The Mammoth Book of Body Horror

by Marie O'Regan

  Of all the stars of silent films, Lon Chaney was by far the most mysterious. There were books on his films but no full-length biographies except for a reporter’s inaccurate magazine series following Chaney’s untimely death from cancer in 1930. Chaney’s first wife died without breaking silence and his second left no memoir. His son Creighton, who later changed his name to Lon Chaney, Jr, was estranged from his father for many years and avoided painful memories. To this day Chaney’s private life remains an enigma. “Between pictures,” he told reporters, “there is no Lon Chaney.”

  The coincidence of moving into one of the actor’s former residences challenged Dale. Come what may, he meant to learn Lon Chaney’s secret.

  But first there were more practical questions to deal with. Once furniture arrived and utilities were installed, he had to renovate his surroundings. The cottage had been unoccupied for many years – no wonder the realtor offered him such a bargain rental – and it was time for a thorough housecleaning.

  So Dale called an agency and secured the services of a Hispanic lady named Juanita. She was short, plump, but surprisingly strong; perched on a rickety ladder she scrubbed away at the ceiling and side-walls, then descended to attack the floors with mop and brush. And on the second day she made her discovery.

  Finishing up her work, she cleared out old boxes and empty cartons from the bedroom closet. The last carton, wedged in back under a jumble of debris, was not entirely empty.

  “Look what I find,” Juanita said, holding up her trophy for Dale’s inspection.

  He took the tin box from her, hefting it with both hands. Then he lifted the lid and his eyes widened.

  “What is it?” Juanita asked.

  The box was empty, but its interior was divided into a number of small compartments lined with smudged cloth. And the underside of the lid was covered by a mirror.

  “Some kind of a kit,” Dale said.

  It was hard to keep his voice from quavering, hard to conceal rising excitement as he paid and dismissed Juanita. When she left, Dale picked up the box again and now his hands were trembling. His hands, holding Lon Chaney’s makeup kit.

  Dale had seen publicity stills of Chaney displaying a different and much larger kit with side-trays, so this obviously wasn’t the only one. What made it unique was that this box was here, in Chaney’s secret hideaway.

  Or was it?

  Dale forced himself to face facts. In spite of the realtor’s claim, he couldn’t be certain that Lon Chaney ever lived here. For all he knew, the kit might have belonged to any one of a thousand actors residing in these hills when Hollywood was young.

  What Dale needed was proof. And staring at the bottom of the box, he found it.

  Wedged against the base was a coil of paper, a small square scrap which must have peeled off after being pasted below the mirror. Dale picked it up, smoothed it out, then read aloud the lettering typed across its surface.

  “Property of Leonidas Chaney.”

  Leonidas!

  This was proof and no mistake. While the general public knew the actor as Lon and most filmographies listed his first name as Alonzo, Dale was one of the few aware that the star’s birth certificate identified him as Leonidas.

  Chaney, born on April Fool’s Day, had fooled his public. And, considering his passion for privacy, it seemed odd he’d put his real name here. But perhaps he’d fixed on his deception later in his career. Dale’s inspection told him that this battered box was old, perhaps dating back to pre-Hollywood days when Chaney was a struggling actor in travelling shows. Could this actually be his very first makeup kit?

  One thing seemed certain – Chaney had lived here. But when?

  Dale pondered the question as he sat in gathering darkness alone, with the makeup kit on the table before him.

  From what little he knew, Chaney’s homes were modest by Hollywood standards, even after he attained stardom, but he would never have settled his family here. Which left only one other plausible answer.

  Suppose this place was really a hideaway, a place his family didn’t know about, a place he came to secretly and alone? According to publicity he did have a cabin up in the mountains where he went fishing between films. Could it be that he actually spent some of that time here, perhaps even without his wife’s knowledge?

  And, if so, why? Dale quickly dismissed the notion of a secret love-life; Chaney was never a womanizer, and even had he been, this was hardly the setting for a romantic rendezvous. Nor was he a closet alcoholic or drug-addict. In any case there’d be no reason for him to keep a makeup kit hidden here.

  Dale leaned forward, peering at the box through the twilight shadows which fell across its murky mirror.

  But the mirror wasn’t murky now. As he stared, something in the mirror stared back.

  For a moment Dale thought it was his own face, distorted by a flash of fading sunlight amidst the coming of the dark. Even so, he realized that what he saw was not a reflection. There was another face, a face in the mirror, a ghastly white face with painted features that glowed and grinned.

  With a shock he realized what it was – the face of a clown. And before Dale’s widened eyes the face was melting, changing, so that now a second clown loomed, leering out at him – cheeks spotted with paint and tufts of hair suddenly sprouting above a bony brow.

  Dale turned, seeking a glimpse of someone else, some intruder who must have stolen silently into the bedroom to stare over his shoulder.

  But save for himself the room was empty. And when his eyes sought the mirror again the face – or faces – had vanished. All he saw now was his own face reflected in the glass, its features fading in the dark.

  Dale rose, stumbling across the room to switch on the overhead light. In its welcome glare he saw the makeup box and the perfectly ordinary mirror mounted within.

  The clown images were gone. They had existed only in his imagination – or was it his memory? For there had been two clowns in Chaney’s life.

  Hastily Dale sought his bookshelves, fumbling and finding the volume containing Lon Chaney’s filmography. He riffled through it until a page fell open upon a photograph of the actor in the title role of He Who Gets Slapped. And now it was Dale who felt the slap of recognition. The picture showed the face of the first clown he’d seen in the mirror.

  Turning pages, he located the still photo of another clown with daubed cheeks and patches of hair clumped on the bone-white skull. Chaney again, in Laugh, Clown, Laugh.

  But there was no mirth in the painted face, and none in Dale’s as he banged the book shut and left the room. Left the room, left the cottage, left the canyon to drive down to the shelter and sanity of lighted streets below.

  He parked on Fairfax and entered a restaurant, taking comfort in its crowded quarters and the presence of a friendly waitress who urged him to try tonight’s special. But when his order came he had no appetite for it.

  Tonight had already been too special for him, and he couldn’t forget his confrontation at the cottage. Had he really glimpsed those faces in the mirror, or had the images been evoked from memories of the films seen in retrospective showings long ago? A mirror is just a sheet of silvered glass, and what it reflected must have come from his mind’s eye.

  Dale forced himself to eat and gradually the tension ebbed. By the time he finished and drove back up the canyon his composure returned.

  Inside the cottage the lights still blazed upon commonplace surroundings, safeguarding against shadows and dispelling doubts. If Chaney had lived here at all, that time was long gone and the actor himself was long dead. There were no ghosts, and the box on the bedroom table was merely an old makeup kit, not a miniature haunted house.

  For a moment Dale had an impulse to lift the lid and examine the mirror for added reassurance, then dismissed it. There was no point in dignifying his apprehensions; what he needed was a good night’s sleep and a clear head for tomorrow.

  Truth to tell, he felt drained after the emotional stress of the day, and once
he undressed and sought his bed, Dale quickly fell into dreamless slumber.

  Just when the change occurred he did not know, but there was a change, and the dream came.

  In the dream he found himself awakened, sitting up in bed and staring through darkness at the black blur of the box on the table. And now the impulse he’d rejected upon entering the bedroom returned with an urgency he could not deny.

  Sometimes dreams seem oddly like films – movies of the mind in which one’s own movements are silently commanded by an unseen director – a series of jump-cuts and sudden shifts in which one is both actor and audience.

  Thus it was that Dale both felt and saw himself rise from the bed, captured in a full shot as he moved across the room. Now a cut to another angle, showing him poised above the makeup kit. Then came a close shot of his hand moving down to raise the lid.

  Moonlight from the window sent a silvery shaft to strike the surface of the makeup mirror, flooding it with a blinding brightness that seethed and stirred.

  Faces formed in the glass – contoured countenances which seemed frighteningly familiar, even in the depths of dream. Faces changed, and yet there was a lurking linkage between them, for all were Oriental.

  Some Dale had seen before only in photographs – the evil Chi na -man from the lost film Bits of Life, the benevolent laundryman in Shadows. Then, in rapid shifts, the vengeful mandarin of Mr Wu, the bespectacled elderly image of Wu’s father, and a final, frightening glimpse of the chinless, sunken-cheeked, shrivelled face of the aged grandfather. They formed and faded, smiling their secret smiles.

  Now others appeared – the two pirates, Pew and Merry, from Treasure Island, a bearded Fagin out of Oliver Twist, followed by figures looming full-length in the mirror’s depths. Here were the fake cripples of The Miracle Man, The Blackbird, Flesh and Blood. Then the real cripple of The Shock and the legless Blizzard in The Penalty. Now came a derby-hatted gangster, a French-Canadian trapper, a tough sergeant of Marines, a scarred animal-trapper, an elderly railroad engineer, and Echo, the ventriloquist of The Unholy Three.

  In his dream Dale stood frozen before the glass as faces flashed forth in faster flickerings – the faces of madmen. Here was a crazed wax-museum attendant, a bearded victim of senile delusions, a de ranged Russian peasant, the insane scientists of A Blind Bargain and The Monster. They were laughing at him, grinning in glee as Dale closed his eyes, hands clawing out to close the lid of the makeup kit.

  Then he staggered back to the bed. There were no images here, only the darkness, and Dale fell into it, fleeing the faces and seeking surcease in sleep.

  It was morning when Dale’s eyes blinked open, welcoming the sanity of sunlight. He stirred, conscious now that last night had been a dream, knowing he’d seen nothing in the mirror; indeed, he had never even left his bed.

  As he rose he glanced over at the box resting on the table, remembering how he’d closed it in reality before retiring, then closed it again in his nightmare.

  But now the lid was up.

  For a moment Dale recoiled, fighting the irrational explanation until sunlight and common sense prevailed.

  The makeup kit was old, its hinges worn or even sprung. Some time during the night the catch must have loosened and the lid popped up.

  It was a logical answer, but even so he had to force himself toward the table, steel himself to gaze down into the mirror set inside the lid and gaze on what was reflected there.

  Sunshine formed a halo around the image in its glassy surface – the image of his own face.

  And as his features formed a smile of rueful relief, Dale turned away. The mirror in the makeup kit held no terrors for him now, any more than the one he faced as he shaved. He dressed and sought the makeshift kitchen, taking comfort in the familiar ritual of preparing his breakfast, then eating eggs and toast with a copy of the morning Times propped up before his coffee cup. Even the news offered an odd comfort of its own – the familiar headlines and stories of wars, terrorist bombings, political corruption, street crime, drug busts, accidents, epidemics, natural and unnatural di sasters that filled the newspaper pages. However grim, these were realities; realities which he and everyone else in the world faced with fortitude born of long familiarity. They had nothing to do with the unhealthy fantasies which took form when Lon Chaney stalked the screen – fantasies which existed now only in Dale’s imagination.

  Glancing at his watch, he folded the paper and rose quickly. There was a busy day ahead, and time was already running short.

  Leaving the cottage, he drove down to Hollywood Boulevard, turned right, then made a left on Fairfax. He reached Wilshire and headed west, weaving through noonday traffic until he found a parking space before the imposing structure of the Motion Picture Academy of Arts and Sciences.

  Here, upstairs in the Margaret Herrick Library, he turned his attention to the files he requested. Lon Chaney wasn’t the only movie monster he meant to deal with in his projected history: there was research to be done on other stars of the horror film. And unlike the case with Chaney, there was ample material on men like Karloff, Lorre, and Lugosi.

  But even as he scribbled notes Dale found something lacking in the interviews and biographical data of these celebrated actors who seemingly made no mystery of their careers.

  The one missing element common to all was that of explanation. Why had a gentle gentleman like Boris ended up playing monsters? What had led Peter Lorre, the rabbi’s grandson, to the portrayal of psychopaths? How did Béla Lugosi, who played parts ranging from Romeo to Jesus Christ in early European appearances, transform himself into the dreaded Count Dracula?

  William Henry Pratt, Laszlo Loewenstein, Béla Blasko – all three men had changed their names, but what had changed their natures?

  Dale found no answer in the files, but the last item he read before leaving the Academy offered a hint. It was an interview with an actress who toured with Lugosi in Dracula.

  She told of how the genial cigar-smoking Hungarian prepared for his famous role, sitting before his dressing-room mirror and donning the costume and makeup of the vampire. But that was only a preliminary to performing. The next and most crucial step came as he rose, wrapped in the black cape, face contorted and eyes blazing. As he confronted himself in the mirror his deep voice invoked an incantation. “I am Dracula,” he intoned. “I am Dracula. I am Dracula.” Over and over again he repeated the words, and by the time he strode out upon the stage the words became reality. Lugosi was Dracula.

  “He psyched himself up,” the actress explained. And as the years passed, a part of him became the part he played; when he died he was buried in Dracula’s cape, with Dracula’s ring on his finger.

  Dale jotted down his notes, then hurried out into the afternoon sunshine. Now it was time to drive into Beverly Hills for a medical appointment.

  It had been made a month ago, just an annual checkup, as a matter of routine. But now, as he arrived and took a seat in the crowded waiting room, Dale felt uptight. He felt no worry about possible physical illness, but what about psychological stress? Last night’s dreams might be a symptom of mental disturbance. What if Dr Pendleton told him he was cracking up?

  By the time the receptionist called his name and a nurse led him to the examining room he knew his pulse was pounding and his blood pressure had risen. So it came as a pleasant surprise when the doctor made no comment on his readings other than remarking he thought Dale was underweight and seemed overtired. Reports on blood tests and urine specimen would be available in a few days, but nothing indicated cause for concern.

  “Slow down a little,” Dr Pendleton said. “Pace yourself. And it won’t hurt if you put on a few pounds.”

  Armed with that advice, Dale left. Relieved, he headed for a seafood restaurant on Brighton Way and there he ordered and actually enjoyed his meal. The doctor was probably right, Dale decided; he had been working too hard, and the tension flaring up after his break with Debbie took an added toll. He resolved to follow orders, rest
and relax. Then, perhaps, it might be possible to come to terms with himself, and with Debbie too. He really missed her, missed the hours they spent together, and the breach must be mended. All in good time.

  As Dale left the restaurant he sensed a change in the air: the chill breeze hinted at rain and a muted murmur of distant thunder confirmed its coming.

  The first drops spattered the windshield as he turned on to the canyon side-road, and by the time he parked in the driveway a flicker of lightning heralded the downpour that followed. Dale hurried into the cottage beneath the wind-tossed trees. Once inside he flipped the light switches as he moved from room to room. It was only upon reaching the bedroom that he halted when its over head light came on.

  Standing in the doorway, he stared at the open makeup box on the table, forehead furrowed in doubt.

  Hadn’t he closed the lid before he left? Dale shrugged in uncer tainty. Perhaps the loose catch was the culprit once again; he’d better examine it and put his mind to rest.

  Rain drummed the rooftop in a faster tempo and lightning flashed outside the window as he crossed to the table. Then, as he reached it, a clap of thunder shook the walls and the lights went off, overhead and throughout the cottage.

  Power outages were not uncommon hereabouts during a storm and Dale wasn’t alarmed; perhaps the lights would come back on in a moment. He waited, but the darkness persisted and prevailed. Maybe he’d better look for his flashlight.

  Then its illumination was unnecessary as the lightning bolt struck somewhere close outside the window, filling the bedroom with a greenish glare. As it did so Dale peered down at the mirror inside the lid of the makeup kit and froze.

  The reflection peering up at him was not his own.

  It was the face of Singapore Joe – the role Chaney played in The Road to Mandalay – the half-blind man whose left eye was covered with a ghastly white cast.