By Dean Koontz
Martin Stillwater has a brilliant mind's eye. It charms his loving spouse, delights his little daughters, and provides him the entire proposal he must write his hugely profitable secret novels. yet possibly Martin’s mind's eye is a piece too vivid… One wet afternoon, a terrifying incident makes him query his grip on truth. A stranger breaks into his condo, accusing Martin of stealing his spouse, his children—and his lifestyles. Claiming to be the true Martin Stillwater, the intruder threatens to take what's rightfully his. The police imagine he’s a figment of Martin’s mind's eye. yet Martin and his kinfolk don't have any selection yet to think the stranger’s danger. And run for his or her lives.
But at any place they go—wherever they hide—he reveals them…
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Additional info for Mr. Murder
Gradually, the landscape alters. The road veers around a nonexistent berm, then begins winding through inexplicable curves; on either side, the trees slouch; beneath their twisted boughs, the intermittent houses grow smaller and seedier. Ahead, a three-legged dog squirms through a hedge and barrels snarling toward your right front tire. A crone wearing a teensy straw hat and what appears to be a shroud glances up red-eyed from a listing porch swing. Two front yards along, a little girl costumed in dirty pink gauze and a foil crown flaps a glittery, star-headed wand over a heap of burning tires.
Before the last couple of weeks, Fred would have told you that his wife doesn’t have a fearful bone in her body. She might be just five foot two (“Why, you’re no bigger than a minute” was his grandmother’s comment when she first met Fred’s intended), but Judy has the heart of a lion, of a Viking warrior. This isn’t bullshit, or hype, or poetic license; it is the simple truth as Fred sees it, and it is the contrast between what he has always known and what he sees now that scares him the most. From Avalon he races onto Camelot, crossing the intersection without looking for traffic, going much faster than usual, almost sprinting in- 42 ■ BLACK HOUSE stead of jogging.
No, dwarf mines, dragon treasures, and magic spells are too childish, but when we drop down for a closer examination, we see that a weathered no trespassing sign stands at the beginning of the lane, proof that something is being guarded, even if it is merely privacy. Having noticed the sign, we look again at the end of the lane. In the darkness under the trees down there, one area seems murkier than the rest. Even as it shrinks back into the gloom, this area possesses an unnatural solidity that distinguishes it from the surrounding trees.
Mr. Murder by Dean Koontz