burst, and still he could write. Even when an old college roommate's Nova was ripped in half by a tractor trailer with failed brakes, Ian continued gunning a murderous truck driver through the pages of Semi. So if it wasn't as simple as a paralysis from Howard's death, what else was left?

Before he could even shape the slightest of answers, he pulled up to the stop at the bottom of his development, flipped on his right-turn signal, and revved his engine to make it up the sharp incline leading to his hilltop home. The road twisted twice, but soon he crested the hill and saw the long shadow of his house. Only the porch light out front still glowed, one shining sign that Rebecca had not yet returned home. He pulled into the driveway, clicked the garage door open, was glad the temperamental thing came up without a hitch, pulled in, and killed the engine. After gathering his pad and pen, he touched the remote once more, and the door began to close. As he walked through the garage, he kept one eye on the lowering door to make sure it shut fully. About two feet before it closed, Ian heard a rustle and saw a pair of legs approach and stop outside the door. He froze and stared. He saw just a glimpse of denim and a pair of brown work boots before the garage door clanged to a stop against the cement floor.

Someone is right outside, whispered a thought, and Ian flinched as if slapped.

Startled enough to get moving, he unlocked the door into the kitchen and stepped inside without another glance back. Before he managed to shut and lock the door, however, he swore he could hear three soft scratches—as though someone were clawing at the door—from across the garage. The door shut and the lock clicked into place and Ian exhaled deeply, relieved to be secured in the safety of his home.

Those soft scrapes did not soon leave his mind, however, and as he waited for Rebecca to return home he found himself imagining any number of scenarios that might lead to such noises. Most followed the progression of the old urban legends, and though the stories were intimately familiar to him, they still managed to lift a tight patch of gooseflesh when the thoughts lingered too long in his mind.

Rebecca's return was the balm to his fevered imaginings, though she noticed immediately the flash in his eyes. "Were you writing?" she asked, the hope in her voice not masked by her controlled expression.

Ian shook his head and instead launched into the events of the evening. As he spoke he followed his wife from the hall into the living room, where she dropped her class work on top of the antique sea chest that served as their coffee table. He mentioned his frustrating day talking with the writers group and then marched behind her to the kitchen, where she pulled a glass pitcher of juice from the refrigerator. He explained how Peter Ray looked like Howard and how when the garage door lowered, a pair of legs had approached the house and stood waiting outside.

Rebecca turned, as though taken by surprise, and in a low voice he told her how he heard three hushed—almost gentle—scrapes. Tsk-tsk-tsk.

She stared at him, her face composed and her head tilted so that she could watch his eyes. After a few seconds, Ian realized she was waiting.

"What?" he asked.

Her hazel eyes narrowed. "You're serious about this?"

He shook his head yes, and her cheeks lost the tiniest bit of color.

"I thought you were trying it out on me."

"Trying it out?"

"Like before," she said. "When you'd come up with something a little creepy, you'd try to work it into conversation to test my reaction."

"No. No, this all really happened. The group, the feet, the three scratches."

Rebecca made a face and said, "Well, that is creepy."

Ian wasn't surprised that Rebecca found sleep so quickly after they'd both readied themselves for bed. A full day of work and a three-hour class would be enough to tire all but the most energetic of souls. While she lay curled in an S at his side, her body moving gently with the rhythm of rest, he stared with dogged perseverance at the whirling ceiling fan above their heads. The low hum that normally soothed him into unconsciousness tonight simply droned like some great hovering insect. He could not forget those three soft scratches at the garage door. Rebecca was right—they were creepy. They were the quick rapping of Poe's raven or the hollow tapping of Stevenson's blind pirate scuttling about on the cobblestone road. To be sure they frightened him a bit, but even more they energized him. In those three quick sounds he found himself returned to a place where blood surged faster and palms began to sweat. If he'd forgotten over the past months why he'd ever written stories, he was beginning to remember once more.

He rolled over onto his side and pushed himself close to his wife, his body tracing hers until they fit like neighboring puzzle pieces. This day, which had been filled with so much frustration, was now beginning to feel right. Confidence had seeped in from the most unlikely places—some eerie sounds and the realization that he wasn't just honoring Howard's death—and Ian felt for the first time in weeks as though he might actually roll from bed tomorrow and find words to bring with him to his computer.

He draped an arm around his wife and sighed against her neck. Instinctively, she moved a sleepy arm to sweep her hair from her neck even though it had been cut short years ago. He nuzzled against her in thanks and realized the turning of the fan above his head had lost its buzz. It was now a soothing hum, and he assumed he'd be asleep in seconds. Asleep, that is, unless someone was still waiting outside the house. Still watching from the depths of night. His eyes flickered open.

It was blessing and curse, this need to feel fear.

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