The doctor is standing off to one side, his left hand covering his mouth, his right clutching his chest as if to keep his heart in.

An old woman is lying across the bed in a dead faint, her grey wisps of hair mingled with the blood from my wife's legs.

My wife is lying there, throat muscles straining, mouth open in a long soundless scream which refuses to come, her gaze fixed on the shape writhing on the carpet, ignoring the blood flowing from her, ignoring the woman across her legs, all else immaterial to her pain at the sight of our child. And there on the floor lies our future, burning golden in the first rays of the sun, being cleansed in the purifying light of the new day, my son.

The last thing I see before darkness takes me away for a long time is the face, the small wizened features and the age-old eyes, the red mouth which squeals at me as I bring my foot down, hard, and all the members of my family scream in unison.

DO YOU KNOW ME YET?.

By Scott Nicholson.

It all started with a story. You know the one I mean, don't you, Doctor?

Of course you do. You know everything. You smile and nod and write down little words on your paper and then go home at the end of the day, safe in the knowledge that I'm the crazy one and you're normal.

But let me tell you something. These walls work both ways. They not only keep people in, they keep you "normal" people out. Except you have a key, don't you? You can come and go anytime you want. Just like my ideas. They come and go anytime I want.

I know what you just wrote. "Episodic paranoia?" With a question mark. Where's your smile now, doctor? Try to hide it under that bald head of yours, it won't do any good. I can read thoughts. That's why I'm here. That's why they put me here.

Except they're the crazy ones. See, they can read thoughts, too. Only they do it better than me. And the world calls them "leading lights" and "visionaries," the critics rave about how they "stare unflinchingly into the darkness." The editors fight over them, make fools of themselves in their rush to outbid each other. Agents snap like sharks in a b.l.o.o.d.y sea, hoping to get a piece.

Sorry. I'm getting angry, and my last doctor told me that getting angry is not the path to healing. And I want to be cured. I really do. I want to get outside again. They won't let me have any pencils or pens or other sharp objects, and it's really hard to write novels with crayons. Plus editors won't look at handwritten ma.n.u.scripts.

Tell about how it started? Again? How many years did you go to school to earn a piece of paper that empowers you to judge me? Ten years of college, just like I thought. Seems like you'd need a good memory to get through all those cla.s.ses.

But I'll do it. Because I'm a storyteller, and you're the audience. Even if I can read your thoughts and know that you don't believe a word of what I say. At least you're honest, and by that, I mean you don't lie to my face. Not like them.

It started way back then, with my story about the girl with psychokinesis. You don't believe in psychokinesis. But that's okay. It's not what you believe that matters. It's what I believe, and what I know.

I wrote that story in the early 1970's. Well, actually, I didn't get to write it. But I thought about it almost every day for two years. This girl is in high school, see, and all her cla.s.smates pick on her because she's so weird. Her mom's a religious zealot, and the girl doesn't have anybody to turn to when her mental powers start developing. PK always comes on with adolescence, see?

I never figured out how it was going to end, but I really was going to start writing. I bought a Royal typewriter and a bunch of paper. You can look it up, it's all in that civil suit I brought against that creep who stole my story. I can't mention his name, because of legal reasons, but one day the truth will come out.

So anyway, imagine my anger when that story came out as a bestseller in paperback, movie rights sold, and that low-down dirty thief quit his day job and became an overnight success. Sure, his agent put this spin on later, about how the guy wrote six hours a day for fifteen years, about how he'd been submitting stories since he was twelve or so, and that he'd been publishing short stories in naughty magazines. But you know the lengths they go to when they have to cover their tracks. And everybody knows they got the millions. Millions that should be mine.

Ah, you just crossed out the question mark, didn't you? "Episodic paranoia." No doubt about it, in your mind. You're smug, Doctor. As smug as they are. Everybody's right, and I'm wrong.

Go on? Sure, I'll go on. See, I'm controlling my temper. Just like the last doctor told me to do. And you're thinking that if you let me talk, I'll calm down and you can be done with me in time for your five o'clock martini. See me smile.

Back before I was a writer, when I was just a kid, I had this other idea. About a woman who has the Devil's baby. When the book came out about that one, I just figured it was a coincidence. But then when that guy stole my idea about the little girl who gets possessed by Satan and a Catholic priest tries to save her, I decided I'd better become a writer, too. I figured that if my ideas were so good that other people wanted to steal them, I'd better write them myself. That's when I came up with the psychokinesis idea.

Have I ever written anything? Sure, I have. I get a good sentence or two down, and then I stare at the paper. It's called "writer's block," and only creative people get it. That's why you breeze right through those papers you submit to the trade journals. That's the reason all these other writers are so prolific. It's easy when somebody else is doing your thinking for you.

Well, I decided I'd hurry through my next couple of books before somebody could steal my ideas. Except that one guy types faster than I do. So he beat me to the one about the virus that wipes out most of the world so G.o.d and the Devil can fight over the survivors, and he beat me to the one about the haunted hotel. And get this...

Whenever I got writer's block, do you know what I used to type? "All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy." And you-know-who steals it and everybody thinks it's the most clever thing to ever grace a page. And they call me crazy.

His best trick was when he "released" all these books that he'd supposedly written before he got famous. I had all of those ideas in one night, right after the PK book came out. You know, the walking race where only the winner survives, the same idea again except this time it's set in the future and the compet.i.tors are paid to run for their lives, one where a man blows up stuff because he doesn't like progress, and one where a kid shoots up his high school. That last one was so dumb I didn't think anybody would steal it. But you-know-who types a lot faster than he thinks, so he'd probably mailed it to his publisher before he realized what it was about.

And he was clever, because he knew I was on to him. He even came up with a pen name for those books so that I would have to sue him twice. I guess he figured I couldn't afford lawyers' fees. I was just a poor writer, see? Never mind that I'd never actually published anything.

It was bad enough when only a few people were picking my brain. Once in a while, I could feel them, up there in my skull, tiptoeing around and fighting each other for the best ideas. But then people across the ocean got into the act. People in England and some people who couldn't even speak English. That's what I call power, when your ideas are so universal that they cross lingual and cultural barriers. But my head was getting crowded.

Ah, you just crossed out a word. Now it's just "paranoia." And you're about to write "delusions of grandeur." Why do they let you have a pencil and not me?

We both know why, don't we? Because then I would write down my ideas before they could steal them. The hospital's in on it, too. Yes, you can smile about it, like you've got a secret. But we both know better.

Let's see, where were we? Because you are my audience and I don't want to lose you.

Oh, yes. My idea about a bunch of old men who had fallen in love with a ghost a long time ago. A different writer got that one. But instead of getting mad, I became more determined than ever. I quit my job and did nothing but think all the time, getting wonderful ideas one after another. Psychic vampires, sympathetic vampires who are more romantic than scary, a killer clown that's really a UFO buried under the ground, a puzzle box that opens another dimension, giant rats that live in the sewer system, paranormal investigators who discover a haunted town, a child that's really the Antichrist, so many ideas I could hardly keep track.

Everyone was stealing from me. Even writers who could barely make out a shopping list. Only the critics called it the "horror boom," and you couldn't pa.s.s the paperback rack in the supermarket without an army of foil-covered monsters grinning out at you. My monsters. Some I wasn't too proud of, but they're like children. You still have to love them, even the dumb and ugly ones.

I just kept getting ideas, and they kept stealing them. They got richer while I got madder. And I mean "mad" in the real way, not in the crazy way. But the maddest I ever got was when that British writer pulled a satire on me.

See, he wrote this story you may have read. Called it "Next Time You'll Know Me. " I know the story, and I've never even read it. Because I met him at a convention, and as I was shaking his hand, I was thinking that I hoped he didn't steal any of my ideas, because then I'd have to get him, and he seemed like such a nice man.

Of course, I'd never get him in real life, because only crazy people do things like that. But he looked at me, and he had a twinkle in his eye, and he started writing the story right there in his head. My story! About how a psycho thinks writers are stealing his ideas. I was going to say something, to claim copyright infringement, but the next woman in line pushed me away so she could shake the famous writer's hand.

Ever wonder where ideas come from? No, I suppose not. You don't have very much imagination. I guess you can't afford to, in your line of work.

Well, see, I wondered about where ideas came from, after that British writer made me so mad. And it took me years of thinking about it before I realized that ideas came from me. So I made myself stop getting them, so the other writers couldn't steal them.

Of course, some great ideas still slip out once in a while. I can't shut down such a wondrous force all the time. So you-know-who manages to steal two or three per year, and a few others are still getting their share. But the "horror boom" faded, and if you'll notice, publishers are avoiding horror books right now because I stopped letting my good ideas loose.

Shutting down wasn't easy for a writer like me, who loves ideas more than the actual writing. It was hard work, and gave me a headache. That, and the stress of all those lawsuits I filed against the thieves. That's why I did all those bad things that put me behind these walls. Or in front of them, depending on how you look at it.

Why is it I only had ideas for horror stories? Leave it to a shrink to ask something like that. Oh, you'll really going to have a field day with that, aren't you? Well, ideas just come, and you can't do anything about them. Unless you're me.

I know you're going to look in your diagnostic manual tonight and come up with some long explanation of why you think I'm crazy. Except you don't call it "crazy," do you? These are kinder, gentler times. You have to call it a "behavioral disorder."

I don't care what label you attach to me. I don't believe in psychology. I don't believe in insanity. I don't believe in shrinks.

Oh, you're offended? Well, let me fill you in on a little secret, because you're not as good at reading minds as your predecessor. Did the hospital tell you why he resigned? Of course not. All you shrinks keep your secrets, even from each other.

Well, I'll tell you why he left. We were sitting here, just like you and I are doing, and I was telling him my story. And all of a sudden I got this great idea for a novel. It just slipped out before I even realized what I was thinking about. And it's a doozy. I may as well tell you about it, because it's too late for you to steal it. Plus, no offense, but I don't think you have what it takes to be a real writer like me.

Okay, the idea. This guy is in the psychiatric ward because he thinks people are stealing his ideas. Only n.o.body believes him, and they all think he's crazy. So he escapes, and goes out to get revenge on all the writers who have made millions off of his ideas. Only when he gets out in the real world, he finds out that he's really just an idea, that he doesn't even exist at all. So it's like he's a ghost, which makes it real easy to get to these famous writers.

But the hero is smart, he doesn't kill them or anything. That would be too easy. And they would be famous forever, and readers and critics would never know the lie behind the success stories. So the hero gives the writers bad ideas, sneaks in at night and alters their ma.n.u.scripts, gives them a mild enough case of writer's block that they get desperate. I thought about calling the book "Desperation," but that one guy is so good he steals my t.i.tles before I even come up with them.

Pretty good idea, huh? Well, the doctor s.n.a.t.c.hed it right out of my head, and if you pick up the latest "Publisher's Weekly," you'll see that he just got a six-figure advance on an outline and sample chapter. It can happen to anybody, if you get a good idea. If you steal them from me.

See how well I'm controlling my anger? I'll bet you wouldn't be so calm, if you were in my shoes. But I'm used to it by now. I'm the idea man. I could almost be happy with that, and accept my place in the literary landscape. But the thing that bugs me the most is that n.o.body else knows. I'm not getting any credit.

And there's one more thing. I'm a writer. And some day I'm going to get around to actually writing. One day soon, you're going to let me have a pencil and some paper, maybe even a typewriter after I prove I'm not a threat to myself or others.

And I will write down my ideas, all the ones I kept locked away all these years. I have a lot of them. I'm going to be rich. n.o.body thinks you're crazy when you're rich, even if you're a horror writer.

And after I'm cured, when you think about what I've said and realize I'm right, you're going to rubber-stamp my papers and I will be on the outside again. I know, I said a while ago that walls work both ways, but that was crazy talk, and you can see that I'm no longer crazy. You are such a good doctor that you are curing me. I'm feeling much better.

No, if I get out, I certainly won't go after all those writers who got rich off of my ideas. That would be acting paranoid. Anyway, I'll be too busy writing down my new ideas, which will be much better than the old ones. In fact, the readers will forget about all those other writers.

So that will be my only revenge. I'll knock them off the bestseller lists. And I'll let them have only my worst ideas. I'll make millions, and the critics will eat those "ooh-la-lahs" alive.

Oh, I may do one more thing. After you let me out, I'm going to fly to the Merseyside. I'm going to hunt down that writer who satired me. I'm not going to stalk him or anything, and I won't be carrying any sharp objects, except maybe a writing pen.

Maybe I'll come up to him in a grocery store, or at a bus stop, or in a dark pub. I'll look him in the eye and see if it twinkles. I'll say, "Do you know me yet?"

And I'll wait for him to ask for my autograph.

See me smile.

About The Author.

I have written 12 novels, including Disintegration, As I Die Lying, The Red Church, Speed Dating with the Dead, Forever Never Ends, and The Skull Ring.

Other electronic works include Burial to Follow and the story collections Ashes, The First, Murdermouth, Gateway Drug, Curtains: Mystery Stories, and Flowers. I live in the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina, where I write for a newspaper, play guitar, raise an organic garden, and work as a freelance fiction editor. I've also written the October Girls paranormal romance series and Cursed! with J.R. Rain.

Come to the Haunted Computer, become a Spooky Microchip, and help me build my next book. You'll also find writing tips, free fiction, and survival tips.

Talk to me at , "hauntedcomputer" on Twitter, or at hauntedcomputer.com. If you enjoyed this book, please tell your friends and give another Nicholson t.i.tle a try. If you hated it, why not try another one anyway? What doesn't kill you only makes you stronger, and what does kill you is probably lurking in my next book. Read on for more.

William Meikle is the bestselling author of Invasion, The Valley, and a number of other novels, novellas, and story collections. A native of Scotland, he currently lives in Canada. Learn about his other books.

John Everson is the bestselling author of Covenant, Sacrifice, The 13th, and The Siren, as well as numerous short stories. Learn more about his other books .

The Writing Life.

By Scott Nicholson.

http://www.hauntedcomputer.com/.

If you read too many writing blogs, you might get the impression that writers sit around in coffee shops all day discussing "Bird By Bird" and the hermeneutic elements inherent in Wolfe's Look Homeward Angel.

I don't know how other writers do it, but I'm working by the seat of my pants. b.u.t.t in chair. Stealing moments that are probably better spent on family and community. But I reconcile it with the notion that I am sharing ideas that help us learn about the worlda"sometimes the message isn't pretty, but we're here to survive, not look good.

So as I sit here in my little in the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina, 12 miles from the nearest gas station, I can tell you what you support when you buy my books, and why I don't "need" your money.

The two biggest purchases I've made in the past year are a beat-up 1985 pickup and a chainsaw. Sure, I've made a little extra money on books this year, but I paid down on the house and I gave a little away. I don't really like money that much. The universe always delivers when an expense arises, almost in perfect concert with the need. In 1998 my son needed braces. At the same time, I won a big crash prize in the international Writers of the Future contest. My daughter will need braces next year. Disintegration became an e-book bestseller. Who can argue with the synchronicity of such things?

What do I do when I am not writing? I cut firewood. I tend my organic garden. I save seeds, which is more than just a blooming sideline businessa"I have a mission of preserving rarer strains, particularly a few Cherokee varieties indigenous to the area that moved West on the Trail of Tears during the forced displacement of the tribe. I take care of my chickens. I don't kill them, though I eat their eggs, but I feel that's a fair trade for protecting them for all those beasties out there who like things that taste like chicken.

I work as a newspaper reporter and have won press a.s.sociation awards. I have a reputation of being fair and accurate. I respect the people I write about, even when I disagree with their positions. I go to lots of different churches but I am a small-T taoist. I'm a small-L libertarian, but my political and moral philosophy falls under what I call "compa.s.sionate self-reliance"a"take care of yourself but do just a little extra for the next guy who might not be so fortunate.

When you buy my books, you're doing more than just trading me money for my time and ideas and talent. You are investing in this approach. If I were whoring and doping and investing in polluting industry, I'd be ashamed to ask for your support. I am not arrogant or smug about it, but I try to do good wherever I go, as best I can.

Sure, sometimes I fall prey to ego or desire or fear. And when I do, it usually goes right into a story and flushes itself out. And I write the next sentence and turn the next page. I don't know anything about the "writing life." This is the only life I know.

OTHER BOOKS BY SCOTT NICHOLSON:.

Disintegration.

Speed Dating with the Dead.

The Red Church Drummer Boy.

As I Die Lying Forever Never Ends Burial to Follow.

Cursed! (with J.R. Rain) Flowers.

Ashes The First.

Curtains: Mystery Stories Murdermouth: Zombie Bits.

Gateway Drug Transparent Lovers.

Creative Spirit Troubled.

Solom.

The Gorge.

October Girls (as L.C. Glazebrook).

Try these other thrillers by Scott Nicholson:.

THE RED CHURCH.