Howls From Hell

by Grady Hendrix

  JML: “Active . . . crop?”

  AE: You know. A girl who becomes a bit boy-crazy.

  JML: Ah, I see. Sometimes the newfangled colloquialisms escape me. Please proceed.

  AE: (Giggles.) So, yes. Just crazy about boys. Later, she dated a certain boy, a troublemaker. I became infatuated with him too, that amazing head of hair . . . oh well. (Long sigh.) My grades were improving, but it was mostly because I used crib notes.

  JML: How did that make you feel? Did your status of being viewed as the “good” twin influence you in any way?

  AE: I don’t know. It’s complicated. I’m not sure what I could have done differently. Could I have prevented it all from happening? I don’t know. I just know for all my efforts I get bupkis. What’s the point?

  JML: She did some horrific things. The institution’s nurses have said that the chemicals in her brain aren’t functioning as they should. Synapses, hormones. She has no control over what she does, and neither do you. Don’t blame yourself for any of her actions.

  AE: Oh, I don’t. I know—she did what she did. There were early warning signs, mind you.

  JML: Like what?

  AE: Well, she would pull these schoolyard tricks. You know, harmless pranks. Tying kids’ shoes together, placing thumbtacks on the teacher’s chair, putting itching powder down the pants of schoolmates, pushing—

  JML: Down their pants? Goodness.

  AE: Yeah, well, that’s all innocent in comparison, don’t you think?

  JML: Well, but—

  AE: Then she began stealing greenbacks out of Barbara’s purse when she wasn’t looking. Peanuts at first, but more money later on. Barbara would snap her cap and scold both of us, but I’d always point my finger at her. She always protested it. She was so over the top. It was almost laughable. Who knows where she spent the money. I saw nothing new in her bedroom or at school.

  JML: Laughable? Interesting word choice, Annie. We must remember that your sister isn’t well. Her brain doesn’t work like ours. It’s out of order. God has a plan for all, and we must trust that He knows what’s best. Perhaps . . . otherworldly beings influenced your sister. Demons? What else could drive a young female to perform such unspeakable acts?

  AE: (Laughter.) Demons? You think demons made her nail all the neighborhood cats to trees? You think a little red devil forced her to put rat poison in the milkman’s delivery bottles? To spread blood and feces all over the gymnasium walls at school?

  JML: Well, I . . . okay, you’re right. I—

  AE: Do you know the worst thing she did?

  JML: I have a list of her incidents in this folder, but I haven’t reviewed them all.

  AE: She made her boyfriend go to sleep forever. Yeah, the troublemaker one. She said she force-fed him stolen barbiturates. Soon after, he started slurring his words and gasping for breath. Then the euphoria kicked in and he could no longer move. Apparently, his pretty little eyes were dancing against his will.

  (Dr. Landry’s chair squeaks.)

  AE: After that, she separated each of his fingernails from their nail bed and superglued them all to his chest in the shape of an M. Then she shaved his head, stuffed the hair into his throat, and watched his body writhe as he choked for air. She then carved M’s all over his lower torso with a utility knife. She left a kiss on his forehead with her favorite red lipstick.

  JML: (Loudly clears throat.)

  AE: That’s not even the weirdest part. She encircled his body with thirteen kerosene-soaked pigeon heads and set them aflame. And placed a queen of hearts playing card below his groin. (Long pause.) I’ve had dreams—I mean nightmares—about that ever since she told me. Rumor had it he was necking with our school’s head cheerleader, Mary Miller, out at Griffin Park. (Loud scoff.)

  JML: Excuse me, I feel a bit ill . . . (Slurps from coffee mug.) That’s a level of detail I wasn’t expecting. I don’t see that on this list. She killed him? (Shuffling of notes.) I . . . wasn’t told she was the prime suspect for the case. I’m—I’m just a therapist and their communication leaves much to be desired. This is . . . (Pen scribbling. Clears throat.) I must, um, report this additional information, you understand? This is above my pay grade. (Long sigh.) If she’s not proven to be insane, they may execute her for murder. Now, I assure you, she is receiving help from the state’s best physicians. I hear they’re using novel methods to cure whatever awful disease has plagued her, beguiled her to do these nasty, demonic things.

  AE: Yes, she told me before she went away last. I don’t have any evidence myself, but I suspect the police can match the lipstick to the one on her nightstand. Maybe it’s not a dysfunctional brain. Maybe she’s finally revealed her true self. There could be a bunch of things she’s done that we’ve yet to discover.

  JML: Why are you smiling?

  AE: I didn’t mean to. I don’t know. Smiling, I guess, to keep the tears away?

  JML: Hmm, yes. Could be your defense mechanism. These mechanisms are things we do to cope with our negative feelings. They mask them. Perfectly normal. I’ve seen patients smirking when speaking of their children drowning. The human body is not equipped to deal with such horrors.

  AE: Defense mechanisms, interesting. Yes, I guess that’s why I smile here and there. You said my sister is receiving top medical treatment. What exactly are they doing to her? Last time she went away, they shot electricity into her head. Are they still doing that?

  JML: Ah, yes. I see it here . . . her last treatment of electroshock therapy was in June. I don’t see another instance of it. That’s not to say they haven’t done it recently and have yet to fill out the paperwork. Oh, good. They’re administering Metrazol—today’s first line in mental instability treatment. It’s a medication used to induce seizures. They were trying to shake her disease out of her brain. To fix her. Seizures can help rid the body of many illnesses, including schizophrenia. You said your sister has acted like many people in the past?

  AE: Yes, she has acted like different people, not herself. Sometimes she would take on an unfamiliar accent or hold wildly different opinions on things. It was strange. It was only me who saw it, though. Whenever we were at school or in front of our parents, she always acted normal. She only revealed that side of her to me. No one else.

  JML: Are you all right? Your eye is twitching uncontrollably.

  AE: Oh, yes. Quite all right. It has been on the fritz lately . . . unsure why.

  JML: Hmm, very interesting. Oh, my. It says here that one of her Metrazol-induced seizures broke a few of her vertebrae.

  AE: Doctor, are you allowed to share her sensitive information with me?

  JML: Yes, the current law states medical information can be shared among family members, and seeing as your sister is currently incapacitated, I don’t see her objecting to it. Do you wish for me to stop?

  AE: No, no. It’s quite all right. Please do share.

  JML: So, yes, her seizures. A pity. And afterward, it appears she suffered from episodic amnesia. (Inaudible muttering.) Yes, it looks like they are closer to her cure. She has had no violent episodes or bouts of cursing or crying since her last treatment.

  AE: So, she’s okay? (Long pause.) Do you think I can ever get my sister back? Do you think she will return home?

  JML: She’s done terrible deeds, monstrous deeds—and if what you’ve told me is true, far worse deeds than we’ve realized—she’s a diagnosed schizophrenic. I’m uncertain, but I believe she will spend her life in the ward. I’m also not sure about visitations. She’s in solitary confinement and on suicide watch.

  AE: Suicide watch?

  JML: Yes. Nurses and guards take extra precautions regarding their every interaction with your sister. It’s terrible and upsetting, and I’m sorry. There’s not much we can do about it. She’s committed heinous acts. She belongs there and you belong here. You’re the good sister.

  AE: (Sobbing. Sniffling.) Good sister . . .

  JML: Oh, dear. Did I put my foot in my mouth again? I sincerely apologize. I hav
e disposable handkerchiefs in one of these drawers. (Rustling in desk drawer.) Ah, here we are. (Shallow sigh.) In all my years, none of my patients have progressed this much—at least this quickly. You’ve displayed such moxie today.

  AE: (An increasingly measured voice.) I hate when she’s taken away. And now it sounds like she’ll be away forever.

  (Chair legs skid against linoleum floor.)

  JML: Wait, what in—what in God’s name are you doing?

  (Shuffling. Shattering glass.)

  JML: Put the glass down. Down this instant! Annie . . .

  AE: I don’t want to pretend anymore!

  JML: Pretend—pretend what? Jesus, Mary, and Joseph . . .

  AE: That I didn’t do all those things. That I’m the good twin!

  (Papers scatter. Dr. Landry’s chair screeches and crashes.)

  JML: (Gurgling. Labored inhalations.) No, no, no, no, no . . .

  (Hammering. Door slamming. Scuffling of feet.)

  (A drawn out shriek. Indecipherable speech in a guttural voice.)

  (Microphone levels peak. More shattering glass. Filing cabinet crashes to floor.)

  [End of wire recording]

  [Note: Original recording missing three days after initial transcription.]

  [File #351b]

  [Property of Wichita Police Department]

  Shane Hawk is an emerging indigenous dark fiction writer. Shane received a BA in history from California State University San Marcos, as well as a single-subject credential for both social science and English. When he's not working with students or writing fiction, he enjoys the outdoors, photography, and watching classic '80s movies—all with his fiancée, Victoria Fletcher. You can find Shane on Twitter at @shanehawkk or at his author website shanehawk.com.

  Illustration by Joe Radkins

  Julia’s nose stung with the vinegar scent of acetate, and she winced at its abrasive familiarity. Fumes wafted from the film while she searched the rusty canisters for clues, but neither titles, nor dates, nor anything else eased the task of identification. With nothing more to guide her, she began the careful process of threading the 16 mm reel into the projector.

  Once the leader was secured around the take-up reel, she flipped on the machine and it whirred to life, the beam of light suspending particles in the air. For a moment she watched their lazy drift. She opened her notebook and leaned into her chair, relaxing as the hum of the projector filled the barren screening room. The stack of canisters, dust motes, and shadows would be her only Saturday companions.

  The countdown flickered past, and the scene opened on a man sitting in a plain wooden chair who stared out of frame. An overcoat wrapped his lanky body, and a wide-brimmed hat concealed half his face in shadow. Idly, he stroked his mustache as if lost in thought. Behind his chair was a white backdrop, ruffled and parted like the closed curtain of a stage, and he did nothing but sit there for a full minute.

  Feeling the weight of her eyelids, Julia gulped down coffee, chastising her formerly drunken self for accepting this job offer. She’d noticed her professor’s email around eleven o’clock the night before. Twenty euros an hour to classify old, donated footage sounded like a dream when she was three Duvels deep at Cafe Thijssen, but it had since lost some appeal.

  Dr. van der Meer’s proposal of an impromptu—and illegal, if they were being honest—job opportunity was a surprise, especially on a weekend. But despite her discomfort, she was grateful for the chance to earn some cash. At the bar, while the two girls from her film program were in the restroom, she made the mistake of checking her bank account balance, and her beer lost its flavor. She could’ve turned down the invitation to go out, but she was too grateful they’d asked. Making film school friends had sounded so easy back home. God forbid she be forced to ask her parents for more help. Their generosity was the only reason she’d been able to leave Colorado at all, and that pool of guilt spilled across the Atlantic.

  The man looked at the camera and jolted, the sudden movement jerky and exaggerated by the slow frame rate. Julia jumped too, her heart rate accelerating. The man leaned forward and peered at the camera. Surprise contorted into grim amusement. His nostrils flared with heavy, slow breaths.

  His unfaltering stare was potent enough to instill the effects of observation. She squirmed in the hard seat—an awkward, unnatural struggle.

  The man rose from his chair, not flinching when it silently toppled behind him. The hair on Julia’s skin bristled—though she couldn’t say exactly why—as he approached the camera, feet slow and deliberate as if stepping through molasses.

  Unnerving as he was, Julia couldn’t help noting the film was remarkably well-preserved: few cinch marks, no torn sprocket holes, beautiful contrast in the blacks and whites. The donor must have taken good care of it.

  Closer and closer the man came, until his features were blurred patches of grey. The amorphous form of his mustache consumed the screen. Then he lowered his face and raised his hand to the lens, twisting it until he was in focus again. His gaze never left the camera, pupils dilating like he could see into the darkness and penetrate the inner workings of the machine.

  He remained there another thirty seconds, eyes shifting as he examined the device’s lens. As he did so, Julia imagined she could see through his pupils to his brain and examine the mechanisms of his biological camera, the curious mind that must have inspired such a creation.

  Could this just be an experimental piece? An early counterpart to cinéma vérité? The reel wasn’t dated, but her knowledge of film history placed it in the early 1920s. After four years at university and one in the graduate program, early filmmakers still fascinated her. Their creativity with the novel medium—from the fantastical works of Méliès to the slow cinema of whoever this guy was—always manifested in unexpected ways.

  Despite his relative inactivity, she couldn’t take her eyes off him.

  He pulled back, grinning. He laughed hysterically. Was she witnessing the fruition of his life’s work? The thought made her smile despite the situation, lessened the sting of being anywhere but home in bed.

  He readjusted the lens and backed up to the center of the room beside the toppled-over chair, then held up a single finger as if to tell her “one moment” before walking offscreen.

  Julia stared at the chair while nothing happened for over a minute. The waste of film was painful to witness. She bobbed her leg, bit down on her pen. Soon though, the man returned, lugging a piece of heavy equipment. The metal legs of a tripod gleamed as they reflected a light somewhere behind the camera. A dark box sat at the top, one taller than the man’s head. A second camera.

  She shivered beneath her sweater and folded her arms.

  Occulted by the new camera, the man tinkered until, apparently satisfied, he stepped around it, grinning. He looked back and forth between the two machines and looked on proudly as they recorded each other for several minutes. Finally, he shut off the new camera, then came center-frame again. He stared at the first camera—at Julia—for a long time, arms folded in smug self-satisfaction, like he was the cleverest bastard in Europe. He disappeared off screen again, then returned with a projector.

  “No fucking way,” she said to the empty room, watching him transfer film from the camera to the projector. “There is no fucking way you’re about to do this.”

  She laughed to herself, tried to brush off the creeping feeling. And yet, each movement on screen was stretched to infinity by the invisible tendrils sweeping across her skin.

  He’s just going to show the camera, she told herself. Anything else would be impossible.

  He straightened the white curtain, then flipped on the projector to reveal footage of the camera—the one which recorded the images she now watched, a film within a film. But it zoomed in further and further, until the screening room was swallowed in darkness. Then, a point of light grew in the center of the screen, with a figure inside it.

  She whimpered, the sound buried beneath the machine’s din.


  “Oh, shit.”

  Projected on the curtain was what she’d feared: a screening room with a lone occupant. A young American girl with thick-rimmed glasses, sitting alone beside a stack of reels, chewed-up pen and paper resting on her lap.

  Her analytical mind attempted gymnastic feats. A film that filmed back? Briefly, she considered the possibility of a prank, but even that couldn’t explain this. There was no machine, no technology, no possible way this could work. Nowhere in the annals of film history had someone created a device which could perform such a feat. Yet there she was, her own image displayed before her, on a film shot eighty years before her birth. She would have to examine it, frame by frame, under a microscope to see what was really there.

  But first, a curiosity needed to be satisfied. What would come next? The projector spun on, and she made no move to stop it.

  The camera zoomed out and the man peeked his head into the frame then grinned at her. He mouthed three words, and she read his lips clearly.

  “You are mine.”

  He pointed to his chest as he said “mine.”

  She dropped the pen and paper. Sweat coated her palms.

  The man held a handwritten sign to his chest—black, cursive ink on a white backdrop. On it was written: play us forever. He did not avert his gaze.

  For a long moment, he held the sign there, willing her to read all three words again and again.

  Her racing thoughts had no time to dissipate before her projector erupted into a spasm of crackling smoke and sizzling acetate. Julia cried out and lurched away. She jumped to stop the damage, but it was impossible. It wasn’t just the section of film being projected that was destroyed; it was the entire reel. The only evidence of what had just transpired, proof of an impossibility.

  Yet it didn’t burn or melt, but dissolved into ash instead.

  “No, no, fuck, no.”

  She tried to salvage some of the film, but it was no use. When she touched the greyish powder, it slipped through her fingers until there was nothing left.