Tobe used his index finger to ring the doorbell. He could hear the faint chime reverberating within the house. He looked around as he waited. There were two rocking chairs, a small table set up between them with an ash tray on top and a half-smoked cigar nestled in the corner.
The sound of footsteps approaching the door came from the other side. The back of his throat felt as if it were bubbling. No way would this play out how he’d hoped. Still, he couldn’t stop himself from being anxious about it.
A lock clicked.
Tobe’s heart hammered.
Another lock clicked.
He readied himself for disappointment.
Then the doorknob turned and the door swayed inward. A shape appeared in the shroud of shadows behind the mesh of the screen door. Standing on the other side was a man, an older man, probably in his late seventies. Other than some worry lines around his eyes, he appeared to be very healthy for his age. His face looked smooth and wholesome. He had a short moustache above his lip, sugar-colored hair, and thick black glasses that reminded Tobe of the digital 3D glasses from the movie theaters.
Tobe smiled. He’d seen enough pictures of the film-maker and had watched plenty of interviews on special-edition DVDs to be certain.
This was him!
“Yes,” Gearhart said.
“Mr. Gearhart?”
“That’s me.”
“Hi, I’m Tobe.”
“The Mobile Notary, I presume.”
“That’s me.”
“Great,” he pushed open the screen door. “Come on in.”
Gearhart stepped back to give him room for entrance. Tobe entered the house, taking the door from him, and letting it bang shut behind him. From the brightness outside, stepping into the house was like entering a cave. His eyes had trouble adjusting to the sudden change in luminosity.
Tobe gave the foyer a quick scan. Nothing about the interior design screamed a horror movie legend lived here, and he assumed that was because of the wife. She was the one who’d probably chosen the decor.
“Where should we do this?” asked John Gearhart.
“Oh—uh anywhere there’s a flat surface. A table would be best.”
Nodding, Gearhart pointed up the hall to a pair of French doors on the right. “Would the dining room work for you?”
“Oh that’s fine. Whatever’s easiest for you, I’m game.”
Gearhart smiled. “Good. Follow me.”
Tobe was led to the doors. Gearhart pushed them open, unveiling a dining room on the other side. A china cabinet was at the back of the room, a small writing desk in a corner, and a long oval table in the middle with six chairs surrounding it. The rest of the room was empty.
“Have a seat,” he said.
Tobe nodded as he approached the table, carefully sitting his scuffed briefcase on top. It wasn’t made of leather, or even padded on the inside. His was much too cheap for that and had been built of proclaimed, durable plastic. He feared it might scratch the table’s glossy surface, so he removed it and put it on the floor beside the chair at the head of the table.
Tobe wanted to talk about Gearhart’s movies, wanted to tell him he was an admirer of his work. He was wary of how the legend might react.
Just tell him.
What if he got upset? Tobe could picture Gearhart’s pleasant face fuming red. “I can’t get away from this kind of pestering, even in my own home!”
Tobe sighed.
Gearhart noticed. “Everything okay?” He was about to sit at the chair diagonal from Tobe.
He nodded. “Yeah…it’s just that…”
After a few seconds passed, Gearhart spoke up. “Just that what?” He was smiling again. It was almost as if he knew what Tobe wanted to say.
“When I got the confirmation email for this closing…I recognized your name…”
“Oh?” Still smiling.
“Yeah. And I wasn’t sure if it was actually you or not. I mean…well…”
A few more seconds passed, then Gearhart advocated, “Go on.”
Sighing again, Tobe said, “I’m a huge admirer of your work. I’ve even read your film-making books and the entire library of horror novels you’ve written.”
“Have you now?”
Tobe nodded.
“Hmmm…” Gearhart scratched his chin. “So, when you took this closing and saw my name you probably thought there was no way it could be the same John Gearhart.”
“That’s exactly what I thought.”
“And when I opened the door you saw it really was me?”
“That’s pretty much the gist of it.”
“Ah.” He placed his hands on the back of the chair. “No wonder you gasped when I opened the door.”
“I gasped?” Tobe felt himself blush.
Gearhart nodded. “I thought there was something wrong with my face.” He chuckled.
Which brought a soft laugh from Tobe. “I’m sorry if I’m imposing on you by pointing out how much I respect your work. I just had to say it.”
“You’re not imposing on me at all. I’m flattered.”
“Thank God.”
Gearhart laughed. Not his polite chuckle, but an actual guffaw. “I haven’t made a movie in quite a long time, so knowing somebody remembers me at all is a wonderful thing.”
“A lot of people remember you. There’re message boards devoted to you. A lot of posts are hopeful that you’ll return to the director’s chair.”
“Is that a fact?”
“I wouldn’t lie about it.”
“Wow. I’ve been thinking about it…just can’t seem to work up the, uh…”
Now Gearhart was cursed by long pauses. “Motivation?” Tobe offered.
Gearhart nodded. “Something along those lines, yes. I just don’t have the drive these days. Plus, I’m not as young as I used to be.”
“Please…you could get tons of young folks like me to help you with the work so you can just direct the movie…”
“Oh?”
Shut up, Tobe. Now you’re imposing.
“You make movies?” Gearhart asked.
Tobe debated telling him, but went ahead and did so. “I used to…years back. Nothing serious. Just some shorts…”
“Were they good?”
“People said so.”
Actually, he’d been told so many times he had a natural gift for scaring people, that he should be making features, he’d started to believe it himself.
“Real people? Or friends?”
Tobe laughed. “Real people. We did some screenings at auditoriums and places like that. I even printed out some questionnaires for people to answer and left a blank spot for people to write their own criticisms. Usually the most flack I got were the actors’ inabilities to, well…act.”
They both laughed.
Gearhart cleared his throat. “I’ve received some of those same criticisms myself. I remember when Flesh Butcher was released in 1980, the initial reviews were positive for the most part, but they didn’t like the lead actress.”
“Marylyn Palmers?”
“That’s her. I should’ve known better than to cast an adult star as my lead actress.”
“I thought she did okay.”
He shrugged. “She wasn’t bad I guess, but I was more worried about box-office sales than what the critics had to say, and I knew she would attract a…broader…audience. Or so I thought.”
“Did she?”
“She did. But I speculate now if it was the kind of audience I should have wanted.” He laughed. “My wife Glenda was not pleased with me casting her.”
Tobe had read several interviews of Gearhart’s and he never failed to mention his wife. It was obvious he truly loved her, and that had always made Tobe smile, knowing that a couple who’d been married as long as they had were still so happy.
“I’m sure my wife wouldn’t have approved, either,” Tobe said.
Gearhart’s eyebrows lifted. “You’re married?”
Tobe nodded.
“Ten years.”
“Wow, you got married young, huh?”
“Yeah, we weren’t even old enough to drink yet.”
“That is young. Was she pregnant?”
Tobe shook his head, laughing. “No. We get asked that a lot.”
“I bet so. Do you have kids?”
“Yep. Three.”
“That’s wonderful. We never had kids. Kept putting it off, then one day we realized we were too old to try.”
It always made Tobe uncomfortable when people made penitent statements like that. He never knew how to respond and this time was no different. So he only nodded.
There was silence for a few more seconds, then Gearhart smiled. “Want to see some cool stuff before we get started?”
Tobe nearly shrieked with delight. “What kind of cool stuff?”
“Come on.” He motioned with his hand. “You’ll love it.”
He all but ran over to where Gearhart was.
Tobe followed him out of the dining room. They made their way to the end of the hall. When Tobe had first looked down this way, he’d thought this was a wall, but now that he was closer he realized it was actually a door. The handle was a latch, not a knob, and there were framed photos of people hanging on it. They all looked to be posing for the camera. He figured they were, in all probability, family members, although they more resembled models pretending to be enjoying a day of sailing.
Gearhart tugged the door open, then flicked the light switch next to the paneling. A dim light clicked on.
“Mind the first step,” Gearhart said, stepping through the opening. He continued shrinking until Tobe could no longer see him.
When Tobe stepped through the door, he saw that Gearhart hadn’t been reducing in size but was actually descending a set of carpeted stairs. He could see a section of matching carpet down at the bottom. Gearhart was already out of sight.
Tobe quickly went down.
He stood at the aperture of a small theater. He counted five rows of movie seats arranged stadium-style, and a large projection screen built into the wall. He slowly moved forward, looking around. There was a 35mm film projector assembled on a wooden crate at the back of the room, and shelves of film reels beside it. The walls couldn’t be seen behind the posters, lobby cards, and various newspaper ads that wallpapered one side to another. He saw full-sized theatrical one-sheets and smaller 11x17 posters, some with monsters and others depicting scantily-clad damsels shrieking in repulsed horror at whatever was pursuing them.
All of them were from Gearhart’s movies.
“Like it?” he heard the man ask.
Tobe turned and saw Gearhart standing next to a life-sized prop display of the Sasquatch monster from Gearhart’s movie, ‘Quatch. Not trusting his voice enough to answer the question, he nodded.
“There’s more through there,” he nodded toward a single, narrow doorway on the other side of the room.
Tobe wanted to see what was in there, but he had to move at a more cautious speed, since his legs had gone wobbly. He’d never seen such an amazing presentation of movie history. Sure, all of it was centered on Gearhart, but usually he had to go online and search images to see the kind of memorabilia that was spread throughout this room.
Tobe noticed a scent, one that he’d always enjoyed. It smelled like a library in here. The aroma of old, printed pages was a smell that had always elated him, even as a child. It made sense this room would smell like that with all the old posters and paper everywhere.
At the doorway, Tobe glanced back at Gearhart from over his shoulder.
“Go on,” he said, giving him permission to enter without him.
Tobe nodded. It felt as if his mouth might have smiled an appreciation, but he couldn’t tell. Everything felt so odd that he wondered if he was even awake. Maybe he’d fallen down the stairs and broken his neck, or had passed out at the front door when he realized the homeowner was the real John Gearhart, and this was some kind of unconscious fantasy.
Tobe stepped through the doorway, into a room that was even dimmer than the theater. There were bookcases spanning from one wall to the other on either side. Books filled some of the shelves, and the others were occupied with a back stock of even more memorabilia. His eyes scanned masks, fake hands, some latex puppets. Creatures (or pieces of them) from Gearhart’s films. There were original shooting scripts, more lobby cards, and even some old-fashioned model kits from the fifties that were probably worth a lot of money.
It was like being in a museum full of artifacts that only Tobe cared about. His heart was rapping against his chest with such force he could feel it in his throat. He felt dizzy, but not like he was going to faint. This was the kind of dizziness that came with excitement, the same kind he used to get on Christmas morning while peeping at presents Santa had left under the tree before his parents had wakened.
He spent a few more minutes in here, admiring the collectibles before finally forcing himself to leave. John Gearhart was waiting for him in a theater seat, his legs crossed casually as he gave Tobe time to finish exploring.
When he saw Tobe exiting the room, he smiled. “A lot of junk, huh?”
“Amazing junk.”
“I kept everything.”
“I can tell. It’s…awesome.”
“Thanks. You know, I owned my own independent studio. We had an office in Macon, and there was even more stuff in our storage shed that disappeared over the years. So I’m sure there’s stuff of mine floating around out there that I don’t remember ever having, but I think what I’ve managed to salvage is plenty.”
“It’s great.”
“Thank you. I thought you might get a kick out of it.” He stood up. There was something in his hand. “Here.” He offered it to Tobe. “You might like this.”
“Wha…?” Tobe walked over to him and took the object. It was the script from his first movie, the one that was probably his most influential. A Georgia Battle-axe Massacre. And it looked to have been signed by everyone involved with the making of the movie. The pages had yellowed with age and temperature damage, but the font was legible. The copyright date down in the left corner was 1969.
“Wow…” Tobe’s throat tightened. “I couldn’t…”
“Please, take it. You obviously love this stuff as much as I do.”
“Th-thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
He felt as if he might cry. Taking a deep breath, he hoped to find his bearings again. “Want to go on and do the paperwork?”
“Sure. If you don’t have anywhere to be right after, I was going to make some sandwiches for dinner. I can make you one as well. And we can talk about movies.”
“Wow, thank you so much. I don’t want to be a bother…”
“Hardly. We don’t get much company out here. Especially ones with a love for movies like me.”
Tobe smiled. “Okay. I will. So long as you’re sure you don’t mind.”
“I don’t mind.”
How amazing is this? Getting to eat dinner with John Gearhart!
His wife would never believe this. Thankfully he had the script to show her as proof. He felt like calling his best friend from years ago and telling him about it—brag about it! They hadn’t spoken in a couple years, but for over a decade they were inseparable, and shared the same affection for horror.
Back in the hallway, Tobe waited as Gearhart closed the door to the basement.
“Thank you, again, for showing me all of that.”
Gearhart nodded. “My pleasure.” They began to walk back to the dining room. “Do I need to bring anything to this signing? It’s been so long since I’ve refinanced, I can’t remember what all I need to bring to the table.”
“Just your ID so I can jot down the information. I know who you are, so I’m not using it for verification.” He laughed softly. “Is your wife a co-borrower?”
“No. Is that a problem?”
“No, it shouldn
’t be, but since this is a spousal state, there might be some documents she needs to sign.”
He nodded. “Want me to go get her?”
“If you want to. There might not be anything she needs to sign, but you never know.”
“I’ll go fetch her.” He smiled. “Just in case.”
“Okay. Sounds good.”
“She’ll get a kick out of you. I can’t wait to introduce you.”
“I can’t wait to meet her.”
“Be right back.”
Gearhart left Tobe alone in the dining room. He heard Gearhart call out, “Honey?” That was followed by the swish of his feet on the stairs as he went up.
Tobe sat down on the right hand side of the table, deciding against the head seat. He figured it would be easier if John sat there, with his wife Glenda across from Tobe. That way the documents could be passed in a circle instead of back and forth which would make the whole process smoother.
Tobe was nervous to meet Mrs. Gearhart. He knew the story of how they’d met on the set of A Georgia Battle-axe Massacre and that they’d been together ever since. He’d read about her so much in Gearhart’s books and interviews that he felt like he knew her already. He’d never seen any pictures of her, though. He wondered if she was an actress, a make-up lady, or one of the crew members. What would she look like now? Would he recognize her?
He flipped through the typed script while he waited. It was held together by clasps in the three-ring holes. The print’s fading was noticeable, but he still smiled, knowing it had been penned on a typewriter. Tobe had used one when he was a teenager to write his own horror movies. It had been so much fun and he missed it. The excitement he had while doing it, the smell of the ink being hammered into the paper, and the steady chorus of clacking that had engulfed his room while he’d write. He had spent much of his free time hunched over that old machine as a teenager.
Bone Chimes Page 12
