by Nathan Allen
He returned ten minutes later, this time armed with the taser he had purchased recently from a seller on the internet.
“I figured if he loved drumming so much the most appropriate thing would be to turn him into a drum kit.”
Cameron was so bewildered by everything he had seen and heard in the past few minutes that he initially failed to catch on to what Eric was telling him. It was only when he took a closer look at the drumhead, which appeared to be made from some kind of thick beige material, then looked across at the neighbor with the bloody sheet wrapped around his body, that he made the connection and deduced that it was human skin stretched across the rims of the snare and tom drums.
His eyes then zeroed in on the two drumsticks Eric held in hands. They were long and white and irregularly-shaped. They looked suspiciously like fibulae bones.
A blanket of stunned silence fell over the room.
“Now we won’t have to worry about that infernal racket bothering us day and night,” Eric said. “And it’s inspired me to come up with this whole new ending. I’ve found a way to really ramp up the tension in the final ten pages. It has this insane twist that no one will ever see coming. The audience will be totally blindsided. I won’t tell you what it is though. I want you to read it for yourself and let me know what you think.”
The words spilled out of Eric in one long excitable stream, but none of it seemed to register with Cameron. He was unable to look away from their disfigured neighbor, the legless sideshow freak who, despite being subjected to several forced amputations and partially skinned alive, was still somehow clinging on to life.
“This is just wrong,” was all he could say. A creeping sickness was taking over as the full horror sunk in. He held onto the wall to steady himself. “This is so very wrong.”
Eric placed his shinbone drumsticks to one side. He looked at Cameron like an inquisitive child. “How do you mean?”
“I mean, you can’t do this to someone just because they annoy you, Eric. The ones from before, Robert Faulkner and Warwick Wilson – they were horrible people, and they were guilty of heinous crimes. We were doing the world a favor by getting rid of them. But this guy – he doesn’t deserve all this, just for disturbing our sleep patterns. And you can’t drag people down here whenever you feel like it. Especially not when they live next door to us.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s way too close to home, that’s why not! The police are going to knock on every door on the street when he’s reported missing. They’ll ask his girlfriend if he had any problems or arguments with anyone. Do you see what I’m getting at here?”
“I understand what you’re saying,” Eric said. He stood up from behind the kit. “You’re saying we have to bring his girlfriend down here, too.”
“No!” Cameron pushed him back onto the milk crate he was using as a stool. “No. I’m saying we have to put a stop to this before it gets even more out of hand than it already has.”
“Cameron, you need to relax,” Eric said, dismissing his concerns with a casual wave. “We’ll get away with it. We always do.”
“We have twice. And both times we were extremely careful. We put a lot of thought into what we were doing, and we made sure we covered our tracks. There was nothing to connect us with those two people. I wouldn’t call what you’re doing here being careful.”
A sheepish grin appeared on Eric’s face. “And I wouldn’t say it’s been only two people, either.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean ... there might have been a few more that you don’t know about. That’s all.”
Cameron felt a jolt pass through him. “How many more?”
Eric paused a moment to think. “I couldn’t tell you the exact number. Take a look in the freezer if you really want to know.” His grin grew wider. “But only if you really want to know.”
Chapter 25
Cameron could do little else but stare at the ceiling as he lay on his bed in a near-catatonic state. He searched his mind for answers, doing his best to block out the nightmarish sounds coming from the basement. He wanted to know how this could have all gone so wrong. How Eric could resort to such extreme depravity. How everything could spiral out of control so quickly.
But if he was being honest with himself, none of this should have really come as a surprise. He had read all the drafts, and he had seen first-hand the remarkable improvement in the quality of the writing. It was their most accomplished work to date, far beyond anything either of them had ever produced. And the majority of it sprung from Eric’s mind; he had taken on the lion’s share of the writing duties in the final weeks, while Cameron’s role was mostly to review and offer feedback.
He knew Eric couldn’t possibly have written anything that good without some sort of outside assistance. He must have been getting his material and his inspiration from somewhere. But he never asked any questions. He chose to remain willfully ignorant.
Keeping his head in the sand would no longer be an option. Not after what he had just seen.
There weren’t any bodies inside the freezer, which is what he expected to find when he lifted up the lid. But there were heads. Seven or eight frozen heads, arranged in a neat row. Men of all ages, sealed inside plastic bags, looking up at him with wide-eyed death stares.
He pulled the first few out, and discovered there were more underneath. And beneath those, even more still. The bodies that were once attached to these heads were nowhere to be found. They were most likely coyote food by now, left out in the desert somewhere for the wildlife to pick over. But their perfectly preserved heads were here inside the freezer. He didn’t know how many in total. At least twenty. Maybe thirty. Possibly even more. Heads kept as trophies, testaments to Eric’s unparalleled dedication.
The hapless victims, he would soon learn, had been lured to the house after Eric set up a fake Tinder account where he pretended to be an underage girl. The way Eric explained it, anyone who responded to his messages was up to no good, and that gave him the green light to do whatever he wanted to them. The men received a taser to the neck as soon as they walked through the front door, and they found themselves chained up in the basement before any feeling could return to their bodies.
This all took place over a seventeen day period, a time in which Cameron was showing less interest in contributing to the screenplay he was being paid to write, and more interest in enjoying the assorted lifestyle perks that came with being an up-and-coming Hollywood ink-slinger. That fact alone was enough to boggle the mind. Not only had Eric transmogrified to become one of the most prolific serial killers in recent history, he had done so in less time than it takes most people to complete a first aid course.
The demonic drumming came to a stop, giving way to the high-pitched buzz of a cordless drill.
A heavy weight pressed on Cameron’s chest as the neighbor’s howls of pain rang in his ears. His breathing became strained. He couldn’t believe this could all be happening to him. Just when there was a light at the end of the tunnel, when it looked like he was finally going to make it after enduring so many years of struggle, something like this had to happen. Everything he had worked so hard for would be snatched away just when the ultimate reward was within reach.
He caught a glimpse of the headlines that would scream from the front pages of tabloids when this whole sordid saga was made public, as it inevitably would: “HOLLYWOOD HACKS’ HOUSE OF HORRORS”. He envisioned the relentless media blizzard that would follow their arrest and trial. He imagined the trashy Ryan Murphy-produced TV movie made in the aftermath, and the distressing realization that Michael Cera, in a bid to stretch his acting range, would probably be cast to play him.
But worst of all was that this was all his fault. He didn’t want to admit it, but it was an inescapable fact. This whole method writing strategy was his idea to begin with. He was so deathly afraid of failure, and so single-minded in pursuit of his career, that he was willing to do just about anything to achieve his g
oals. He had forced Eric to participate against his will, and this was the fallout. Eric may have tumbled head-first into the abyss of madness, but Cameron had been the one to nudge him over the edge.
He thought back to when he first pitched the idea, several months ago at Starbucks. They were back at square one, desperately brainstorming for new ideas after yet another disastrous meeting with Michael Bay, when he spoke of the importance of writing a great villain. “The bad guy is the most important character in a work of fiction,” he told Eric at the time, attempting to justify what he was about to do. “We have to create one that’s unforgettable. One who’s a force of nature.”
Only now did he see how successful his plan had been. He and Eric had created the ultimate monster, and it was potentially one of the most terrifying creatures in the history of horror fiction. It was such a force of nature that it had taken on a life of its own. It had become so powerful they could no longer contain it. The monster had leaped from the pages of their screenplay and entered the real world.
And now it lived inside Eric’s body. Eric was the ultimate monster.
The remainder of Cameron’s day was spent locked inside his room as he furiously wrote and rewrote his most important piece of fiction yet. It was the story he was about to give the police.
He would tell them, with a tremor in his voice and a haunted look in his eyes, of how Eric had become withdrawn and secretive during these past few months. How he would spend days on end sequestered away in the basement, barely sleeping, watching one sadistic horror movie after another. About the change in his behavior as he struggled to deal with his failing screenwriting career, and the difficulty he appeared to have in separating the real world from the fictional one.
The signs were all there, he would say. He was becoming increasingly concerned about the state of his mental health, and what might happen without some sort of intervention. But never in a million years did he believe Eric could be capable of something like this.
He took a moment to review everything he had written, memorizing key points and making sure he had left nothing out. Most of it was true, more or less. There were only a handful of embellishments, as well as one or two select omissions.
He would take no pleasure in betraying his oldest friend like this, but Eric had left him with little choice. The sheer recklessness of his actions meant it was only a matter of time before the law caught up with them. If he did nothing he would just be delaying the inevitable. His only option now was to get on the front foot and alert the police, and if that meant Eric had to be the one to take the fall – and that Cameron would be left to claim sole credit for writing Wrong Turn – then so be it.
Besides, if he didn’t take immediate action it was only a matter of time before his own head ended up as a frozen block entombed in plastic. Cameron had inadvertently unleashed the latent psychopath lingering deep within Eric. That was part of his psyche unlikely to go away anytime soon.
He had the whole story worked out by early evening. He knew what he was about to say and how he was going to say it. He also knew how much of a risk he was taking here, since he could potentially incriminate himself for his role in the murders of Robert Faulkner and Warwick Wilson. But the fact that he was the one to report the crimes, coupled with the overwhelming evidence in the basement, should be enough to convince the police that Eric was the sole perpetrator.
He was ready to make the call.
Only he couldn’t find his phone.
For the life of him, he couldn’t remember where he’d put it. It should have been on the dresser in his bedroom, but it wasn’t. Nor was it on the bookshelf or the coffee table, or in the kitchen, the bathroom, or his jacket pockets.
He racked his brain, mentally retracing his steps as he tried to recall the last time he’d used it. He prayed to God that he hadn’t left it on the plane, as he’d done on two previous occasions. Maybe he’d done it again. He couldn’t remember using it since then.
On second thoughts, he had used it. He had it at the airport, when he fired off a quick text to his agent shortly after disembarking. And he had it in the Jeep, when he used it to stream an NPR podcast as he drove home.
The Jeep. It must still be in there.
He checked to make sure Eric wasn’t lurking nearby, then slipped out the back door. He crept over to the garage and climbed behind the wheel.
His phone wasn’t where it should have been. He’d left it in the holder mounted to the dash, but that was empty. A shiver of panic raced through him. He checked in his backpack, then in the glove compartment. He looked everywhere he could think to look. Nothing.
He took a deep breath and reminded himself not to panic. His phone was in here. It had to be in here somewhere. It couldn’t possibly be anywhere else. It was just a matter of finding it.
He reached forward and ran his hand beneath the front seat. There was some loose change that must have slipped from his pockets, and a couple of discarded candy bar wrappers. The floor felt dirty, with a surprising amount of gravel and tiny pebbles stuck under there. He made a mental note to have the whole car cleaned out at the first available opportunity.
His fingers then landed on a smooth rectangular object, and a wave of relief washed over him.
He pulled the phone out and switched it on.
Five seconds later, the screen went blank. The battery was dead.
“Goddamn it!” he muttered to himself.
He punched the steering wheel. This was the last thing he needed right now.
He quickly ran through his options in his mind. His phone was dead, and the charger was inside the house. He knew exactly where it was, too. It was plugged into the wall socket, next to the television. It would take less than a minute to go back in and retrieve it. But doing that meant he risked crossing paths with a man whose sanity was dangling by the finest of threads. At this moment, he would not be entirely comfortable until he put as much distance between himself and Eric as possible. The only sensible thing would be to leave now and find another phone to make the call from. If there was one thing he took away from all those terrible slasher movies he forced himself to sit through, it was that if you happened to find yourself in a house when a crazed psycho was on the loose, it was best to leave at your earliest possible convenience.
He put his seatbelt on and pressed the ignition button. The engine belched out a sick-sounding croak, and then died.
Cameron could only laugh at the growing absurdity of this living nightmare he found himself trapped inside. Everything that could possibly go wrong was going wrong. His Jeep had been running fine just a few hours ago. Now it sounded like it was on its last legs. He tried the ignition again, with the same result. And again, hoping and praying for a miracle. Still nothing.
No, no, no, he said over and over. This cannot be happening. It felt like one big elaborate joke the universe was playing at his expense. Or maybe it felt like he was a character in a poorly-written piece of horror fiction.
He vaguely recalled hearing some news item a few months back about faulty starter motors in certain models of Jeep. Something about cheap parts being used during the manufacturing process. He didn’t know the precise details. He cursed himself for not paying closer attention at the time.
He tried again, pumping his foot against the accelerator. He had no idea if this would do anything to help it start. “Come on, come on,” he begged. “Please don’t do this to me.”
He glanced over at the door to the garage. He half-expected to see Eric emerge at any moment. He pictured him waving a meat-cleaver around, covered head-to-toe in blood. He was ready to jump out and run at the first sign of movement.
He pressed the button once more, and the engine roared to life.
Cameron exhaled in sheer gratitude. He could not remember hearing a sweeter sound in all his life. He even managed a smile, despite the grim circumstances. He knew now he would make it out of there alive.
He put the car into reverse and adjusted the rear view mirror.
Looking back at him in the mirror’s reflection was the smiling face of a madman.
The deranged killer, the one who had been hiding in the back seat this whole time, pounced forward and threw his arm around Cameron’s throat. Cameron tried to fight him off but he was pinned to the seat, unable to move. His assailant’s forearm pressed hard against his windpipe, his strength bordering on supernatural.
“Wait ... no ...” Cameron gasped, struggling to free himself.
He felt two prongs press against the side of his neck, followed by fifty-five thousand volts rocketing through the length of his body.
His foot slipped from the brake and the Jeep lurched backwards. It slammed into the garage door, and the engine cut out.
Chapter 26
Cruising at thirty thousand feet above the Pacific Ocean, Michael Bay was completely and utterly mesmerized. His eyes had been glued to the page for over an hour. He could barely believe what he was reading. This was no ordinary screenplay he held in his hands, with basic stage directions and perfunctory dialogue. It was an exquisitely crafted piece of literature. A bona fide work of art. Every word leaped off the page, invoking such incredibly visceral imagery that the film appeared to play out right before his eyes. It was unlike anything he had ever read in his life. If the finished product was even half as good as what he thought it could be, Platinum Dunes would undoubtedly have another huge hit on their hands.
