The La Croix Fragments

You are a disgusting human being...

The thought just popped into his head, and Doyle wasn’t sure if he meant himself, or the old man who sat across from him.

The old man happened to be the last of a dying breed, but you wouldn’t know it by looking at him.

Doyle had been shocked when he first shook hands with the old man. Wilcox looked like he had just stepped off the set of some old Hollywood movie. Doyle could see this old man playing a kindly grandfather, or a priest hearing the confession of a dying man. Aside from a shock of closely cropped, white hair, and a few lines on his face, the years had been extremely kind to the old man.

The image hardly fit with what Doyle had had in mind. No, his initial impression of the old man had been something a little more... seedy.

Doyle may not have known the old man on sight, but he knew the man by reputation.

Wilcox fit neatly at the bottom rung of the publishing world. If you could even call Wilcox a publisher: smut peddler would be more appropriate.

A smut peddler to those last few depraved souls who hadn’t yet discovered the joys of the Internet. But Wilcox had had enough business savvy to specialize and tap into markets that even mainstream pornography generally shied away from.

That instinct had allowed the old man to survive, even as the printed world died a slow death all around him.

Doyle sipped his tea. The old man had made it himself, mumbling something about the secretary being out to lunch. Judging by the amount of unopened mail piled up by the door, however, Doyle thought that Wilcox probably hadn’t had a secretary for quite some time. Not only that, but the office looked cramped and cluttered, obviously lacking a woman’s touch.

Despite this, the office was remarkably tasteful. A few nudie pics decorated the walls, but otherwise this place appeared conservative in taste and style.

As he stared at a picture of a nude woman, kneeling in front of a horse, Doyle had to confess that—with his thinning hair, potbelly, and large glasses—he looked more the pervert than this dirty old man.

The tea tasted like piss, but he had enough survival instincts to keep his mouth shut. He also had enough sense not to upset a potential employer— especially one who could breathe some life into his flatlining bank account. Wilcox might be the bottom rung in the publishing biz, but Doyle, in his present state, was definitely a bottom feeder.

“Shall we get down to business, Mr. Doyle?” Wilcox asked. There was a trace of an accent that sounded vaguely Russian, but very clipped and refined over the years to sound generically American. “I have a proposal for you, which if profitable, could lead to future work.”

Doyle started to speak, but the old man held up his hand to silence him.

“Of course, I wouldn’t ask you to agree, until you’ve actually heard all the details.”

Doyle quickly nodded, perhaps a little too eagerly.

Don’t blow this, he thought. Keep your cool.

“Publishing is a business where one is rarely standing on solid ground,” the old man intoned. “You constantly have to keep up with the latest trends. Would you believe me if I told you this company started out publishing comic books?”

Doyle shook his head in genuine disbelief.

“Yes, comic books were very popular during the war, all our heroes fighting Hitler and the Japs, you know...”

The old man trailed off, collecting his thoughts...

“But, after the war, well colorful heroes didn’t seem quite as important, and by the time parents’ groups started to complain, my father could see the writing on the wall. When I took over the business, in the early 70s, we published exclusively girly mags, which the government or parents’ groups didn’t seem to have a problem with. In the early 80s I seized upon an opportunity to carter to, let’s say, an untapped niche market...”

Doyle let the old man indulge in this stroll down memory lane, but really was only half listening. Instead, he wondered how much this job would be pay, and wondered if the old man would advance him some money today. God, he hoped so.

The old man sighed.

“I’ve grown complacent in my old age,” Wilcox said, speaking more to himself than to his guest. “Letting things slide, and this business has changed so much that I hardly recognize it anymore— what with the internet, and whatnot.”

The old man waved a dismissive hand, at the last comment, and Doyle almost laughed.

Did Wilcox even know what the Internet was? Maybe one of his grandkids had shown him, and that had set the old man’s wheels spinning.

Wilcox opened a desk drawer, and took out three paperback books, which he laid neatly out on top of the desk.

Doyle recognized the books immediately; they were his babies after all—the only successful ones. They looked brand new, and Doyle guessed that the old man hadn’t even bothered to thumb through them.

“You write horror stories,” Wilcox said. It wasn’t a question, more of a statement of fact.

Still, the way the old man pronounced “horror” made it sound like “whore,” which was probably closer to the truth.

“Yes, I’ve had some success in the horror genre,” Doyle answered, meekly.

“Don’t be so modest Mr. Doyle,” the old man said, and then pointed to a quote above one of the book titles. “I see here that this book was a New York Times Best-Seller.”

Doyle nodded, and flashed a weary smile.

Best seller twenty years ago, Doyle thought. And there are ten more that nobody gives a shit about.

Doyle came to a sobering thought, that if it weren’t for those three books— The Chaste, Virginal Sacrifice, and Blood of the Maiden— and the cult following that came from them, he’d probably be homeless by now. But his cult was rapidly losing members with each succeeding generation, and Doyle could envision a life of living on the street lay in his near future.

Doyle sighed.

So, it’s come to this, he thought.

“I can write whatever you want,” Doyle said, quietly.

The old man burst out laughing.

“You misunderstand me, Mr. Doyle,” Wilcox said, when he had regained his composure. “I didn’t ask you here to write smut.”

“No,” Doyle said, confused.

“Of course not,” the old man chuckled. “I have loads of people who can do that for me, and more submissions come in every day.”

Now, it was Doyle’s turn to laugh. Even in a dying industry there were still hopefuls trying to break in.

“No, I’m employing you for something you are uniquely qualified for,” Wilcox said. “I want you to scare people.”

“What?” Doyle asked, surprised.

The old man avoided the question, and instead asked one of his own: “Have you ever heard of Arthur La Croix?”

Doyle racked his brain but came up blank.

“Is he a pulp writer?” Doyle asked.

“Good guess,” the old man answered. “And you are correct. Arthur La Croix was indeed a pulp writer, specifically for Weird Tales. Though, don’t feel too bad if the name is unfamiliar to you. I don’t think his work has ever been collected. And, unless you were around to read the original Weird Tales issues off the rack, you’ve probably never read anything of his, either.”

“So, you want me to edit a collection?” Doyle asked, taking a stab in the dark.

The old man looked at him, as if the idea had never occurred to him.

“Eventually, perhaps,” Wilcox finally said. “But no. I have other plans at the moment. But first a little background. Did you know that La Croix was a frequent correspondent of H. P. Lovecraft?”

“Kind of like Robert E. Howard or Robert Bloch,” Doyle offered.

The old man nodded.

“But, here’s the interesting part,” Wilcox said. “Shortly before his death, Lovecraft broke off all correspondence with La Croix. To a few close associates, Lovecraft confessed that La Croix had become strange and bizarre.”

“Too strange and bizarre for H. P. Lovecraft,” Doyle chuckled. “That’s quite an achievement.”

“Isn’t it just,” the old man answered, also chuckling slightly. “All Lovecraft would say is that La Croix was ranting and raving about creating the greatest Weird Tale ever. A tale to warp reality, itself.”

“I’m guessing he never finished that story, did he?” Doyle asked.

Wilcox shook his head, and then said: “No, after Lovecraft cut off all ties, La Croix went missing, and was never seen again. You know that old cliché. All he left behind were a few fragments, which have recently come into my possession.”

“And you want me to finish the story,” Doyle said.

The old man smiled and nodded.

“My granddaughter has set up a site on the computer, where we can promote the mystery of Arthur La Croix, and build excitement for the launch of the book.”

“Have you read any of these fragments?” Doyle asked.

The old man shrugged.

“I have,” Wilcox admitted. “They are what you would expect from a madman, jumbled and incoherent. But I really don’t have much of an imagination, so perhaps you will have better luck.”

Doyle nodded, and then said: “Sounds like fun.”

Wilcox reached into his suit pocket and pulled out a small manila envelope. He slid the envelope across the desk.

“Based on your reputation, I’ve given you a modest advance...”

The old man frowned, and then added: “It’s probably not as much as you’re used to...”

“I’m sure it’s fine,” Doyle said, quickly pocketing the envelope.

“Inside that envelope you will also find a Xerox copy of La Croix’s final work, on which to build on.”

Doyle sensed that the meeting was drawing to a close. He had sensed right, as Wilcox stood. Doyle followed his lead.

“One final thing, Mr. Doyle,” Wilcox said. “Try not to let your imagination run too wild. We do have to make this book at least palatable for public consumption.”

“Rest assured, sir,” Doyle answered, maybe cockier than he should have. “I’m not going to warp reality or anything.”