Horror Business

by Ryan Craig Bradford

  “I definitely don’t want to do that,” Megan says, rolling her eyes.

  “Fine. You guys can just say you’re scared and we’ll call it a day.”

  “We’re not pussies,” I say. “I’m down for a little graveyard sleep out.” My fear of ghosts becomes trumped by the chance to spend a night out with Ally. I try to send Steve the hint. “It’ll be fun.” I side nod to the where the girls stand.

  “Oh. Right.” I think he gets the message.

  “Cool, this Saturday. We can bike up there. Come up with something to tell your parents.”

  We all nod except for Megan, who only sighs.

  “I thought I was dead,” Ally says. Megan looks horrified. I’ve only known her for a few minutes, but I can’t see why Ally would keep her around as a friend. “I mean”—Ally looks between me and her friend—“I mean, what are we shooting today? Didn’t we already film my death scene?”

  “There’s still a lot of the script that I haven’t shot yet.” I pause. “I’ll just edit it together later. You’ll never know the difference.”

  “Then what scene are we filming?”

  “It’s the disclosure scene, where Ted pretends he’s Sam and—”

  “Hold on,” Steve says. “I thought Brian was playing—” He stops.

  “No, I can play both parts,” I say.

  Steve mutters an apology, but not loud enough. Megan leans back against my counter and smacks her gum. Somewhere out in the autumn afternoon, there is a faint scream of a child. We begin filming the scene.

  Brock III

  I sit on my front porch before school starts and eat my breakfast Popsicle. The sky is overcast. My breath, visible. I put my hands in my sleeves to hold the stick. A couple kids walk by, younger kids on their way to elementary school. Two girls and a boy. When they see me, the two girls whisper something and giggle before scampering off. The small boy shrugs at me and continues on his way. A minivan trails not too far behind them with a stressed-out mother hugging the wheel. They’re always watching.

  Inside the house, Dad turns on the TV and puts the volume so loud I can hear it through the door. More children walk by, bullshitting and laughing until they notice me watching them. I wave, and they run away in the same manner as the others, almost right into my dog.

  Unfazed by his near-collision, Brock saunters up the sidewalk to our yard. I don’t remember letting him out last night, but maybe I forgot to take him in. He looks worn out—his tongue flops out of his mouth and his head is so low that his nose almost scrapes the ground. He carries a wet-dog smell along with him. I retch from the stink.

  “Hey boy.” I put my hand out to pet him.

  He doesn’t come, not immediately. He stops a couple feet from me and takes a seat himself. He pants and looks around with darting eyes. An early-morning butterfly floats by. Brock becomes enraptured. He can’t seem to focus on it for long, like a drunk failing a sobriety test. He starts whimpering and looks to me, as if for advice, then back at the insect.

  The butterfly bounces close to his snout and with sobering speed the dog chomps down on the bug, severing one of the wings. Pieces of it flutter to the sidewalk. Brock chews absently as the rest of the bug falls out of his mouth. Content on destroying the butterfly, Brock stands up and walks over to me. He licks my face, trying to get some of the sugar there. I shudder. I hold the remnants of the stick high so he can’t reach and I try to push him away. He slobbers all over me. The wet-dog smell becomes overwhelmed by his breath. There is a distinct smell of something dead on it. I imagine him tonguing dead butterfly pieces all over my face and push him off.

  “Down.” I give him my best stern voice.

  Obediently, Brock backs off and sits.

  “Good boy.” I watch more kids pass, trying not to pay attention to Brock in front of me. It’s difficult; I’ve never seen my dog beg like this. Never seen him beg at all, actually. He whimpers again and bows his head to nibble on his scratches. It’s been days since the battle and the scratches don’t seem to be healing at all. They look worse and the skin is bare from my dog biting at it.

  He’s not panting or whimpering anymore. He stares at me with black, unblinking eyes. He breaks eye contact to stare at the Popsicle.

  “No beg!” I scold him with my finger.

  Brock takes a step toward me and growls. He’s never growled at me before.

  “No beg,” I repeat, but my voice fails me, and I whisper it.

  Brock steps closer and bares his teeth. I stand up. He barks. I throw the stick across the yard, and he chases it. He picks it up and chews it with the side of his mouth, his face in a half-grimace. Jagged splinters litter the ground around his paws. He whimpers but continues to chew. He gnaws until the entire stick is in pieces. He looks back at me with his usual dumb-dog smile and his tail wagging.

  “You’re welcome, fucking mutt.”

  Brock keeps wagging his tail. I can’t stay mad at him. “I’m sorry,” I say and walk over to pat his head. He lifts his snout and licks my hand.

  I go inside to get my backpack and do some adjustments to my hair. I wash my hands. When I come back out, Brock has left, leaving only the dead butterfly.

  [rec 00:03:43]

  Warm colors sharpen as the focus forms an image of an older woman. The image shows her more radiant than you know her now. It reminds you that she was happy once. She sits obediently as the image brightens, darkens, blurs and sharpens.

  Woman: My. You’re so professional.

  Offscreen: Well, you know. All right, I think we’re set. Are you ready to begin?

  Woman: Yes, dear.

  Offscreen: What’s your favorite scary movie?

  Woman: I like the old ones. The ones you guys watch are too gory for me. However, I really like Jaws. That has some pretty gruesome parts in it.

  Offscreen: Yeah. Well, kind of.

  Woman: Movies about nature always upset me, because nature is so unpredictable. There was a reason that Jaws kept people off the beaches for an entire summer after its release. Because it was real, that it could really happen.

  Offscreen: Hm.

  Woman: I know it seems a little silly. It’s the same with The Birds. That movie creeps me out. They seem so docile, and we keep them in our houses. Ew, it makes me cringe thinking about their little black eyes.

  Offscreen: Have you seen Cujo?

  Woman: No, what is it?

  Offscreen: It’s about a dog. He’s bitten by a bat and becomes rabid or something.

  Woman: Yes, that’s what I’m talking about. Corrupted nature. These are all good examples of how a “controlled” animal can turn on us, thus toppling the hierarchy.

  Offscreen: You are old.

  Woman: Oh, you be quiet. (Laughs) Is that what you were looking for?

  Offscreen: Yeah, that’s perfect. Thanks, Mom. Can you state your name for editing purposes?

  The woman does and the image goes black.

  Suspects

  These days, it only takes the wrong kind of glance to get people suspicious.

  Especially with everyone on edge and all.

  “What’s going on?” I ask. Steve stops walking and slings his backpack from one shoulder to the other.

  There are two police cars parked in front of Old Hilborn’s house with lights flashing. The sheriff questions the decrepit old man while two deputies crowd him on both sides. The afternoon is hot and Hilborn is dressed in his underclothes and knee-garters that hold up his black socks. From where we are standing, we can’t hear what he’s telling the officer, but his arms wave above his head.

  “I don’t know,” Steve finally responds, transfixed on the spectacle. “Oh wait.”

  “What’s up?”

  “I overheard some girls in the hall, maybe it was Shelly English? But yeah, anyway”—he licks his lips—“I think she was saying something about Hilborn saying something to her about her being pretty or something.”

  “What?”<
br />
  “I don’t know, but you know how it is. Especially now.”

  I do know how it is. I think of the neon flyers.

  Shelly English. Hilborn makes some comment at her. She tells her parents. They call the sheriff. This is how I imagine what happened.

  Steve and I stare from across the street as Hilborn flails his arms and calls the officers “assholes.” The deputies grab him by the arms and shove him against his door. We hear the old man’s pained groan from where we stand. The sheriff leans in close and jabs his finger into Hilborn’s chest, accentuating each whispered word. Bullies, I think, and then imagine Colt in a police uniform.

  The trio eases off Hilborn, who slumps against his door, relieved from the pressure. The sheriff whistles and motions for the others to follow. They obey and leave the scene. Hilborn sends them off with his middle finger. He sees us looking at him from across the street. He shakes his head. One of his garters comes loose and the sock falls down. We continue on our way home.

  The Cemetery

  My dad never drinks when my mom’s around, but now he’s buying beer and whiskey. There’s already one empty bottle of rye in the recycle bin. He doesn’t even keep the booze out of reach—just puts it right next to the cereal. So easy to steal.

  My original plan was to pour the alcohol into a water bottle, but there is already a noticeable amount missing. Instead, I shove the entire bottle into my backpack. Dad snores from the living room, and I write him a small note, even though I doubt he’ll even see it before I get back.

  Sleeping over at Steve’s house. Be back in the morning.

  I meet Steve an hour earlier than the girls are supposed to arrive. We help ourselves to the booze. A couple shots in and Steve can’t stop talking about boobs.

  Ally and Megan arrive on time. The alcohol makes us flirtatious, which even Megan seems to find charming. I think she likes Steve by the way she laughs harder at his jokes.

  I don’t offer the girls any of our whiskey, still unsure of how that will play out. I put on my backpack, loaded with the alcohol, chips, chocolate bars, and trail mix that Steve added. We travel by bike. We leave our anxious town behind.

  ***

  Our cemetery rests high in the mountains that surround Silver Creek. I don’t know too much about the history, but most of the headstones are old; the most-recent deaths being in the 1960s.

  From our town to the cemetery, it’s about thirty minutes by car. Because the road is so windy it never gets steep, making it easy for us to bike. It usually takes me an hour and a half to ride it, but I figure having the girls with us adds an extra hour. The inappropriate amount of effort Megan has put into her outfit—heavy make-up and revealing shirt—gives me the impression that she’s not much of an athlete, and Steve keeps getting distracted by her cleavage.

  The sun dwindles. I want to get up the mountain before nightfall. The road up to the cemetery is unlit and could be dangerous at night. Dangerous and frightening.

  We travel fast like witches, our bikes kicking up dead leaves. The dying-summer wind rustles Ally’s black hair. None of us wear helmets, and the alcohol makes my steering carefree and sloppy. A fast-moving car honks, nearly knocking me off my bike. I give it the finger. Even Megan laughs. It feels really good not to be scared.

  The end of the main street is the beginning of the mountain road. The path to the cemetery. We don’t look back as we climb.

  ***

  After an hour of climbing, it’s hard to breathe. None of us smile anymore. The whiskey wears off, and I’m left with a dull sensation. The beginning of a headache. Only the girls were smart enough to bring water. Tall oak trees line the road so thick that it blocks the sun, creating a false twilight and lowering the temperature. I shiver in a layer of drying sweat.

  We stop at a little dirt pull off to take a break. The girls drink from their water bottles. I’m ravenous for it. I feel dumb for not bringing my own.

  “Are we almost there?” Megan asks. Sweaty bangs stick to her forehead.

  “We probably have a couple more miles to go,” I say. “We haven’t even got to the dirt road yet.”

  Megan looks at me, appalled.

  “It turns into a dirt road a mile away from the actual cemetery.” I feel like a deer caught in Megan’s headlights. I look to Steve for support.

  “It’s not so bad,” Steve says. He’s the most athletic out of all of us. “And it gets less steep up there.”

  “It better,” Megan snaps.

  An owl hoots above us, making me feel very isolated. Vulnerable.

  “You know,” Ally says. “This cemetery is the last place Greg Mackie went before he disappeared.” Her eyes widen at the foreboding statement

  “How do you know?”

  “It’s the last time I saw him. He told me that he was going to do some location scouting, you know, for the movie. He thought that the cemetery would be a good setting.”

  “I didn’t write any scenes for a cemetery,” I say.

  “That’s what he told me. The next day, there was one of those announcements at school.”

  She means when the principal gets on the intercom to alert the students of another disappearance. We’re told that we should be extra careful and sympathetic regarding this sensitive issue and so on. Most of the time, the principal mispronounces the name.

  “He was gone,” Ally clarifies, and she looks to the surrounding woods as if expecting Greg to jump out and scare us all.

  “That doesn’t mean that he disappeared in the graveyard,” Steve says, looking at me for verification. He looks scared, but it could be the dehydration. “I mean, he probably ran away.”

  “If that’s what you think happens to them,” Ally says.

  “Do you girls like whiskey?” Steve tries to change the subject.

  “Wait,” I say. “What do you think happens to them?”

  “I don’t know,” Ally becomes defensive.

  “You have whiskey?” Megan asks, in a better mood.

  “Yeah, we do. Have you ever had it before?”

  “I’ve snuck some of my dad’s beer. Once.”

  “You’re probably right,” continues Ally. “He probably just ran away.”

  Ally gets on her bike and starts to climb the hill again. Steve and Megan are still talking about alcohol.

  “Come on,” I say. “Let’s go. We should get to the cemetery before it gets dark. We can have the whiskey when we get there.”

  ***

  Once the road turns to dirt, we stop riding. We’re tired, and our bikes don’t have very good traction. We finish the rest on foot, pushing our bikes. Owls hoot overhead. Noiseless silhouettes of bats fly over us and spiral up to the heavens, probably waiting for the night’s permission to turn into vampires. The sky turns overcast, making everything look black and white and underexposed. Every crack from a falling branch sets me on edge. My legs hurt from all the riding, and the dull feeling in my skull progresses into a full-blown headache. I don’t feel like resting. A mosquito lands on my neck and I smack it; my hand comes back speckled.

  We turn a corner and see where the path narrows and funnels into the gate—the cemetery entrance. The rock wall that runs the parameter rises high and forms into a giant archway over the gate, with an iron “G” cemented in at its apex. None of us know what it stands for.

  Two headlights flash on when we come close. Two eyes sitting under the archway.

  The cemetery’s guardian.

  A motor starts and the car creeps toward us. I look at my friends and think of the practicality of running off the road into the woods. The car sounds old from the way it coughs and sputters. Probably as old as the cemetery.

  When it’s close enough, the driver rolls the window down. At first I think it’s a student because of the letterman jacket, but then he talks and my eyes adjust from the sudden blinding of the headlights. He’s not young, but skeleton-esque. His eyes bulge under a thin crew cut. His jaw looks
sunken because of the way his cheekbones protrude. His voice is high and delirious.

  “Hey kids,” he falsettos. “Whatcha doing?

  “Nothing,” I say.

  “Camping,” Steve says.

  “In the graveyard?” This sends him into a fit of laughter. “Shit. Don’t you know about the curfew? There’s a monster out there snatching up kids.” He scans our group and runs a gray tongue over his gapped smile.

  A woman rises from his lap. Lipstick smears the corner of her mouth like a giant cold sore. She’s only wearing a bra. Her hair hangs down and covers her eyes. “It’s gonna be dark soon,” she says in a deeply raspy voice that is anything but sexy. “We can give you a ride if you want.”

  “No thanks,” Ally says, tugging my arm.

  “I see how it is,” the guy says, eyeing Ally. “Come on Darline. Let’s leave these kids alone, so they can … camp.” A low chuckle. “We warmed it up for you!” That sends him into a hysterical fit, and the two screech off down the dirt road. I hear him laughing until they disappear around a corner.

  None of us are having fun anymore.

  We enter the cemetery, and it swallows us.

  ***

  Nighttime looms, and I’m sure behind every headstone there’s a ravenous ghoul ready to pounce on any one of us. The clouds part, and the moon illuminates the graveyard. Every firefly is a set of werewolf eyes. Ally walks close to me, and I let my hand hit hers as we walk. She doesn’t move to avoid it. Megan and Steve bring up the rear. Every now and then, they giggle. It’s a nervous laugh, and I wish they would stop. We enter the clearing at the edge of the tombstones. A group of vampires flies overhead.