“Run,” I say, mostly to myself.
The creature’s sad whimpering stops. A growl grows in its throat. The sound is like choking, like dry heaving. It knows I won’t help it. Its lips curl back and reveal sharp teeth, surprisingly intact.
“Run!” I yell, and the thing lunges at me. I feel snapping at my heels. A silly aside thought reminds me not to slip on that root.
I slip on the root. The ground arrives hard.
I turn to face the thing, ready with fists clenched and enough adrenaline running to face the demonic nightmare that has somehow escaped a horror movie.
Brock lunges. The animals intersect in the air.
Cue a heroic overture.
They become a furry, vicious yin-yang. I hoot. The battle snarls on until there is a very large, very heartbreaking yelp as the ball of dog separates.
My dog stands.
Brock, assessing the damage, gives me a confused I-did-all-right-didn’t-I? look and licks the wounds of the other animal. The creature breathes, slow but rhythmic. I call my dog over to me. My hero looks at the conquered thing one more time and limps over. I get up to inspect my dog. There is a shallow wound on his shoulder. It doesn’t look too serious. I wipe animal blood on my jeans.
“Let’s get you home, boy,” I say, hugging him. I part the tall grass and let Brock lead the way, but not before checking behind me one more time. The other creature rests on the ground. I enter the tall grass and, despite Brock’s injury, we run the whole way home in darkness.
***
Later that night, I clean Brock’s injury and give him half of a leftover burger that’s been sitting in the fridge for ages. He eats savagely, more so than usual, snarling and drooling and looking up at me for more once he’s finished.
Before I go to bed, I do the rounds of the house to make sure the lights are turned off. My parents went to sleep a long time ago. Right before I turn off the porch light, I see a dark shape across the street sitting on the sidewalk. It’s dark, but a sedan rushes by, and I see the glint of eyes reflecting from the waning taillights. It’s the rotten dog.
Just staring and smiling.
In the morning, it is gone.
Script: Fade In
The following is an excerpt from the movie script titled “Horror Business,” written by Jason and Brian Nightshade.
INT. DETECTIVE SAM RAIMI’S office, day.
SAM RAIMI, the senior detective, sits at his table for yet another day of work, feet up on the desk. His hair is disheveled and his tie is loose. Around his office, there are pictures of violent crime scenes (dismemberments, decapitations, mutilations, etc.) He reads a copy of the day’s paper, drinking coffee. LT. CRONENBURG knocks on the door, startling RAIMI and causing him to spill it on himself.
RAIMI
Motherfucker! (He looks around for something to wipe up the coffee, finally settling on some legal papers). What is it? Come in!
Enter LT. CRONENBURG with a file under his arm.
CRONENBURG
Sorry, if I interrupted anything chief. (Nervously looks around) How’s your morning going?
RAIMI
It was pretty fucking fantastic. (He finishes wiping his shirt and throws the document away.) Now Lieutenant, where’s the fire?
CRONENBURG
(He frantically looks around) I’m sorry sir? Is there a fire?
RAIMI
It’s just a manner of speech, Crony! (Sighs heavily) What do you want?
CRONENBURG
Oh right (He composes himself and shuts the door to the office). I’m afraid I have bad news, chief.
RAIMI
I didn’t take this job to hear good news, Crony. Just spill it for Chrissakes.
CRONENBURG
It’s a murder, sir. It looks like the third one from what the newspapers are now calling “Jack the Disemboweler.” It occurred last night, and after some careful speculation I think that you personally need to take a look at the file.
RAIMI opens the file and peruses the pictures. He winces.
RAIMI
Catch me up on this fucking guy, Crony. What’s his shtick again?
CRONENBURG
Apparently sir, after he bludgeons his victims to death with a 45-pound sledgehammer, he cuts them open and wraps them up with their own insides as if it was proper casual attire. You remember the first guy who was wearing his own ribcage like a sweater vest? Or the woman whose intestines made a fine pearl necklace?
RAIMI
(Looking at the file picture) Then what’s this supposed to be?
CRONENBURG
Oh, that. My guess is that it’s supposed to be her uh … buttocks cut off and, er, made into a brassiere.
RAIMI
Fuck’s sake … .
CRONENBURG
But sir, as disturbing as all that is, I think this is cause for some concern (takes a blood-stained envelope out of his coat pocket) this was found on her person. It’s addressed to you. (He turns it around to reveal “Raimi” written on it in scribbly letters.)
RAIMI carefully takes the envelope, studies it before finally opening it. He looks at it for a moment, mouthing the words.
CRONENBURG
Well Captain, what does it say?
RAIMI
(Reading aloud) “When the stars at night are big and bright and the crows and ravens swoon, it’s high-time for bed, my friend, where I will send you soon.”
CRONENBURG
Does that mean anything to you sir?
RAIMI
(Puts the letter down.) Yeah (beat) it’s the rhyme our fucking mother used to tell us before she tucked us into bed.
CRONENBURG
“Us,” sir?
RAIMI
Yeah, me and my twin brother, Ted.
CRONENBURG
I didn’t know you had a brother sir—
RAIMI
(Cutting him off) That’ll be all Crony, I need to get some work done, if you could excuse me.
CRONENBURG
Oh right, I’m sorry sir.
Exit CRONENBURG
RAIMI remains at his desk, picks the letter back up and takes one last look before picking up his phone and dialing a number.
RAIMI
Hey Sissy-babe, it’s Sam … yeah how are you doing? … That’s fantastic … Oh just checking in on you … So, hey, could you do something for me? … Go around the house and make sure all the doors are locked … It’s probably nothing, I just get a little paranoid sometimes … Thank you… No, that’s all … I should be home a little early … Love you too. (Hangs up the phone and sits back, drinking the rest of his coffee that he didn’t spill, and then to himself he says) Teddy. (Beat) Motherfucker.
END SCENE
Bully
It’s hard to look cool with a kitchen knife at your throat. It’s hard to look cool when a greasy kid named Colt Stribal—with dirty hands and dirty teeth—holds that knife so close that your skin wants to give.
It’s hard to be cool in front of a kid like Colt Stribal, who doesn’t go to school because he can’t leave his knives at home, who roams the town aimless like a ghost, who gallops around in worn-leather boots and army fatigues. Colt is feral and independent, the sort of monster that every kid secretly wants to be; whose terrible legacy precedes him.
He’s also known to kill neighborhood dogs.
When he had the knife up to my brother’s throat one year ago, that’s all I could think: there’s no way to look cool with a knife at your throat. Even Greg Mackie, the biggest nerd at school, looked cool compared to my brother’s whimpering.
We were walking home from school. Greg was in the middle of explaining the connection between George Romero’s Dawn of the Dead and Lucio Fulci’s Zombie. He definitely knew his movie trivia, and sometimes we let him help us with our movie, but only as technical help. Greg didn’t belong in front of the lens.
We should’ve known from the clip clop
ping of the boots behind us.
“Hey,” Colt said.
Greg wouldn’t shut up. It was still zombie-this and zombie-that, even after I elbowed him in the stomach to shut up.
“Hey!”
Greg heard him this time, but some mechanical malfunction in his brain kept him from shutting up. Colt threw a rock, and Greg turned around just in time to have it land square across his face. The missile took his glasses off and knocked him to the ground. Greg let out a squeal and tumbled over in some clumsy, slow motion collapse.
“Listen when I talk!” Colt yelled. My brother and I stood firm and faced the dirty bully. “What are you fucks doing?”
Sputtering on the ground, Greg mentioned our movie.
“A movie?” The corners of his mouth quivered into an almost-smile. “Can I be in your movie?” It wasn’t a question, really.
“You can’t,” Brian said. Both Colt and I were surprised by his response. “There isn’t a part for you.” Brian’s face was taut but he shuffled his feet. He was scared.
“But I’m a really good actor.” He grabbed my brother by the shirt. None of us were expecting it. He twirled Brian up his arm like a spider reeling in prey. Colt pulled a kitchen knife from his pocket and placed it on Brian’s neck. The serrated blade hadn’t been cleaned since his last meal, and bits of grease and grizzle clung to it.
“Don’t move or your friend here gets it.” His face lit up. His voice was stagey—a poor man’s Humphrey Bogart. “See?” Colt looked sideways at me, and the sun struck his face so that it made his eyes match the yellow of his teeth.
Greg Mackie found his glasses and ran away. I froze.
“Please Colt.” I stammered. Colt pushed harder and the skin gave, letting out a thin streak of blood. Brian yelped.
“Please what?”
“Let my brother go.”
A number of thoughts seemed to pass behind Colt’s eyes. I was pretty sure that half of them were murderous. I recalled the date to make sure it would be correct on the tombstone.
Colt pushed my brother away and wiped the blood off the knife with his fingers, which he flung onto the grass like runny snot. He took a bow. Then, his face softened. Whatever theatrical spirit that possessed him was exorcised. He was dim again.
“Fuck you and your movie. I didn’t want to be in it anyway.” The monster turned and walked away.
Brian collapsed to the ground, holding his neck. I ran over to him. Despite the amount of blood, it was a shallow cut—one that we could easily blame on a nasty tree branch. I pulled my brother up to his feet.
“Are you all right?”
“What the fuck was that?” Brian coughed.
“I think we should go home. Let’s go home.”
He pushed me away. “And where were you? Why didn’t you stop him?”
I had nothing to say. Just stood there. Brian felt his neck—the cut had already stopped bleeding and he was only smearing the residual blood. “Jesus Christ,” he said. “Brothers watch out for each other.”
We walked home the long way, ducking through broken fences and bushes. We didn’t say a word the entire time. A week later, my brother disappeared.
[rec 00.10.14]
The footage is shaky and out-of-focus. I’ve seen this tape so many times, I have the timecode memorized. 00.10.14 starts with an over-exposed shot of the park. For a couple seconds it looks like all the people are lit up by a nuclear explosion, playing games in atomic fallout. The frame shakes while the exposure changes. The grass and sky return to their natural hue; people look safe from skin-burning radiation. Children offscreen laugh and shout; some of them scream.
At 00.10.34, all the settings on the camera are correct and the picture looks crisp. The frame moves between children playing on top of the monkey bars and climbing up the tube slide. Other children get thrown off a merry-go-round because a teenager is spinning it too hard. More teenagers watch, a boy and a girl. They switch off between laughing and making out. The wind blows the empty swings occupied by ghost children.
At 00.12.44 the frame jostles as it runs to a thick patch of bushes at the edge of the park. 00.13.16 and the picture is very close to the ground; tall weeds and grass make up the bottom third of the frame. In the shelter of this hiding place, heavy breathing makes up the entire soundtrack. There is some jerkiness as the picture rights its angle and swivels around, looking for the target. It finally lands on two blobs walking in the distance. It zooms in on its focus.
00.13.49 shows my brother and Ally walking through the park, holding hands. It’s hard to tell what they are saying, but Ally’s talking fast and gesticulating wildly with her free hand. Brian looks bored. They stop and pet a dog. The breathing soundtrack remains heavy.
00.15.35 and they sit on the grass. Brian sits first and Ally falls on top of him, apparently causing him more pain than the joke is worth. She feels bad and rubs his back. He rubs his side and squints with pain, but then he looks at her and laughs. Not hurt after all. She pretends to be mad and pushes him. They’re both laughing now. Another dog approaches them with a Frisbee, which Brian takes and throws in the direction of the camera. The screen ducks to avoid detection. Ally and Brian look at each other, then look away and don’t say anything. The breathing soundtrack becomes harder, faster.
Ally and Brian look back at each other, and this time my brother says something, and Ally nods. He takes her lower jaw in his hand and leans in close, lingering on the kiss for, according to the time code, four seconds. He stops, looks around, and then moves in for another.
00.16.35 and they’re making out hardcore. The camera zooms in as far as it can reach. It looks as if they’re sucking air out of each other, and sometimes they open their mouths enough to see their tongues. The camera never wavers. He’s got his hand running through her hair and she’s rubbing up and down his arm, sometimes on his leg or waist. Brian tries to move lower, first on her shoulder and then her arm. She brings his hand back up to cradle her face. The breathing on the soundtrack turns to whimpering.
At 00.20.28 the battery runs out, and the image goes black.
Dinner and a Movie
My mom calls out for dinner. I shut the LCD monitor to the camera, ashamed. I put the camera down on the carpet, consider taking the tape out, think better of it, but wash my hands anyway. I turn off the lights in my room, arm wrapped around the doorframe to avoid looking into the darkness. I shut the door behind me as I head upstairs to the dining room.
No burnt food this time, but it’s still a disappointment. I frown when Mom shoves a plate of stir-fry in my hands. Cooking used to be her passion. She used to impress me and Brian with Eggplant Parmesan, sautéed tilapia, or cranberry-marinated pork chops before she only had one son to impress. Now we have pasta, tacos, meatloaf and stir-fry on a rotating basis. She spends less time in the kitchen, and we spend more time eating in front of the television. My parents eat on the couch, and I eat on the floor.
We watch the local news. The news anchor asks an old guy questions about the missing children. The old guy doesn’t have any idea what’s going on.
At the commercial break, my dad mutes the television. Without the sound, the commercial’s editing looks manic and illogical. I become hypnotized by the fast cuts.
Dad tells me that mom is going away on a vacation. She’s going to her sister’s, my aunt, who lives over a thousand miles away from Silver Creek.
“How come?” I ask between bites of broccoli. I don’t turn around to face him, but watch him in the reflection of the television. He shifts in his seat. Mom puts her hand on his knee for support. I shovel more vegetables in my mouth.
“Your mother thinks—and I agree—that she needs a little time off,” he says. “Things have been stressful here.” He removes my mother’s hand from his knee. “And you know … .” He trails off, and we all become sidetracked by an over-stylized mattress commercial.
“You guys will be able to have some quality boy time,” my
mom says, after the commercial’s finished. “Two bachelors. Party time.” My dad laughs, an over-eager laugh that sounds hysterical.
I poke around at the food on my plate; it has been arranged into some unintentional smiley face. “But school’s just started.” It’s all I can think of to say. Most kids relish the thought of their parents leaving, but Mom has been gone more or less for the past year already. The thought of her physical absence, however, fills me with a nameless dread.
“Yes,” my father says. He watches an advertisement for the new aquarium in our town: Grand Opening soon! “We’ll have fun. Just you and me. Like Mom said: two bachelors. Bachelor pad. Bachelor living.”
It sounds like a threat.
“But, Mom.”
“That aquarium looks fun,” Mom says, distant again. Dad shushes everyone because the news is back on.
I get up and clear my place—clear the floor, I guess—and put my plate in the sink. In the other room, my dad turns the volume of the TV up to, in my opinion, ear-splitting levels. The baritone of the newscaster explodes through our subwoofer. I say goodnight as I head downstairs. They don’t hear me.
The voice of the newscaster follows me downstairs: “Due to recent events, the curfew is still in effect. Sheriff Lancaster has issued an advisory … .”
I lie on my bed and the movie posters in my room watch me toss.
What’s wrong? Suspiria asks.
Yeah, Nightmare on Elm Street 3 says. Your mom gone. It’ll be fun.
Horror Business Page 3
