Sex and Murder Magazine

By Adam J. Whitlatch


He had done it again.

Ashton Whitlock smiled down at the heavy, hardcover book clutched in his hand, caressing the glossy dust jacket lovingly. The call had come in from his editor just that afternoon: Number one on the New York Times Bestseller List. No surprise there. Night Terrors had already earned him nearly half a million dollars in advances alone, now it was time for his adoring fans to do their part and double that number. A muted beep drew his attention back to the glow of his monitor and his smile widened as he read the overly-enthusiastic congratulatory email from his agent, congratulating him on yet another sweeping success.

Yet another obligatory handjob, he thought with a pompous smirk. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you, all.

A pair of warm, pale arms slid around his neck and a spearmint-scented kiss brushed against his unshaven cheek. The smile faded from Ashton's face, his good mood doused by a bucketful of irritation. She always did have a knack for interrupting his moments of glory.

"Congratulations, Ash," Libby's saccharine southern drawl making him cringe, "Another masterpiece to your name."

Resisting the urge to wrench himself free of her cloying embrace, he smirked, "Was there ever any doubt?"

"Never," she leaned forward so her breasts brushed against his back, her drawl became suggestive, "God, I wish I had your brain."

God, he thought, repressing a small chuckle, after almost five years of marriage, she's finally learned to address me properly.

"Is that why you love me?" he asked, slowly turning to look at her, "For my brain? And here I thought you loved me for my money."

"I love them both," she laughed.

Her breath tickled against his ear, and again he had to restrain himself from pulling away. Why couldn't she just leave him to bask in the glow of his numerous successes in peace?

"Ah," he said, "I see."

Finally, her weight was removed from his back as she moved around him, hips swaying, her heels clicking on the polished hardwood floor. He looked up into her sapphire eyes just before her auburn locks cascaded down to cover one of them. His gaze traveled from the eyes to the lips painted cherry red, down to the breasts that threatened to spill out of the black lace corset which struggled valiantly to hold them in.

One last obligatory handjob for the evening, he thought with a sigh as he brushed a finger up one stocking-clad thigh, and if she's lucky, maybe more.

*****

Electricity sparked through every single nerve in Libby's body as she trembled with the force of her orgasm. Arching her back, she shuddered, and cried out his name. He did not return her enthusiasm, but merely grunted as he finished. Slowly, she slid off and snuggled up to him, hooking a leg over his knees and watching as he lit a cigarette and reached for the television remote. After a few moments of watching him blow blue smoke at the ceiling, she reached over to the nightstand for her own pack of smokes. Opening the package, she deeply inhaled the spicy clove scent; she tapped one out and reached for her lighter.

"Don't light that," his voice was cold and stern.

"What?" she said, forcing a nonchalant smile as she lit the slim, black stick, "You're allowed to smoke in bed, but I'm not?"

"You know I hate the fucking smell," he said, "They make me sneeze. Put the damned thing out."

Sighing, she took a long, single drag, savoring the flavor, and crushed the cigarette out, leaving a greasy black smear in the crystal ashtray.

"You know, Ash," she said, "I've been thinking--"

"Don't."

She blinked, frowning, "I'm sorry?"

"Don't think," he repeated, blowing out another stream of smoke, "I'm the one with the brain, remember?"

She raised an eyebrow at him and said, "Seriously, Ash."

"Okay, Libby, my dear," he said as he crushed out his spent butt and mentally prepared himself for the worst, "What were you thinking?"

She smiled wide, her pearly whites gleaming in the dim lamplight, "I've got an idea for a story."

"Story? You mean a book?" he said, "You're joking, right?"

"No, I'm serious," she said, her excitement growing with every word, "I was hoping you'd help me get it published."

He sighed, his gaze slipping away from her, and he clicked on the TV, "Libby, it's very hard to break into the writing business, even if you're good. Remember how hard it was for me to get my start?"

"I know," she said, refusing to be deterred. "But you have connections now. You know people."

"And here I thought you loved me for my brain," he muttered, flipping idly through the channels.

Grinning mischievously, she crawled back on top of him, wriggling her hips and grinding against him. If there was one thing Libby knew, it was how to get a man's attention.

"Don't you want to hear what my idea is?"

"Not really," he tried to focus on the late-night talk show on the screen, though his body was definitely paying attention to hers.

"Sure you do," her drawl thickened from the excitement, "There's this guy. And he absolutely hates mowing his yard, right? Well, a storm starts to roll in and he decides he has to get the yard mowed. So he mows it--"

"Fucking thrilling, Lib," his voice dripped copious amounts of sarcasm, "A man and his lawn mower."

"Just wait 'till you hear the best part," she said, "It turns out that there's this patch of grass in his back yard that's taller than all the rest, because his lawn mower refuses to cut it; it just... dies, or whatever. No matter what he does, this grass just refuses to be cut."

"Spellbinding," said Ashton dryly.

"Can I finish?"

"I'm all ears, dear."

"Well," she said, "The storm is growing closer and closer, and he tries everything to get rid of the grass. He even buys a new mower, but just like the old one it stalls the second the tires touch the tall patch. You with me so far?"

"Uh huh," he muttered as he began to respond to her affections, moving with her.

"Then he tries to burn the grass," she continued, her hips moving in rhythm with her words, "But the rain starts and puts the fire out. Finally he goes insane and goes to the shed for a shovel and begins to dig the patch up. All the while, he's screaming, 'What's your problem, honey? I mowed the damn lawn like you asked. What do you want from me?'"

She paused for dramatic effect, ceasing the love-making and drawing Ashton's attention to her grinning face, "And then suddenly this hand shoots out of the ground and this really creepy voice says 'You missed a spot.'"

She punctuated these last four words with four long, deep thrusts, and Ashton groaned as she finished her very enthusiastic pitch.

"You see?" she said, looking down at him through a halo of auburn hair. "He killed his wife for nagging him to mow the lawn and buried her in the back yard. So she made the grass stay tall so she could have her revenge! Isn't that a great idea for a story?"

"No," he said, shoving her brusquely off him and lighting another cigarette. "It's old. Too predictable. No one in their right mind would publish it."

Libby's bottom lip began to tremble and she bit down on it, fighting back the prickle in her eyes.

"Sorry, Lib," he said, sounding anything but. "It's shit."

She pounded her fist against his chest with a sob, grabbed her robe, and threw it around her shoulders as she ran from the room. Moments later, the bathroom door slammed and her muffled crying filtered out from under the door.

"It's shit, all right," said Ashton, taking another drag from his smoke and fixing his eyes on the television screen. "But it just needs that Ashton Whitlock panache."

*****

He had done it again.

One year later, Ashton smiled down at the shiny new novella clutched in his fingers. You Missed A Spot had already met with rave reviews, yet another Whitlock sensation. He was back at the top of the Times' Bestseller list, and that late night horror-themed cable show that all the kids watch had bought the television rights for it yesterday. He was just too goddamned good.

His celebration, however, was short-lived. The familiar sound of high heels clicking on hardwood, no longer slow and sensuous, but fast and deliberate, sounded through the house on a direct course for his office. He didn't even bother to look up as she slammed yet another copy of You Missed A Spot onto his desk.

"You son of a bitch," she said, her voice dripping with venom.

His expression was the epitome of innocence, "Why, darling, whatever do you mean?"

"That was my idea," she said, pointing at the offending book, "And you stole it!"

"I don't know what you're talking about," he said.

"Like hell," she spat, "You told me it was shit, and then turned around and published it behind my back."

"Well," he shrugged. "It was shit. And if you had written it, it still would have been shit, but now it's another Ashton Whitlock masterpiece. You should be flattered."

"You bastard," she snarled, slapping him hard across the face, the rings on her fingers drawing blood.

"You bitch," he growled, wiping away the drop of blood dripping from the corner of his mouth, but Libby was already gone from the room.

He stormed out of his office into the kitchen just in time to see Libby enter the room, clutching her purse and jingling her keys between her fingers.

"Just where do you think you're going?" he snarled, his eyes narrowing with rage.

"To my mother's," she said, "I'm getting an attorney, and I'm getting a divorce, and then I'm going to sue you to Hell and back, you backstabbing piece of shit."

"You are going to sue me?" he laughed, a cruel sound. "You can barely tie your own shoes, you stupid, bimbo bitch! And you think you're going to sue me?"

"Watch me," she said bitterly. "Let's see just how much your adoring fans love you when they finally know the truth: That you're nothing but a no-talent idea thief!"

The familiar click-clack of her high heels retreated down the hallway to the garage. He opened the junk drawer and his fingers wrapped around the handle of the hammer stored there. He turned the tool over in his hand for a moment, hefting the weight, before stalking after his wife. Moments later, her blood-curdling shriek rang out through the entire house, but was silenced by the sickening, wet thunk of the hammer striking her skull.

"Bitch," he screamed as the hammer fell a second time for good measure. "No one fucks with Ashton Whitlock. Nobody!"

The adrenaline faded, leaving only panic in its wake. He stared at the bloody hammer protruding from her bleeding head. What would he do? How would he get rid of her? A grin spread across his face. He would take a page out of her-no-his book. He crossed the darkened garage and tore the cover off of his Jaguar, spreading it out on the ground next to his still and bleeding wife. He paused only a moment to look longingly at the body before rolling her unceremoniously onto the cloth. God, how he would miss those legs.

He grunted, his back threatening to give out, as he lifted the bloody bundle into the back of her Jeep. He rooted through the spilled purse lying on the floor before pulling out her keys and tossing the purse into the back with the corpse. He then went to the wall and carefully selected a shovel from the rack hanging there, and tossed it in the back along with the rest. He pulled the Jeep out of the garage and drove toward the thick timber behind the mansion.

It was there, in the timber, where he buried her body, amidst a small copse of trees. He kicked her wrapped body into the shallow hole he dug for her. The uncaring bastard never even bothered to remove the hammer from her skull. He took meticulous care, however, in covering the grave with plenty of leaves and sticks from the forest floor. When he had finished, he stepped back and admired his handiwork.

Perfect, he thought. No one will ever find it.

The hard labor out of the way, he drove her Jeep a mile down the lane to his private fishing pond and smiled as he sunk the Jeep slowly to the bottom of the muddy pond, the shovel safely jammed under the seats.

"Nobody fucks with Ashton Whitlock," he said to himself as the last bubbles broke the surface of the water. "Nobody."

The walk back to the mansion was a long one, so he practiced his speech for the police and his mother-in-law to pass the time: "Why, hello, Mrs. Estep. No, I haven't seen Libby lately. She said she was going to visit you. She never arrived? Oh, dear. I hope nothing happened to her." "Gee, officer, do you suppose someone might have kidnapped her knowing she's my wife? Why, no, I haven't received a ransom note. No, I can't think of anyone who might have a grudge against me."

He laughed, making sure to get it out of his system now before the final curtain call. It simply wouldn't do to start giggling when the police came looking for little Libby Whitlock.

When he arrived back at the house, he fixed himself a nice, stiff drink and passed out in front of the fire, mumbling to himself, "Nobody fucks with Ashton Whitlock. Nobody."

*****

It was a media sensation, the murder of a bestselling author's beloved wife. No suspects. No leads for an entire year. It was a tragedy. And oh, how tragedy sold. The grieving widower, tearfully remembering his darling Libby, was better for book sales then all the promotions in the world. Ashton was completely devastated by Libby's disappearance, or at least he was whenever anyone else was around.

It really was a shame that his wife never got to see just how successful her story was. Earlier that day, the DVD of You Missed A Spot's television adaptation had arrived by messenger.

After a large, fattening supper, he popped the disc into the DVD player in his bedroom and, with a large glass of bourbon cradled between his fingers, settled onto the bed to watch his late wife's brainchild unfold on the screen. He'd barely made it to the scene where Frank, the protagonist, began to go mad from his repeated attempts to cut the tall grass, when he fell asleep. The empty tumbler fell from his limp fingers onto the plush bedroom carpet, and his snores echoed through the house.

He never heard the garage door open downstairs, or the steady click-clack of heels on hardwood.

*****

Ashton Whitlock dreamed.

He dreamed of Libby, and those damned clove cigarettes of hers. He dreamed that they were making love, and that nothing had ever happened. There was no book, no television show, no murder. There was only Libby, and that fan-fucking-tastic body of hers. In the past year he'd had plenty of ass, some free, and some he had to pay for, but none of them had measured up to Libby.

The smell of clove cigarettes invaded his nostrils once again and he felt the tickle. The sneeze was inevitable and he knew it. Finally, he let it go and jumped as he jolted back to consciousness. He looked around the room, disoriented for a moment by the darkness. The room had been softly lit in his dream. And Libby had been there, fucking him senseless.

He tried to roll out of bed for another glass of bourbon, but felt himself weighed down at the waist. Then he noticed it. The movement. The wetness. And the smell.

It had been so strong in his dream he almost hadn't noticed it at first after waking, but now it was overpowering. The stench of clove cigarettes assailed his nostrils, tickling them, and threatening to make him sneeze again. But below that was something fouler, something...damp.

He reached over and switched on the bedside lamp. When the light filled the room he jerked so hard that he banged his head on the headboard. For a moment he just stared, unable to breathe. On top of him, riding him with her head thrown back in the ecstasy of love-making, was Libby.

Her clothes were dirt-crusted and tattered, her skin was ashen and ragged, and her hair was matted and damp with mold.

The comprehension of what he was seeing struck him. He gasped, and with that gasp he inhaled two heaping lungfuls of clove cigarette smoke. He sneezed. Suddenly, the ghastly apparition straddling him became deathly still.

A voice, raspy from the earth of the grave, but still retaining its familiar, southern drawl said, "Bless you, darlin'."

Ashton's breath came in ragged gasps. He tried to back away from the undead horror sitting on top of him, but was unable to shake her off. She leaned forward into the light, showing her face for the first time, and he struggled to force down the bile rising in his throat. One cloudy blue eye stared back at him, but the empty socket next to it crawled with writhing maggots. The lamp light glinted off of something on the side of her head, and Ashton whimpered as he recognized it was the hammer. The same hammer he had used to kill her one year before.

"What's the matter, darlin'?" she asked in her raspy, earthen voice, "Aren't you going to wish me a happy deathday?"

"Oh, my God," he shrieked, covering his eyes, "I'm sorry, Libby. I'm sorry I did it. I'm sorry I stole your book. Please, Libby!"

"Oh, Ash," she said, very sweetly. "But you were right. The story was shit."

"Huh?"

She leaned forward, resting her elbows on his chest, and he could see how loosely her bottom lip hung from her jaw as she spoke, "This story is so much better. I never would have thought of using the hammer."

His scream froze in his throat and he became a prisoner in his own body as he watched his dead wife reach up and wrench the hammer from the hole in her skull. He sobbed uncontrollably as she turned the tool slowly in her hand and smiled.

"It's been a long year, Ash," she said, "and I'm so hungry."

His sobs turned to incoherent grunts of panic as he tried desperately to free himself from her unnatural hold.

She leaned in close to him and whispered in his ear, her breath reeking of earth and cloves, "I wish I had your brain."

Ashton Whitlock's blood-curdling shriek rang out through the entire house, but was silenced by the sickening, wet thunk of the hammer striking his skull.











































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