They brought her into the welcoming glow. The room was a studio, illuminated by three lights plugged into a low-humming gas generator. Behind the lights, chrome umbrellas reflected harshly over the entire chamber. Dirty, painted walls, like those of the hallway, surrounded her, and she noticed the exceptional darkness of the night beyond the two windows on the north wall. Her clouded and contented mind didn't realize that the panes had been painted black. To her right a video camera stood on three chrome legs and pointed at a stained mattress lying uncovered in the center of the room. Four gleaming eye-bolts were driven into the concrete floor at each corner of the soiled bed. Connected to each of the bolts was a length of chain ending in a cuff-like bracelet. Above the mattress was a flaking iron pipe, and polished silver manacles draped from the rusting tube.
"All right," said Silver as the two men helped Kathy to the mattress. "Let's get started. Kathy, you fine honey?"
"Mmmm?" she mumbled.
"Good," Silver said. He rubbed his hands together quickly and grinned. "Dallas, William, help her into position. Hurry now."
Her body glided across the chamber. This was so much better than her other highs. She'd never felt so wholly removed from the pains and anxieties of the world. She wondered if she had overdosed, but this felt too wonderful to be an overdose. Kathy closed her eyes. She couldn't really focus on anything anyway, so why fight it? Besides, everything looked so much lovelier with her eyes closed. Then, she was lying down. When had that happened? Why were her wrists and ankles suddenly cold? Distantly she heard a thick voice call, "action."
She drifted in a beautiful stream somewhere between consciousness and heaven, without a single earthbound concern. Oh, she knew what was happening to her body. Distantly she could feel the weight, could feel the pressure on her, in her, but that was too far away to worry about. She'd found a pleasant fiction to lose herself in, and she wouldn't mind staying there forever. Here she could have a mother that baked cookies and wore pearls, and she could have a father that loved his little girl without shoving his cock in her, and here Keith kept her to himself, protecting her and loving her with all of the sincerity he claimed but never showed. What they did to her body didn't matter, because it was just a shell, a cell of meat and fluid and bone and a repository for agonies great and minor. She didn't need it—didn't want it.
But now, she was returning to the cell of her flesh because someone wanted her to. She struggled against it, because being away felt so much nicer. Someone slapped her, called her name (Kathy!), called her something else (Bitch!). Ice water drenched her face and pooled against her neck before the dirty mattress drank it away. She forced her lids open.
Above her, the bald man knelt. He still played with his knife.
The studio around them was full of people. Women, some dressed in magnificent gowns while others were clad in shabby denim, gazed at her prone body. Men in a similar range of fashion offered glances of appreciation while others looked bored. Couples made love in the shadows behind the glaring lights, their bodies moving as single silhouettes, completely unconcerned with the audience as they writhed in their dark corners. Desmond Silver grinned at her from behind the camera. It looked like his head was part of the device.
"Are we done?" she mumbled. "Can I see it now?" She tried to rise, but something clutched her wrists, weighed on her ankles. Her hands and feet tingled.
"Not quite," Silver said. "We still need to get a close-up. Dallas, are you ready?"
Discomfort shot along her forearm and Kathy cried out. "Can you take these things off now?"
"The close-up, dear," Silver muttered, leaning close to the viewing screen of his camera. "Must. . .have. . . a. . .close. . .up." He pressed a button on his camera, shook his head and repeated the gesture. "Dallas?"
"Anytime," the bald man replied.
Suddenly the euphoria retreated. Fear covered her like a blanket of nettles. Dallas knelt beside her, flexing his tattooed arms. Silver continued to fiddle with the video camera. He moved a light closer to the mattress. The audience whispered. Silver returned the light to where it had stood. Kathy saw the blade, opening and closing only inches from her face. It clicked loudly in her ear. William and the other man stopped laughing. Rapt anticipation froze their features. The generator hummed. How odd it seemed that this noise should make her understand the silence in the room.
"If it's a close-up," Kathy whimpered, "you don't. . ."
"Shhh," Silver hissed.
"But you don't. . ."
"Shut up!" the director said. "I need to frame this scene."
"Hey," she said. "You can't talk to me like. . .I mean, you could be nice. You don't have to. . ."
A dry hand slapped the rest of the words from her mouth.
"'Action," Silver called.
The blade flashed open and stayed open. Dallas slid against her on the mattress. He leaned down to Kathy's cheek, and his tongue, like a bloated leech, violated her ear. Hot breath oozed over her face. Kathy struggled against the binds. "I'm going to kill you now," the man whispered. "So let's see some action, star-child."
But he wasn't serious. This was just a movie. He couldn't be serious. Just a plot or something. The blade was a stage knife—made of rubber—that's why he hadn't cut himself with his tricks. Just a plot. It had to be. But she couldn't stop crying. Her throat felt swollen closed. Her body convulsed from fear. She struggled against the manacles and tore the flesh around her wrists and ankles, fighting to get away from the ink painted man beside her. She was only sixteen. Keith loved her. Just cinema. Just a movie. Just a plot. It had to be.
The blade caressed her cheek. Dallas grabbed a handful of her hair and yanked her head back, deep into the mattress. She tried to scream but her windpipe suddenly pinched. The cold blade slid over her chin like a steel tear. It traced along her throat, caught on something then continued across. Warmth spilled over her neck and chest, and when Kathy realized the heat must surely have been pouring from her own body, panic clamped down.
She screamed, and the sound filled her head. The warmth pulsed along her throat. She couldn't move. The bald man crawled off the mattress. Silver directed quietly from behind the camera. Kathy kept screaming. The sound filled her ears though it never left her opened neck. Above her, she saw the cracked ceiling swelling and contracting like respiration, as her body convulsed. The generator droned; the camera kept rolling.
Then, she fell. Backwards and down she fell, away from the noisy room and into her screams. The room washed out, bleached of its filth and its threat. And Kathy thought of Keith, thought of stardom, thought of nothing.
***
She swam in an opalescent pool. Dull gray shapes moved amidst the milky fluid. She recognized each of them despite the fact they had neither feature nor distinct form. Larry was there, telling her she wasn't mature enough for him. Her mother surfaced, screaming and swinging a broom handle, and then sank away as Keith and Desmond Silver drifted by, negotiating her fate. Teachers and friends, lovers and dealers coalesced and dissipated around her. A distant thunder of disco music accompanied the shapes in her head.
Kathy struggled to understand this place, and the more she struggled, the louder the music became. The gray images receded into the pool as its glow intensified.
When she opened her eyes, she stared at the ceiling and wondered where she was. She'd taken a long nap somewhere. A girl about her age knelt over her and smiled. The girl wrung a damp pink cloth into a bucket and reapplied it to Kathy's neck where the cool water bathed a nagging itch, which became apparent only after it had been soothed.
As she thought about her neck, she remembered Desmond Silver and remembered Dallas and his knife. Kathy screamed and rolled away from the girl, thinking that she still lay on the studio mattress. But she'd been moved and Kathy rolled into a wall. She drew her nails across the rough black surface. Screaming and kicking, she tried to escape through an impermeable obstacle. Her nails split and her throat ached.
"Oh don't," the girl sa
id. "Hey. Kathy. Hey. It's all right. Kathy?"
But she kept to her struggle. She had to escape or they'd really kill her the next time. Her body shuddered as she thought of Dallas' blade, and she fought even harder against the wall.
"Honey," the girl said. "Kathy?"
A strong hand touched her shoulder and rolled her back onto the cot. The girl's face, concerned and friendly, hovered inches from hers. A sweet perfume came from the girl, and her eyes were so kind.
"I'm Becky," the girl tried. "I'm from Omaha. Where are you from?"
Kathy's eyes raced in their sockets, fueled by panic and confusion. She couldn't understand what difference it made where she came from? They were going to kill her. But if they wanted her dead, wouldn't she be dead? As she considered this, she also considered the fact that she might have been on a bad trip. Maybe the movie magic had just seemed real. None of it made sense.
"I bet you're from Oregon," the girl said, placing a palm on Kathy's forehead, smoothing back the hair. "Are you?"
"Seattle," Kathy rasped.
"I hear it's beautiful there," Becky said. "I was starting to get worried. You've been asleep for a very long time. All day and most of the night. I know the first time can be traumatic, but. . ."
"Where am I?" Kathy asked.
"Generally, you're in L.A. Specifically, you're in Desmond's studio." Becky laughed at this, revealing a dreadful smile of swollen gums and broken and missing teeth. She noticed the disgust on Kathy's face, and a cloud passed over her features. She threw a palm to her mouth, hiding the destruction behind her lips. "Sorry, I did a scene yesterday. They haven't grown back yet."
Kathy sobbed.
Becky's face fell into concern again. She leaned into Kathy and hugged her as best she could. "What's wrong, honey?"
"They're going to kill us," Kathy sobbed. "Aren't they?"
"Probably," Becky said. She considered for a moment and said, "They've killed me, eight times, but I'm just about done. Desmond said that he's almost got the scene perfect. I'm very excited—you know, about the finished product? I can't wait to see it. He thinks it's going to be brilliant."
What was the girl saying? How could someone be killed eight times? How could someone be killed twice?
"Desmond is bril'," Becky said. "A total genius. Film is his medium."
Kathy sat up slowly, her eyes never leaving the young woman's beside her. "Aren't you afraid?"
Becky laughed and grabbed Kathy's shoulders gently. "There's nothing left to be afraid of. . .except algebra." Another ghastly smile split the otherwise beautiful face. "Let me give you a tour and I'll try to explain."
Kathy stood. She was naked, a light pink sheen covered her upper torso. "I have to get dressed."
"Suit yourself," Becky said. She led Kathy to a door and opened it to expose a rack of clothing. "Something here should fit you."
As Kathy began to dress, the girl explained, "Desmond has been working in this field for years. They used to call them 'snuff films'. Isn't that a terrible name? I hate it. Desmond prefers the term Film Mort. Well, when the form was young, he had a lot of trouble. He couldn't maintain any continuity. After all, once a scene was finished, it was finished. No chance for retakes, no chance for artistic expansion. Desmond always likens it to vases."
And he'd said something about glue, Kathy thought, retrieving a beautiful yellow sundress from the costumer's rack.
"That'll go great with your hair," Becky said, nodding at the dress. "Anyhow, Desmond could never glue his vases back together. He could have another brought in, but he couldn't maintain authenticity. Well, a few years ago, he came across a woman that solved his problems. She had the glue he needed. The first couple of shoots were difficult because he didn't know how to explain himself to his models. A few ran. One even went to the police but nothing ever came from it."
The dress fell over Kathy's head, draping comfortably over her body. A mirror gleamed from the back of the closet door, and she examined herself. A ragged line, red and gnarled ran across her neck from one ear to the other. Her hand went to the wound, felt along the rough edges as the reality of her injury sank in. But there was no pain, no lingering ache. It seemed that the damage was merely skin deep.
"I told you, with your hair. . ." Becky said, again indicating the dress with a nod. She wrapped a friendly arm around Kathy's shoulder. "Just beautiful." She guided the new girl toward the hall. "Before you, I was the newest one to enter the troupe. I guess that's why Desmond asked me to talk to you."
"How long have you known him?"
"Oh about six months now."
"Don't you ever want to leave?" Kathy wanted to leave. She wanted to get to a doctor so he could look at the gash on her throat before it started bleeding again.
"I will soon," Becky said. "I'm going to miss this place. I don't want to go, but the movie is almost finished now, and I'd just be in the way."
"They're not going to let you leave," Kathy said. How stupid could the girl be?
"I keep forgetting, you're new. People leave all the time. Let's go," Becky said.
The disco music that Kathy associated with her dream pulsed in an adjoining room. She gazed at the door as they passed.
"That's Dallas' room. He loves to dance."
One floor below, Kathy recognized the studio. "Shhhh," the pretty girl hissed, holding a finger to her lips. "They're filming."
The two snuck down the hall and into the studio. The set up was similar to Kathy's first visit—the mattress, the lights, the camera—except a tall white cross occupied the center of the room. A young man, maybe twenty years old, hung from it. He was naked, and his arms were bound by thick lengths of hemp. William, with his curly feminine hair, stood at the base of the cross, a cigarette glowing from between his lips. He inhaled deeply, stoking a glowing red ember. Then he applied the searing end to the captive's thigh. The crucified man screamed and rolled his head. Pleading and begging filled the chamber. Another application of the searing cherry. This time the ember disappeared into the soft white flesh of the young man's belly. Then William dropped the butt and crushed it under his heel, before walking behind the cross. When he returned, he held a fireman's ax.
"Oh God," Kathy moaned. She had to help the man. But no, she had to help herself. She stepped back, into Becky's waiting arms. They snaked around her, crossing at her chest.
William lifted the ax and drew the blade slowly across the man's porcelain stomach. It did not pierce the skin, but rather caressed it. Still the prisoner screamed, shouted for help and dropped his head to the side. Desperate, pleading eyes caught Kathy's. Then William pulled the weapon back and swung. The blade dug deeply into the crucified body. Blood erupted in splashes and ropes from the wound, quickly pouring down the ivory abdomen to paint the man's pubic hair and genitals. The handle jutted away from the torso like a perverse appendage.
Kathy screamed. Becky shook her and tried to get a hand around her mouth. But it was too late. Desmond and William stared at the girls in the doorway. Whispers of discontent from the audience in the shadows filled the chamber. Kathy fought against Becky's grip, but she was too strong. Then something incomprehensible happened.
"Great," a high voice cried. The man on the cross looked at Kathy, his expression was dark and angry. She stared incredulously. Her stomach knotted and her mind raced. The young man with the ax in his belly gazed down on her. "The shot's ruined. I don't believe this shit," he huffed. "You try and do your best work and some amateur walks in and ruins the whole thing. Desmond," the boy said, "I cannot work under these conditions." He wriggled his hands loose, undid himself from the binds and hopped off the cross. The ax remained firmly planted in his gut.
"I know, I know," Desmond said, rushing forward. "I'm sorry. You were perfection, as usual." Silver regarded Becky for a moment. "You should have known better than to bring her here," he said before returning his attention to the disgruntled performer. "Sweetie," he cooed. "The lighting wasn't very good anyway. We'll reshoot next we
ek as soon as you're up to it."
"Next week? This is going to take at least two to heal," the boy said, pulling the heavy weapon from his belly. He dropped it to the floor, where it hit with a clatter. Blood oozed from the wound, and a purple rope of intestine surfaced in the gash. "We finally had it. What if I can't get the inspiration back? What if the part is cold next time?" The young man looked distraught. "It finally felt right."
"It'll be okay," Silver said. "You are never less than perfect." He made to put his arm around the man, and then jerked his hand away. Silver whispered accolades in his ear as the two walked out of the studio.
***
"That was Bobby," Becky said, leading Kathy back to her room. "He's a little temperamental but his style is impeccable. He's been here for about two years now. This is his second film for Desmond. Desmond is a little worried that his clients will feel cheated if they realize he's been featured before, but Bobby used to be blonde, and he really does look different now."
Kathy couldn't speak. The horrible images of that bright room still played in her head.
"Don't worry," the girl said. "It doesn't hurt or anything. That's why we have to act. After awhile it's like brushing your hair. It might pull if you catch a tangle, but it doesn't really hurt. You might even get into it." Becky turned to her new friend. The glittering expression that told the world how happy she was to be a part of it had faded. "I do hope you stay. I'd really like somebody to talk to, you know? Somebody to go to the movies with."
The girl smiled at Kathy; the heaviness in her eyes reflected an emotion that Kathy had never been able to define in herself. When Becky left, Kathy felt empty.
Desmond Silver came to her soon after Becky retreated down the hall to study lines for her shoot the following week. His face hung with concern. But it was his eyes, eyes that projected such intense sadness, that captured Kathy. He'd changed clothes, opting for a pair of khaki shorts and a black dress shirt.
Horror Library, Volume 4 Page 16
