I can see your lies, p.1
I Can See Your Lies, page 1
Contents
Act 1: Los Angeles
Saturday
Thursday
Friday
Saturday (Part two)
Saturday (Part Three)
Act 2: Arch Cape
Sunday
Monday
Tuesday
Wednesday
Act 3
Thursday
Malibu
Saturday
Acknowledgments
About the Author
About the
Dark Hart Collection
The Dark Hart Collection is a line of novels and novellas curated by me, Sadie Hartmann, aka “Mother Horror,” for Dark Matter INK. These stories map new territories in the ever-evolving landscape of the horror genre. I invite you to escape into books written by authors who blur the lines between multiple genres, and who explore the depth and breadth of dark hearts everywhere.
Sincerely,
Sadie Hartmann
Curator, The Dark Hart Collection
Praise for I Can See Your Lies
“Intimate, twisty, and compelling. I Can See Your Lies is an excellent showcase for the horror writer-director’s prose storytelling chops. Izzy Lee is here to stay.”
—Christopher Golden, New York Times bestselling author of Road of Bones and All Hallows
“Arresting, cinematic, smart. A mist advances across this book, born of its warmth and frost. The freaky past informs the present, just as the unnerving present unearths the past. Hollywood opprobrium, familial enigmas, twists and turns and truth. Steel yourself: Izzy Lee will thrill you apart.”
—Josh Malerman, New York Times bestselling author of Bird Box and Incidents Around the House
“Fast. Sharp. Mysterious. Haunting. Nightmarish. This is one hell of a debut from a very talented storyteller, with a cinematic eye. Lee delivers.”
—Gabino Iglesias, author of Shirley Jackson and Bram Stoker award-winning novel, The Devil Takes you Home
“Izzy Lee offers us all front-row seats to a particularly haunted Hollywood, where celluloid ghosts forever walk down the red carpet of their own blood and former glory.”
—Clay McLeod Chapman, author of Ghost Eaters and The Remaking
“Fearless writing meets electric, imaginative storytelling in Izzy Lee’s I Can See Your Lies. This short, chilling novella establishes Lee as an exciting and vital voice in contemporary horror fiction.”
—Eric LaRocca, New York Times bestselling author of Things Have Gotten Worse Since We Last Spoke
“I Can See Your Lies is as captivating as it is unsettling. A cerebral supernatural thriller starring the glittering darkness of Hollywood. Izzy Lee will make you question what is past and what is present.”
—Cynthia Pelayo, Bram Stoker Award winning author of Crime Scene
“Fiercely imaginative, dripping with Hollywood ooze, this is a biting tale about lies, weaponized deceit, and a woman’s role in both the home and the heart, where Tinseltown is as sordid as the visions Fin sees on the faces of those around her. Assured and moving. Lee is one to watch.”
—Gemma Amor, Bram Stoker and British Fantasy Award nominated author of Full Immersion and Dear Laura
“I Can See Your Lies is wonderful fun, a spooky good debut from an author on their way up. The sky is the limit for Izzy Lee.”
—C. S. Humble, author of The Light of a Black Star
“A Lynchian horror-thriller that boils hot just before an explosive third act, and it might be my favorite read of the year. I Can See Your Lies will leave your brain scattered.”
—Tim Meyer, author of The Switch House and Malignant Summer
“An unsettling and unpredictable novella, I Can See Your Lies mixes the paranormal with the trauma of family history and the darkness of Hollywood. Lee’s story of a complicated female protagonist will take more twists than you’ll ever see coming. A must-read for die-hard horror fans, this book will leave you wondering about humanity’s hidden darkness.”
—Brea Grant, director of Torn Hearts and 12 Hour Shift
“Izzy Lee’s novella, I Can See Your Lies, is a fantastic debut! Lee showcases her signature furiosity while also demonstrating she can sustain both her passion and our captivation over a farther-reaching tale. Like her film work, the only thing I Can See Your Lies leave me wanting is more Izzy Lee!”
—Bracken MacLeod, Shirley Jackson Award nominated author of Closing Costs and 13 Views of the Suicide Woods
“Izzy Lee has swiftly established herself as a powerful and progressive voice in film, and now turns her blazing bright eye for story to the page. Her debut novella grabs the reader from the first page, pulling them into a tale of self-discovery and multi-generational trauma. With flavors of true crime and the supernatural woven within, I Can See Your Lies is a genre-bending blast that’s sure to please.”
—Laurel Hightower, author of Crossroads and Below
“Acclaimed filmmaker Izzy Lee brings her prodigious storytelling skills to the page with her debut novella, I Can See Your Lies, an incisive, supernatural tale of inherited trauma and everyday aggressions.”
—Joshua Chaplinsky, author of Letters to the Purple Satin Killer and Kanye West—Reanimator
“A beautifully blended deep dive of supernatural noir, where you suspect everyone and you’re still wrong. I Can See Your Lies examines old-Hollywood behaviors with new standards, and races toward the twisted outcome.”
—Kelli Owen, author of The Headless Boy and the Wilted Lilies series
“I can see it on your face. You’re going to love this book. I Can See Your Lies delves into a power none of us truly wish to possess. When you can see the truth, everything changes, even the pieces you didn’t think would be affected. Izzy Lee explores this horror, alongside family relationships, guilt, trauma, and grief. A fast-paced ride straight into hell, I Can See Your Lies will lead you to the truth and leave you questioning everything you thought you knew. Highly recommended.”
—James Sabata, author of Caduceus
“Award-winning filmmaker Izzy Lee has written her first horror novella, and boy, what an extraordinary and vivid tale it is. I Can See Your Lies is an engrossing, ingenious, and gripping story that I devoured in one sitting. If you love ghost stories, tales of revenge, and the gradual reveal of family secrets, coupled with possession of a supernatural power that can certainly be a poisoned chalice at times, then this one is for you. Highly recommended.”
—Barbie Wilde, actress (Hellbound: Hellraiser II; Death Wish 3) and author of The Venus Complex, Voices of the Damned
Content Warnings
Murder, Violence, Domestic Abuse
Reader discretion is advised.
Copyright © 2024 Izzy Lee
This book is a work of fiction. Any reference to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s or artist’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without the prior written permission of the copyright owner, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Edited by Rob Carroll
Book Design and Layout by Rob Carroll
Cover Art and Design by Olly Jeavons
ISBN 978-1-958598-28-3 (paperback)
ISBN 978-1-958598-63-4 (eBook)
darkmatter-ink.com
A NOVELLA BY IZZY LEE
For Steve, my cosmic love. For all time. Always.
Act 1: Los Angeles
Saturday
The scarlet pool expanded over the rug, widening, consuming. The cream-colored shag carpet drank up the red liquid in a furious fit of greed, and Fin’s horror and the ratcheting anxiety that screeched within her cells never abated. The feelings were as intense as the first time she saw the puddle of blood.
No, she corrected herself. She was more terrified than ever.
I’ve never seen the vision while awake.
Today, that changed. Her somewhat ordinary nightmare (if that was a thing) broke through into her waking life, transforming her plate of rotini and sauce into a breathtaking cause for alarm. Lunch had transformed itself into blood and carpet.
Fin swallowed, staring up at the table from where she had toppled off her chair.
Was it still there? Could she trust herself? She slowly crawled back onto her haunches until the edge of the plate appeared, towering over her on the high-top table.
It’s only lunch, you silly bitch, came the words in her head, and immediately cringed at the harsh voice. But if it were only lunch, why was she so freaked out? Fin shivered. The fact was, she knew damn well that the food in question was much more than a typical meal.
The same image had flashed in her dreams for years. It wasn’t every night, or even every week, but Fin saw it more than enough, beginning when she turned the vulnerable age of thirteen. Maybe her mind finally had enough of the strange vision, which was altogether quite different and far scarier than the bubbles. Maybe she’d fractured. She could call someone. She should call someone. But what would they do with her? They’d lock her up, put her on a regimen of medication so heavy-duty that she’d never see the vision again.
&nb
The pills came in benign shapes and happy pastel colors, but none of them helped. All this for telling the truth about what she saw—mostly for those damned black bubbles appearing on the face of anyone who lied to her. Sometimes, like now, the visions were far more horrifying. As a consequence for speaking up—for the mere crime of asking for help—she got help, but it wasn’t the kind of help she needed or wanted. Months of her life had fallen into the void, and she was in no way eager to return to that particular trauma. Non-trauma? A bad hand she’d been dealt? What was trauma anyway, in this case?
Her mind skipped back in time to her father. The image of his handsome, cold face, when he decided to surrender her to the mental hospital, was one she’d never forget—like this puddle of blood. Worse, he had someone else deliver her to the ward. He even had the gall to say out loud that he was a high-profile actor and couldn’t be seen doing that, so he’d ordered his beleaguered personal assistant to do it. Aided by two hulking security guards, the three of them, these virtual strangers, had handed her over to Hell.
Beyond the monotonous, eggshell-hued walls, she recalled the echoes of her screams and struggles—but not much else. As hard as she tried, the holes in her memory allowed her to see no further into her imprisonment. No, she hadn’t been in jail, but she’d been forcibly put away against her will. Drugged. Locked and filed away for social adjustment. Postponed.
She couldn’t help but wonder if anyone, an orderly or doctor, had taken advantage of her while she’d been in that kind of state. Unfortunately, this kind of atrocity had been committed against women far too often. It was less common in modern times, but she was smart enough to know that villains gravitated towards professions where they could prey on the vulnerable. Hell, I’ve lived it. Her body would remember, even if her mind built a fortress from knowing such harsh truths. She might never know if she was violated and how many times, and that right there was a pretty good reason to never let anyone tinker with her brain again. A chill washed over her, cooling her flesh and dotting it with goosebumps.
Like many, many women who had come before her (too many, most of us), Fin had learned that speaking truth to power (or speaking about anything deemed unpleasant at all) often resulted in punishment. Whether that meant derision, outright abuse, or getting locked away until she learned better, it all really meant one thing: shut up. Be silent, be quiet, do not disturb us, go away, we don’t want to deal with your inconvenient experience. We have no need for it, just shut the hell up and look pretty, serve us, that’s the only thing you’re good at in our minds, and if you challenge us, you’re going to fucking regret it, girl.
After that ordeal, Fin never let herself forget that she lived in a world not made for her at all, but one specifically designed to keep her in her place.
When you finally see society for what it is, for what it does to people who are not the controlling party, you see inequality everywhere. You cannot unsee it, or wipe it from memory. The system works exactly as intended. Even though it’s exactly what they want, staying quiet becomes a survival mechanism. There’s no way to win.
Focus.
Fin took a breath and forced these truths out of her head in order to deal with the current, terrifying concern at hand.
She closed her eyes and inhaled deep enough to reach her core, her muscles expanding and stretching to let in relief. Inhale for 1, 2, 3, 4… And exhale out for 1, 2, 3, 4… She repeated the process, recalling her anti-anxiety techniques until she was able to push herself off the floor. Slow, steady, she rose to her full height, her gaze still on the carpet. The blood was gone.
There was, however, a large spot on the carpet, and it looked as though someone had recently attempted to scrub the spot clean.
Huh.
Fin bent down and touched the spot where the rug fibers were compressed. Still damp. She rubbed two fingers together and sniffed—a faint, chemical odor of enzyme carpet cleaner lingered on her skin. Odd. She couldn’t recall cleaning the rug. It was doubtful that Jeff would have cleaned up a mess, unless he’d been desperate to get rid of something and she wasn’t around to do it for him—as his dutiful wife and servant. It was entirely possible that she dissociated while tidying up. It had happened before. But she also had a vivid recollection of the stir-fry dinner that wound up on the floor.
When Jeff went on a tirade, her mind and voice tended to go quiet. De-escalation usually worked, but there were times when Fin’s silence upset her husband even more. When he wanted to get a reaction out of her, he became even louder and more violent. It was like an ember erupting into flames. Except that it wasn’t. No, it was like watching a toddler in the body of a full-grown man throw a tantrum.
She wondered how far things could escalate.
Her pulse quickened again. Fin drew in another long breath of air to ground herself, but breathing with mindful intention would only go so far today—she’d need another alternative. She looked to her feet, focused on the fuzzy house socks she wore: soft stripes in blue and violet and cream. One stripe, two stripes, three stripes, four… A few more long breaths, and she could function.
If I can piece together the recent past, my present will become clear.
Fin closed her eyes and thought back to the chaos of the last few days.
Thursday
A ray of sunlight reflected off the windshield of a passing car and into Fin’s eyes. She squinted and watched the school bus drive away, her daughter Marnie aboard.
“I’ll be going out after work with a couple of the guys,” Jeff said.
She looked to the man she shouldn’t have married, and sure enough, a series of small, black bubbles erupted on his chin—a sign the man had just lied. She’d known for quite some time that Jeff couldn’t be trusted with the truth, but every once in awhile, his lies still surprised her. Not this time, though, so it was easy to hide her reaction.
Jeff didn’t know about her gift. She would rather die than tell him.
After she’d been committed to the hospital by her father and his associates, Fin knew that she could never again trust a man with her secret. And, oh, how she’d wanted to. She longed for a world where she could collapse into strong arms, be herself, and know that she would be safe, but such relief wasn’t meant for her. To confide in anyone about the things she saw… It wasn’t worth the risk.
She smiled at the embodiment of her current prison. “Okay, have fun.”
“Thanks, babe.” Jeff leaned forward and kissed her cheek before strolling up the driveway and getting into his car.
A small pang hit Fin’s heart. After a decade with him, Jeff remained quite good-looking. Like her father, he’d no doubt be one of those irritating men who’d carry his handsome looks well past middle age and into his senior years, probably be called a silver fox. Fin wasn’t hideous—not even close—but she’d been called “tired” all her life, no matter how good she looked, or how well she took care of herself.
But despite his handsomeness, Jeff was no longer attractive to her—not the way he was when they’d first met, back when he was auditioning for roles (his acting SUCKED) and she spotted him at her favorite café. A former model, his smoldering presence and dark features had taken her breath away. He’d caught her staring at him from the register as he poured cream into his coffee from the communal pitcher.
When Jeff smiled and offered to pour some for her, she felt her cheeks color beneath the radiant sun of his gorgeousness. But this was LA, a city full of pretty ones with black hearts, so she had to be careful.
Fin blinked back tears at the memory, found herself wishing once more that she’d skipped the café all those years ago. The watered-down sludge at the office would have done her better.
