“I am.” And he was. The miniseries he’d pitched and produced just six years ago, Hyde Park, initially attracted a small but mighty following that soon exploded as more and more people began tuning in. Now it had become a cultural phenomenon that had spawned two feature-length films, the second of which debuted tomorrow night.
“You don’t sound like it.”
“You still haven’t told me what you want in exchange for your help on the next film. I assume that’s why you’re here tonight.”
His guest chuckled, a sound that never failed to make Cassian’s stomach twist in fear.
“The woman,” the visitor said.
Cassian felt ice enter his veins. “What woman?” he asked, though he had a feeling he already knew.
“The blonde. Veronica.”
The room tilted, and for a moment Cassian wondered if the big earthquake they’d all feared had finally struck Los Angeles. But when he placed a hand against the window to steady himself and took a deep breath, the room snapped back to normal. Cassian closed his eyes.
“No,” he said. “Not her.”
“You asked me what I want.”
“But you can’t have her,” Cassian said, putting as much force as he could muster into the words. “She’s not like the other ones. She’ll be missed. Someone will come looking for her, and when they discover what you’ve done … no, it can’t be her.”
“The price is the price,” the visitor said.
Cassian opened his eyes and stared out into the inky darkness. “She’s the star of my new film. Not an addict or a streetwalker. If I bring her here, or anywhere really, someone will remember seeing her leave with me. And when her body is found … it just can’t be done. I won’t be able to get away with it.”
“We have an agreement, and the agreement must be fulfilled. What happens to you after that is not my concern. This city is full of thousands of young men just like you, who would do anything for success, to have what you have. I can find another.” The visitor chuckled. “I don’t think you can say the same. Unless you’ve found a way to create your films without my help?”
Cassian swallowed hard. He’d tried with this last film. He really had. But without the inspiration the visitor provided him, without watching him hunt and kill … Cassian’s writing felt hollow. Stilted. Unremarkable. He doubted anything had changed in the intervening time.
“Bring her here after the premiere,” the visitor commanded.
“Tomorrow?” Cassian’s voice sounded strangled to his own ears. “It hardly gives me time to plan.”
“That is not my concern. If you wish to have my help in the future, you will bring her here tomorrow night. But if you want to return to the man you were when I found you, you need only say so.”
Having witnessed the viciousness with which the visitor killed, Cassian doubted he would let him walk away from their agreement so easily.
Cassian brought the glass up to his lips and drained the last of the whiskey, allowing the taste of it to flood his senses as his thoughts spun out into the abyss of his future. Even if the visitor somehow let him live, his life as he knew it was over. He was utterly incapable of creating at the same level without the source material the visitor provided. He could try, he supposed, but he knew he’d gone too far down this road, dug himself in too deep. The studio, his crew, the actors, they would notice something was amiss. Would wonder where Cassian Charles, the genius writer-director, the wunderkind of Hollywood, had disappeared. Would wonder who this hack was that had taken his place.
He lowered the glass and leaned his forehead against the window. If he wanted his career, his life, to continue, then he only had the one choice.
“I’ve never been up this way before,” Veronica Zeismer said, from the passenger seat of his car.
Cassian tightened his hands on the steering wheel and stole a quick glance across the car at her. Veronica’s gaze was focused on the landscape outside as the Ferrari hurtled past towering gates and dense foliage cloaked in darkness. She was no doubt trying to catch a glimpse of the homes that lined one of the most exclusive streets in Pacific Palisades.
“Not many people live up here,” Cassian said. “It’s what attracted me to this area.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Veronica smooth the fabric of her dress. He reached across the car to place a hand on her knee. He could barely bring himself to touch her, knowing what was going to happen as soon as they got to the house. But Veronica was smart, at least as far as beautiful young actresses went. When he’d asked her to come back to his house after the premiere, he was sure she’d formed an idea of what was really behind the invitation. Indeed, she didn’t stiffen or pull away from his touch, but placed her hand over the top of his and gave it a soft squeeze.
Her skin felt warm, the flesh of her palm smooth and pliable like a ripe peach. He had a sudden vision of it splitting open under the light pressure of a knife and tried to shove the thought away.
“Are you all right?” she asked. He realized, to his embarrassment, that he must have made a sound.
“I’m fine,” he said, shooting her a quick smile. “Just had something in my throat.”
Silence hung heavy over the car as they continued to climb toward his house.
“Can I ask you a question?” Veronica asked.
Cassian felt him stomach twist. “Sure.”
“I’ve always been curious how you came up with the idea for Hyde Park. I mean serial killers are nothing new. There are plenty of TV shows and movies about that. But the killings are so … inventive. So detailed. It almost seems like you witnessed it for yourself.”
He licked his lips, allowing himself a moment to collect his thoughts. To step fully into the practiced lie he’d constructed for just this purpose. “History is full of stories of serial killers and their crimes. It wasn’t hard to repurpose some of the details. But to answer your question, I’ve always been fascinated with the story of Jack the Ripper. I’ve read lots of different theories about the murders and who was behind them. So one day I started to wonder what it would be like if modern-day Los Angeles had its own Ripper. And the story kind of evolved from there.”
“That’s why the Hyde Park killer’s victims are all prostitutes and drug addicts,” Veronica said. She nodded as if suddenly connecting the dots. But Cassian knew she was only flattering him. He’d told her nothing that he hadn’t already repeated on every late-night talk show over the past six years. “You were copying the profile of the Ripper’s victims.”
“Exactly,” he said. That, and it was the kind of prey he’d been told to go after.
“How fascinating,” she replied. “So who do you think the Ripper really was?”
Cassian glanced at her. “You really want to talk about this?”
“I told you in my audition that I have a healthy interest in the macabre.” Her tone was light, teasing. “I wasn’t kidding about that.”
The car shot around a bend in the road, and suddenly they were at the foot of Cassian’s long driveway. He hit the brakes a bit too hard, and Veronica let out a yelp as the seatbelt no doubt contracted tightly across her chest, as his own had done.
“Sorry about that,” he said. “The entrance still kind of sneaks up on me.”
Veronica let out a weak laugh as they waited for the gate to roll back. The car’s headlights illuminated part of the driveway beyond, but were no match for the thick tangle of bushes and trees that lined the road up to the house. Cassian might have found it spooky if he didn’t already know what the night had in store for them.
Veronica cleared her throat as Cassian steered the car up the driveway. “You didn’t answer my question,” she said. “About who you thought was behind the Ripper killings.”
“There was a man who drowned in the Thames. His body was found not too long after the last murder. Even though there was little to connect him to the killings while he was alive, it always made sense to me. That as monstrous as the murders were, there was still
just a man behind them. It doesn’t seem that far of a stretch to imagine that perhaps he grew remorseful and decided to end it.”
By Veronica’s silence he wondered if she was disappointed in his answer. After all, that wasn’t the kind of killer who was behind the murders in Hyde Park. That man was utterly evil. Devoid of every last shred of humanity. Perhaps that was the sort of response Veronica had been hoping to hear.
As he pulled up to the house, Veronica let out a gasp.
“This is your house?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said, his hand already on the handle of the door. Though he too felt a bit awed at the sight of it. He’d forgotten how impressive the house looked when it was all lit up. He usually did not leave the lights on while he was out. But tonight, he’d hoped that in doing so the house would appear welcoming. Inviting. That if he’d managed to make Veronica feel ill at ease on the drive over, it would help cloak his true purpose in bringing her back to the house.
Cassian darted around the front of the car to open the door for her. He watched as she unfolded her lithe body from the car. Veronica had dressed in a figure-hugging red dress for the premiere. Though he was sure the gossip columns might call it plain, he thought she looked stunning.
She lingered for a moment, staring up at the house until Cassian gently pressed a hand to the small of her back.
“Shall we go inside?” he asked.
Lacing her fingers through his, Veronica allowed him to lead her through the front doors and across the foyer. Her heels echoed in the cavernous space.
In the kitchen, he took down two wine glasses from the cabinet and set them on the oversized island. “Red or white?”
She fastened her incredible blue-gray eyes on him as she replied. “White. Red wine gives me a headache.”
“Me too,” he said. “I was only going to drink it to be polite.”
Her lips curled mischievously. “Trust me, you don’t have to worry about being polite with me.”
Cassian forced himself to chuckle, to give her his most flirtatious smile. “I’ll be right back,” he said.
He strode down the hallway, past the temperature-controlled wine room, to his bedroom at the end of the hall. He kept his stride even, unhurried, though his heart was hammering in his chest. Only once he was safely inside the bathroom did he allow himself a shaky breath as he sagged against the closed door.
The visitor would be here soon. Somehow Cassian always knew when he was on his way. Which meant he only had to entertain Veronica a little while longer. To pretend that everything was normal.
He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the bathroom mirror. Though he was not yet thirty, dark shadows had taken up permanent residence beneath his eyes. His normally pale skin looked bloodless, even for him. He smiled at his reflection and wondered how he’d convinced Veronica to get in a car with him. He looked as unstable as he felt.
Cassian staggered toward the sink and turned the faucet on. He splashed some cold water on his face, the shock of it jarring his brain to action.
Was he really going to do this again? Was he actually going to allow another woman to die in service to his art? And in his own home no less?
He grabbed a towel off the sink and rubbed his face with it. The answer, he knew, was yes. Because, as the visitor has clearly spelled out for him the night before, he really had no choice.
Cassian gripped the edge of the sink with both hands as he forced himself to take deep breaths. It would all be over soon. Very soon.
On his way back to the kitchen, he stopped and selected a bottle of his favorite white wine. He doubted Veronica would get to drink very much of it, so he might as well choose something he enjoyed.
As he stepped back into the hallway, he heard the sounds of the piano drifting from the great room. A tune he recognized but couldn’t quite place. He listened for a moment as the notes tumbled out from beneath Veronica’s skilled fingers. He hadn’t realized she played.
The wine glasses were on the counter where he’d left them. But Veronica had helped herself to the block of Havarti cheese he kept in the fridge. It, too, was on the counter beside a long, serrated knife.
“I’ll pour you a glass,” he said, popping the cork on the wine bottle.
“Not too much,” she called from the piano.
Cassian ignored her, filling her glass nearly to the top.
The sound of the piano died away, and he heard the scrape of the bench against the concrete as she stood up. Her heels clicked across the floor as she approached.
He looked up and flashed her his most charming smile as he handed over her glass.
She pretended to pout. “I told you not to pour me too much. Now I’ll fall asleep on your couch for sure.”
He forced himself to chuckle. “Trust me, you falling asleep on my couch was never the plan.”
The lights of the kitchen picked up the golden tones of her honey-blond hair as she tilted her head to the side. Her eyes drifted to his lips and then back up again, settling on his eyes.
And despite the sick feeling in his stomach, the sense of dread that had been his constant companion that night, Cassian found himself wanting to kiss her, too.
He took a step toward her and slipped a finger under her chin, lifting her face up towards his. Veronica set her wine glass back on the counter and closed her eyes, surely waiting to feel his lips brush hers.
But all at once, Cassian became aware that they were not alone and dropped his hand. He stepped back from Veronica and looked to the left, already knowing what he would find there.
“I knew you wouldn’t be able to walk away from it,” the visitor said. “Just like all the others before you.”
“Cassian?” Veronica asked. “What’s happening?”
He forced himself to look back at her, his cheeks burning with shame.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
Her brows knitted together in confusion. “Sorry for what?”
Cassian shook his head, unable to get the words out. It had been easier with the other women. He hadn’t known them. So it’d been easy to tell himself that they didn’t matter, that the world was better off without them. That their deaths were no great loss.
“Cassian,” Veronica said. “Look at me.”
Tears pricked his eyes as he stared at the window over her shoulder. He knew he couldn’t look at her face. If he did, he wouldn’t be able to give her up.
He could hear the visitor already moving toward them. All Cassian had to do was hang on for a few moments more and it would all be over.
Warm fingers suddenly gripped his jaw as Veronica grabbed his face and forced him to look at her.
“Tell me what’s happening,” she said, her eyes scanning his features, seeking answers that he was unwilling to give.
But as he stared back at her, he felt the last bit of his resolve crumble. He couldn’t do this to her. Couldn’t stand by and watch her die.
Before he could talk himself out of it, he broke free of her grasp and reached for the knife on the counter.
As he turned to face the visitor, Cassian was gratified to see that he seemed taken aback by the turn of events.
“Think of what you’re doing, Cassian,” the visitor said. “Think of what you’re giving up.”
“I have,” said Cassian. His voice shook as he answered. “And it was never really mine to begin with. The success, the house, the car … all of it. I should never have walked down this monstrous path with you. But tonight, it ends.”
His hand trembled as he raised the knife above his head. But as he brought it down towards the visitor’s heart, the fear fell away and his grip tightened on the weapon. Cassian let out a cry as he drove it in as deep as he could. He was dimly aware of Veronica screaming in the background.
Suddenly exhausted by the effort, Cassian’s knees buckled, and he collapsed to the floor. Pain bloomed through his body as he hit the concrete.
Staring up at the lights of the kitchen, he heard Veronica talking t
o someone. She sounded as if she were deep under water.
“Hello, yes, I’m at the home of Cassian Charles in Pacific Palisades and there’s been a stabbing … he stabbed himself I mean. Please hurry, we need help. There’s so much blood …”
Shannon Fox is a San Diego-based writer whose fiction spans multiple genres. She grew up in the foothills of the Colorado Rockies before relocating to California to attend UC-San Diego, where she earned a B.A. in Literature-Writing. She misses the rugged natural beauty of Colorado, but definitely doesn’t miss the insane wind. Her short stories have appeared in Cursed Collectibles, The Copperfield Review, The Plaid Horse Magazine, Black Fox Literary Magazine, The Fat City Review, and more. Besides writing, Shannon has a passion for horses and has competed at the international level in the sport of dressage. Shannon also owns a digital marketing company that works primarily with small businesses and real estate agents. For more stories from Shannon, visit her at Shannon-Fox.com.
Make Me a Star
Brendan Mallory
Make Me a Star
The demon Salazar leaned back in his chair and put his hooved feet up on his desk as he leafed through the third script for the day with his long, clawed fingers. It was a standard supernatural action movie—pretty much the only genre he ever got to read anymore. The macho, brooding hero comes across a teenage orphan girl with amnesia and goes into protective-daddy-mode, blah blah blah, turns out she has magic powers, blah blah blah, Mafia bosses trying to open a portal to Hell for some reason, everything explodes, orphan girl dramatically sacrifices herself to save the world, hero goes back to brooding, the end. Salazar sighed and flipped the script closed, then pulled a red pen out of the decorative mug on his desk and scrawled out a couple of notes:
Page 18: The “magic words” you used were gibberish. Please use real Latin incantations. They aren’t that hard to Google.
Page 54: A real demon would not “bite someone’s head off.” We have standards. Maybe decapitate using a bladed weapon.
Monsters, Movies & Mayhem Page 14
