Satanic Panic- A Homage to 1980's B-Movie Horror

by Daniel P Coughlin

  “Can you taste what?” He separated from her, sniffled, tilted his head to meet her eyes, and blinked.

  “Your tears. Can I taste them?” She’d traced his lower eyelashes with her thumb, gathering a plump tear between her small finger and the nail. The wetness evaporated onto her thumb.

  “I guess.” He sniffled again.

  She leaned in until she could feel his hot breath on her face. She kissed the wetness away from his eye and tasted his tears. They were warm and salty, but not too salty like she’d imagined. She visualized the tear soaking into the pores of her tongue. A silly thought, she felt that she’d taken part of his soul when she absorbed his tears, his sadness. Part of him belonged to her. In that moment—and ever since—she felt protective of him. In a sense, they’d become family—spiritually connected through tears.

  Shaking away these distant memories, Brianna lunged down the remaining stairs of Bratman hall, turned left onto the sidewalk, and scurried toward the group of students headed to the main campus.

  Building 714 appeared. Brianna hoped she would remember the Western Civilization material she’d studied two nights prior. She’d studied hard and she studied often. A good pattern, she held a knack for studying early, not cramming. But she would forget theories. The dates sometimes melded together and historic events cluttered and weaved into similarity. Grades weren’t a problem for her and never had been, but she liked A’s and preferred not to fall below ninety percent on quizzes. Her Western Civilization professor was notorious for pop quizzes.

  Warmth encompassed her when she entered the building, shivering away the blustering cold. Carefully, she removed her beanie in the small bathroom to the left of the lecture hall. On her way into the class she shared a chuckle with a few of the stoners she’d passed a joint with at some party, somewhere, sometime last week. Making her way down the right side of the classroom, she took her seat at the end of row two. After retracting the collapsed desk from her seat, she arranged her textbook and notes. She withdrew her pen from the cylinder of wire binding on her notebook, shook it and then tested to see that it worked. She quickly went over her notes from last week.

  Good to go.

  Professor Lieberman entered the hall through a small door to the left of the podium. Glancing out at the flow of students entering the room, he shook his head, cynically, and made his way toward the Mac computer and projector. A few moments later the lights dimmed. The screen at the front of the hall dropped and expanded. The PowerPoint began.

  The professor stood in front of the projector’s harsh light that slanted upward and across his thin face. His lips quivered beneath his pointy nose as if a fly had landed on a stray nose hair causing his wire rim glasses to wiggle. Gray hair like a wire-wool brush was plastered to his head. His sideburns, also wool in texture, were too long and frayed. Beard stubble protruded from his ruddy face and gave him the appearance of a Norman Rockwell drunk.

  “Everyone ready for a pop quiz?” He raised his eyebrows then held them in place and surveyed his silently gawking class. Audible sighs echoed through the Hall. The shuffling of papers and the electric drum of laptops logging-on ensued.

  The obese TA—Fred McInery—wasn’t afraid to sweat as he strained to breathe while wobbling up the slow rising stairs passing out stapled papers that made up the quiz. The inner thighs of his worn out tan khaki pants bled perspiration. Long curly, sweaty hair stuck to his reddened cheeks. Even his thick glasses were fogged.

  “You’ll be given thirty minutes to complete twenty questions. If you went over the material from last week you should be just fine. Remember: go with your first instinct. This is multiple choice, if you think about it for too long, too long will think about you.”

  Brianna hated this saying of Professor Lieberman’s. She couldn’t quite grasp the sense of it because it really didn’t make sense. She was a girl that liked logic and she couldn’t find logic in the expression. Sadly, Professor Lieberman’s failure at real academia or non-fiction writing had plateaued prior to the realization of his projected hopes. Well, not really, teaching wasn’t a bad gig, but was clearly not the future he’d most likely planned for himself. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be so cynical. He sometimes babbled about a book he was writing and had been writing for over a decade. Whatever, she thought. She didn’t want to think about Professor Lieberman’s failed novel any further.

  Brianna encouraged logic, but logic didn’t explain the rapidity of her heartbeat when it hammered as the door creaked and Brock Hills entered the Hall. Taking a deep breath, she was thankful that the lights had gone down because her cheeks noticeably flushed.

  Why had she been so lustful for her best friend as of late? Was it simple science, biology, perhaps natural human lust?

  She’d never admit her desires to Lance, her other close friend for as long as she could remember. She, Brock, and Lance were like family. The small town of Watertown—about seventy miles south of Oshkosh—where they grew-up, had forced their lives to mesh together. Their friendship had kept them entertained throughout their formative years, but small town thinking wasn’t enough. They’d banded together to rise above what Watertown’s community offered in terms of intellectual capacity. Their imaginations had run wild in the forests and fields of their rural village and they’d been inseparable. Romance and sex hadn’t been included during their formative years—at least not for her. To her, Lance and Brock were the brothers she never had. Being an only child, she didn’t have sisters or any real form of female influence to relate to. Time had changed her. It had changed her boys too.

  Lance was in love with Brianna and she knew it. He’d never admit to it. Except, they’d kissed once at a farm party during their junior year of high school. They’d chalked it up to a drunken mistake. Thankfully, they’d been able to laugh about it the next day, but Brianna knew that it wasn’t a drunken mistake. She knew that Lance was in love with her. And the kiss hadn’t been bad. In fact, it was enjoyable. Lance’s lips were full and he’d kissed her with passion. Unfortunately for Lance, she’d imagined his lips were Brock’s. Lance’s attraction was something that Brianna felt deeply. And Lance tried to hide his affection. Too hard, even. At the end of the night, he’d apologized and forced laughter. Even made jokes equating the kiss to something incestuous. She knew that he didn’t want to lose her—as a friend—and she appreciated his respect. He knew she didn’t want him like that. Lance was attractive in his own right, but he wasn’t oozing sex, like Brock. Brock was unbelievably attractive. Sophomore year of high school had been a period of development for Brock. His looks took shape. He started dating seniors. He always had a girlfriend and three others on the side. He was overconfident and over-sexed. His dominant nature played a part too. He’d been into martial arts since a young age—four or five. The self-confidence that carried itself with Brock being feared was something that attracted young girls. Now, it attracted her. She’d never admitted this because the idea that male dominance was somehow attractive was something she feared she believed.

  Some of the best bonding moments from high school were of the three of them laughing at Brock’s stories of female conquests.

  On Sundays, they’d drive to the movies in Delafield, a suburb of Milwaukee just twenty miles east of Watertown. Along the way they would smoke a joint or two and sip on stolen beer, usually something cheap like Pabst or Busch Light. Lance and Brianna would give Brock three dollars each and Brock would pay for entrance into the theater. Then, he’d creep to the far exit, open the door for Brianna and Lance, and they would scurry toward the film of their liking. This was their system. They’d usually stay at the theater and watch two or three movies each Sunday. They spent some money on snacks and candy so as to not rip off the theater too badly. A popular theater, there were usually over a hundred people inhabiting the Cineplex on Sunday and therefore Brock, Brianna, and Lance were never really suspected of wrong doing. Also, the theater employees were classmates and didn’t care that they’d snuck in, if they’d notice
d.

  Once inside the theater, they’d huddle in the dark corner rows and watch a new release for the second or third time. This was where Brock would share the tales of his latest female conquests. He’d articulate the steamy, sticky details while Lance and Brianna would laugh and ask questions. Brianna was able to suppress her curiosities by listening to these stories. She secretly fantasized about sex. She hadn’t admitted to Brock—never would—but she would get excited when he’d detail the different positions and performances he’d experienced. Lance probably thought these stories were better than porno magazine fodder.

  Snapping her attention back to the classroom, Brianna turned in her seat and became startled when her eyes met Brock’s intense gaze. Her cheeks flushed again. She was embarrassed, but had to hide it.

  Thank God the lights were out.

  She nodded with a smile.

  Brock took his seat.

  “Good morning, Mr. Hills.” Professor Lieberman licked his lips. “Welcome to class. Late night?”

  “Early morning.” Brock smiled while glancing at his fellow classmates.

  The girls giggled and the boys tossed cheers. The campus stud had lived fantasies for the boys and articulated them for the female student body. Even Professor Lieberman found him amusing, although he’d made it a point to acknowledge his tardiness.

  Brianna secretly hated the girls that stopped and stared, lustfully, at her friend. Watching their gazes was torture. They desired him. Like her, these girls wanted Brock’s love and devotion. He was the unattainable man that each and every girl wished they could change. These girls wished they had the special touch—the touch that would magically capture Brock’s heart. But Brianna knew the real Brock. She knew he’d never settle down. Sure, some day he would get married to a woman, probably have children. She knew that he fancied the idea of a normal small town life, but his appetite would remain unsatisfied. There would be other women, even after he was married. At some point, Brock’s magic penis would get him into serious trouble. Not yet, but someday. Someday he would marry some poor girl who, everyday, would have to look in the mirror and lie to herself: “He loves me and only me.” And this poor girl would believe this even though in her heart of hearts she’d know that there were random women making love to her husband.

  “Shit,” Brianna blurted out loud.

  Realization struck. Five precious minutes of her time had been wasted thinking about Brock. She hadn’t even glanced at her quiz yet. And now half of the class stared at her because she’d blurted an obscenity. She lowered her head, but not before peaking at Brock who silently laughed. He pointed at her, and his eyes were red. Typical, he’d smoked a joint on his way to class.

  2

  Professor Lieberman concluded class with his signature line, “Stay aware.”

  Chairs and desks creaked as a sea of uninterested students dashed toward the cramped double doors that led into the hall lobby. At the conclusion of many lectures, students fluttered out the doors excited about the stretching of their minds. Smiles found their faces as they reflected upon the lessons learned that had connected with their own thoughts and processes, but not Professor Lieberman’s course, not today. These students were bored and they were tired from forcing their attention to the quiz and the instructor.

  Having been seated near the double doors, Brock exited and waited for Brianna by the water fountain, which only worked during warm weather. He blew into his cupped hands for warmth and she found herself doing the same. He was certain they both had covered their mouths to disguise lover’s smiles.

  “Maybe we should invest in gloves.” Brianna’s eyes shifted from her left hand to her right.

  “I hate Wisconsin winters. I was destined to live someplace warm.” Brock pushed off the brick wall with his left foot, smiled seductively at a passing group of freshman girls and only then continued walking with Brianna.

  “The snow was a blast when we were kids,” Brianna enlightened Brock. A fierce stare darted toward a blonde sorority girl with fantastic tits. She’d locked eyes on Brock.

  “You always do that,” Brock insisted.

  “Always do what?” Brianna refocused her attention on Brock.

  “If I say I don’t like something, you say something good about what I don’t like.” Brock engaged her focus.

  “No I don’t.” She shook her head and rolled her eyes.

  “Yes, you do,” he playfully shoved Brianna.

  She slapped at his hand and said, “I guess it’s subconscious.”

  “Well, what’s so great about Wisconsin winters?”

  “Christmas parties, sledding, hot cocoa, snow days, snowball fights, flannel shirts, winter coats, seeing your own breath. I even like the colored lights that are strung along the trees.” She pointed to the campus decorations. “A little early for Christmas, but they’re cozy.” Brianna blew a plume of icy breath in Brock’s face.

  “Tiffany Sayers liked getting fucked in the cold. She used to make me bend her over the air conditioner in the backyard while her mom made me dinner.”

  “You used to have sex with Tiffany? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I knew that you liked her. As a friend.”

  “What does that have to do with anything? You’ve had sex with all of my friends.”

  “You’re friendship with her was genuine. Our short-lived affair would have divided your friendship,” he stated.

  Brianna shrugged, smirked, and then kicked a small clump of ice across the sidewalk. It rolled into a ball and made a frosty explosion against the curb.

  “You remember when we were kids ... and we built that snow ramp?” Brock twisted his head toward Brianna and raised his animated hands. This thought had obviously stimulated his ADHD-riddled mind.

  Brianna stepped sideways. Whenever Brock became excited, he’d fidget. His hands would recklessly slap her. He didn’t know his own strength and sometimes it. Suddenly aware of his actions, he attempted to settle down. His fingers tapped, his smile stretched, and his eyes widened.

  “I remember you and Lance building a snow ramp ... and trying to get me to stand up on my sled and jump off. I also remember landing on my ass and it hurting like hell. My left ass cheek was swollen and bruised for a month.”

  “Nice. I bet that looked sweet.” Brock shook his head and dropped his smile. “But remember when Lance went off ... ” Brock watched Brianna’s face light up with laughter and confusion. She didn’t know what to think about what he’d just said, but that was why he’d said it.

  “ ... and pissed his pants. Because he landed on his head and got a concussion? You’re a really shitty friend.”

  Brock joined Brianna’s laughter. Stopping at a slush and snow covered bench, Brock shoved the ice off one side of the bench and sat while Brianna stood in front of him, pacing.

  Brianna took a few deep breaths, watching it expel outward and then smiled. Her teeth appeared shiny with spit-polished. Brock knew she’d realized the depth of the joke. They were laughing at the near demise of their good friend, Lance. Concussions weren’t funny. Only intimate friends could laugh at each other’s injured misfortune.

  “We shouldn’t laugh about that. He doesn’t think it’s funny.” Brianna’s grin was infectious.

  Brock stood. The cold had caused his eyes to lubricate and a tear ran down his cheek. He stopped laughing. “I don’t know. I don’t even know why I thought of that just now.”

  Brianna knew why he thought the story was funny. Brock was just the tiniest bit sadistic. He enjoyed the mild torment of others on a different scale than what might be considered normal. Granted, Brianna assumed everyone enjoyed the misery of others—just a bit—but Brock enjoyed the misery of others a touch more. And she was aware of his sadism.

  The screech of skidding skateboard wheels screeched caused Brianna to cringe.

  “What’s that look for? You gotta take a dump?” Brock joked.

  “You’re so gross,” she said while shaking her head. Brianna rolled her e
yes and lowered her head, then tilted her attention toward the sound of the incoming skater. “My California guy.”

  “If you dread seeing him then why are you dating him?” Brock asked sincerely—and Brianna regretted telling Brock that she was annoyed by her boyfriend’s presence.

  At first, Grady Riggins had been a dream—a California dream. He’d moved to Wisconsin from the beach community of Orange County, California. He was the cool surfer dude that all the Midwest girls wanted to date—an exotic animal around these Midwest parts.

  Brianna was an equal to the other females that encompassed the university’s student body. She desired the attention attached with dating the new guy from somewhere else—somewhere neat and sunny. Sure, this was college and everybody was from somewhere else, but Grady was different. Most of the students at Wisconsin University, Oshkosh were from Wisconsin. There was common ground between everyone, but Grady came from American Paradise.

  Who didn’t want to move to California after graduation and try their hand at becoming a movie star?

  That bright smile exploded from beneath Grady’s shaggy blonde hair. His deeply tanned skin allowed his icy blue eyes to accentuate his features. His body was cut, trim, and fit from all those miles of swimming in the Pacific Ocean. He told stories about meeting famous people and partying with them. “They’re all normal people just like you and me, bro.” He would say. Grady’s cool attitude and exciting life experience was what magnetized her attraction to him.

  Brianna knew she owned Grady at “hello.” That gaudy, puppy-dog expression that boys adopted when they wanted something badly—that was the way he looked at her the first time they’d met. Their eyes had connected between a mist of heavy cigarette and marijuana smoke that fumigated Brock and Lance’s living room. It had been September of this year.