Celebrity Hell House

by Millard, Adam

  “You are responsible for more than fifty Academy Award dresses, not to mention Lady Gaga’s entire wardrobe and the bottle-top suit Elton John wore to the kidnap of his fourth child. What’s it like dressing people up like complete tools for a living?”

  Dawn Clunge gummily grinned. “Modern fabrics are about as sexy as Miley Cyrus riding a giant ball-bearing whilst rimming a hammer,” she said. “Nobody wants to strut their stuff in denim or leather anymore.”

  “But surely there are other options?” Samantha said. “I mean, clothes – real clothes – have been around for a very long time. I don’t know about the crowd here, but I wouldn’t feel too comfortable turning up for work wearing nothing but a slab of beef and a tea-cosy on my head.”

  If Dawn Clunge was offended, she did a marvellous job of not showing it. “I wouldn’t expect someone working at, say, Specsavers to wear my designs—“

  “But that would be the perfect place to get away with wearing one of your designs,” Samantha said, “at least until their customers had been issued new glasses.”

  Now the designer did look a little affronted, so Samantha moved swiftly on.

  “Tell us a little bit about what frightens you.”

  “Hm,” she said as she pondered the question. “I’ve always been a little disturbed by taxidermy. When I was a child, my father stuffed a squirrel before it was actually dead, and it wasn’t until the second night that I realised where the chittering was coming from.”

  “That must have been terrible.”

  “The squirrel certainly thought so.”

  “And what are you most looking forward to about Hathaway House, or Hell House as we like to call it?”

  Dawn shrugged. “I would have to say I’m not looking forward to any of it. I’m not good with people, especially if they’re wearing denim or leather, and I can’t stand people with huge egos, which I’m assuming most of my housemates will have, and I’m not too keen on the thought of sleeping in a house where a triple-murder suicide occurred only half a century ago. If I’m completely honest, I’m only doing this to get my new line up and running before Christmas…”

  “And what would your new line be?”

  “It’s a skirt made entirely from empty Tampax boxes. We’re also working on the prototype for a kipper bra and a pair of socks made from brie that you can eat once you’re done wearing them.”

  Samantha swallowed the bile as it surged up her throat. “That’s…fascinating. Dawn Clunge, get yourself up the hill and into the house.” Before I projectile ralph all over your shitty photo-dress.

  *

  Is it too late to back out? Peter thought, knowing that it was, far too late. He’d considered making a run for it; army-crawling under the rear of the tent and running for the dark horizon as fast as his legs could carry him, which wasn’t very fast. Nowhere near as fast as those ITV spy-drones hovering about the place. No, Peter had missed his window of opportunity. The only way to go now was forward; onwards to Hathaway House, where a whole week of misery awaited him.

  “Mr Kane, you’re next,” said the one who had introduced himself earlier as Derrick, Number Two. “When she calls your name, just walk along the red…slightly brown carpet and stand on the spot next to Samantha.”

  “What does it look like?”

  Derrick shrugged. “About five-foot-nine, dark hair, holding a microphone.”

  “The spot,” Peter said, pinching his nose between thumb and forefinger. A headache was a-brewing, and he didn’t suppose Hell House would exactly have a medicine cabinet. That would be against the point of the show. “What does the spot look like? Where I have to stand?”

  “It looks exactly like a squashed coke can,” said Derrick. “I know that because I was the one that squashed it. Are you okay? You look a little bilious.”

  “I’ve been better,” Peter said as he made his way to the front of the tent. “Just getting a little nervous, I suppose.”

  Derrick patted him on the back. “Ah, there’s nothing to it. Once you get up to the house and all Hell starts to break loose, everything will be fine.” If ever a more contradictory sentence had been spoken, Peter hadn’t heard it. “Just think of the money, yeah? That’ll get you through the week, won’t it?”

  The man had a point. The money would come in very useful. He could finally afford a new trouser-press. It was small things like that which would get him through this in one piece. No matter what the producers threw at him, no matter what went on up there in that godforsaken place, his slacks would be crease free come next Monday, and that was all a man could really want from life.

  “…Mister Peter Kaaaaaaaaane!”

  Derrick stuck his head out through the canvas flap and brought it back in just as fast. “She’s calling for you, Mr Kane. Go on, and have fun in there. You never know, this could be the greatest week of your entire life.”

  I highly doubt that, Peter thought as he stepped out through the tent’s exit (which cleverly acted as an entrance if you were coming at it from the other side) and squelched his way across the mucky field in search of a squashed coke can.

  *

  “Peter Kane, I’ve read all of your books,” Samantha lied, “from The Night of The Living Undead—“

  “The Dawn of the Living Undead,” Peter corrected.

  “—all the way up to Jim and Tonic—”

  “Djinn,” Peter said. “Djinn and Tonic.” How this woman thought she could blatantly bullshit him and get away with it, Peter didn’t know. She hadn’t picked up a horror book in her entire life, probably hadn’t picked up any book, for that matter.

  “You write about this stuff all the time. Do you think that gives you an advantage up there in Hell House?”

  Choose your words wisely, the voice of Ed Coonts whispered into his ear. This is your moment in the limelight. Once you get up to the house, you’ll have to share that limelight with seven other people. Now is your time. Make it count.

  “No,” said Peter. Fuck, I’m really not good at this malarkey.

  Samantha frowned, but kept the microphone pointed at him.

  She’s waiting for you to expand on your answer, dimwit, Ed’s somewhat irritated voice said.

  “What I mean is,” Peter said, sensing the tension in the crowd, “I make stuff up for a living. I put words together, most of the time in the right order, but if I was to be attacked by a werewolf, for instance, or a vampire – not one of those new-fangled sparkly princesses, but a proper vampire – then I’m just as likely to shit my shorts as the next man.” More so, in fact, as the week leading up to the show had proved, but that was brought on by too much alcohol and not enough food, for which he couldn’t be blamed.

  “So what does the Master of Horror fear?” said Samantha. “Porcelain dolls? Mannequins? Those weird ghosts that keep popping up in modern films with the dislocated jaws and white gowns?”

  Peter didn’t hear the last part of her question, for she had called him the Master of Horror. Perhaps they could use that as an endorsement on future covers. “Well, Samantha,” Peter said, suddenly with an abundance of confidence. “I would say that the only thing that frightens me is leaving this planet without making a mark.” Good answer, said Ed’s disembodied voice. “As a writer of the macabre, one can only dream that, in years to come, one’s work is studied in syllabi across the country, and that one’s headstone is visited by fans of dark literature, and one’s grave fornicated upon at least once a month.”

  “Yes, it’s nice to have goals,” said Samantha. Peter wasn’t certain, but he detected a hint of sarcasm in her voice. “What are you hoping to achieve in Hathaway House?”

  That, Peter thought, is a damn good question. What was he hoping to achieve? Not killing any of the other housemates was a good place to start. He’d seen programmes like this before, found himself becoming increasingly agitated by the behaviour of celebrities. Now he was going to be thrust headfirst into it, and murder was a distinct possibility.

  “I’m going to
enjoy every minute of it,” he lied. “Opportunities like this don’t come around that often, so I’m going to make the most of it.” And if I accidentally murder someone to death in there, my agent will tell you that he half-expected it.

  “It’s been a pleasure talking to you, Peter,” Samantha said. “Get yourself into Hell House.”

  Peter nodded. The crowd erupted. Up the hill he went, dodging dung and trying not to fall on his arse.

  Hathaway House stared down at him, its windows huge eyes, its door a gaping mouth, its roof a—

  “Stop being so fucking dramatic,” Peter reproached himself. “It’s just a house.”

  But as the cheering audience and the sanctuary of the studio got further away, Peter found himself becoming increasingly unnerved. It was the cold, that’s all. The chill of the night and the fact he was about to spend a week in the company of idiots.

  Suddenly, a hundred grand didn’t seem like nearly enough.

  9

  “Hello?” Peter said, easing the door open and peering around it. A lot of effort must have gone into the creak that echoed around the cold hallway. You didn’t get creaks like that for cheap, that was for sure. “I’m coming in now,” he said, though if you were to ask him why he said it, he wouldn’t be able to tell you.

  Stepping over the threshold, Peter sensed that something terrible was going to happen. That the scares were going to begin immediately. It came as something of a surprise, then, when nothing untoward happened. However, he didn’t appreciate being made to feel like a ten year-old girl, afraid of the monster in the closet or underneath the bed. And he had a whole week of it to look forward to.

  With the front door shut, Peter edged along the spacious hallway, warier than he’d been in a long time. It was only when he remembered the cameras – so many damn cameras – that he straightened up and tried to appear less afraid.

  The faint sound of laughter and voices could be discerned over the portentous tick-tock of the hallway’s Grandfather clock. It was coming from a room at the end of the hallway; the room where his fellow housemates had obviously congregated.

  A sign would have been nice, Peter thought. THIS WAY TO THE CIRCUS!

  “No point in putting it off any longer,” he huffed, aware that his every move was being watched by a few million people. He moved along the hallway with more surety, which was part of the reason why he screamed like a dog with its tail trapped in a car door when a woman emerged from a door to his left.

  Peter’s first instinct was to punch her in the throat, kick her in the lady-gonads, and then put her in a headlock until she submitted. Luckily, none of that was necessary, as the woman held up her hands in a placatory manner and said:

  “I’m so sorry! Did I scare you?”

  Now Peter had just finished a conversation in which he’d informed millions of TV viewers that nothing really frightened him, and so he said, “Not at all,” though it was a little higher pitched than his normal speaking voice. “Are you one of the celebs?”

  The woman nodded. “I’m Lorna Giffard,” she said. “I used to be a swimmer but now I’m a full-time Z-lister.” She held out a tremulous hand, which Peter shook, even though it looked like a knob of ginger.

  “Peter Kane,” he said. “Author of the macabre.”

  “Oh, a writer?” she said. “Since when did writers become celebrities?”

  “Not a clue,” Peter said. “Not sure I should even be here, to be quite frank. I haven’t felt this far out of my comfort zone since RomCon 2008.” Lorna Giffard scrunched her face up, clearly confused. “It was a convention…a writing thing…for romance novelists…never mind. What were you doing in there, anyway?” He pointed to the room from which she had just emerged.

  She leaned in, as if what she was about to say next was incredibly important and extremely confidential. “There’s a little person,” she whispered. “In there.” She pointed to the door at the end of the hallway.

  Peter frowned. “What, like a goblin?”

  Lorna shook her head. “No, a real little person. I think he’s one of us. Why would they put a little person in here? I won’t be able to sleep a wink with him knocking around the place.”

  Finally, the penny dropped. “Oh, there’s a little person in the house, and you’re scared of little people.” Lorna nodded. “Oh, I see. That’s a bummer, but I think there are going to be all sorts of creepy things going on in here. Have you tried pretending that the little person is a normal sized person?”

  Lorna’s eyes widened. “I hadn’t thought of that,” she said. “Maybe we could make him some stilts, or something.”

  “Probably not a good idea,” Peter quickly said. “I don’t think he’ll like that, for some reason.”

  A whole week, Peter thought. He’d been in the house less than five minutes and he already wanted to hang himself.

  “Are you going to go in there?” said Lorna, once more gesturing to the shut door at the end of the hallway. She looked positively terrified. Peter didn’t think she would last to the end of the night, let alone the week.

  “I guess I have to,” Peter said. “Can’t stand out here all week listening to that blasted clock.” God, it was loud. He made a mental note to check it later, just in case there was a hidden volume knob.

  “I’ll come in with you, but will you do me a favour?” She was visibly trembling all over. “If the little person gets out of hand, will you dropkick him for me? I don’t think he’ll attack me where the cameras can see, but you never know what’s going through their heads, do you?”

  Peter hoped this conversation wasn’t audible, though he knew some prick would be typing it up for the purpose of subtitles. Nowhere was sacred, nothing invisible, nothing out of earshot. They might as well have strapped GoPros to the celebrities just in case the viewing public wanted to know their respective shitting habits.

  “I really don’t think dropkicking a dwarf is going to put me in good favour with the British public,” Peter said, “but I promise that nothing bad is going to happen to you. Well, something bad probably will happen to you, but I doubt it’ll have anything to do with the little person. Okay?”

  Lorna nodded, clearly not convinced. “Okay,” she said, moving aside, allowing Peter to lead the way.

  Let’s do this, Peter thought, urging himself forwards, though his legs were recalcitrant and apparently made from blancmange. Three minutes later, he and Lorna spilled nervously into what appeared to be a large drawing room filled with absolute bastards.

  *

  “TV gold,” Callum said, gawping at the bank of monitors. “Dropkick a dwarf? Have you ever heard anything like it?”

  Samantha Bollinger lit a cigarette and, after a few seconds of uncontrollable and not-too-attractive hacking, said, “What’s the first scare?” She really should have read the itinerary the producer had sent her.

  “Ahhh,” Callum said, knowingly. In that moment he looked like a Bond villain – an incredibly shit Bond villain. “Lights are set to go off at eleven. By twelve, the house is going to be chaos.”

  “I like the sound of that,” Samantha said. “What’s the plan? Drug the midget and pop him into bed with the swimmer?”

  “Yes, we’re going to NOOO! We can’t do that…can we? No, we can’t…ooohhh, but it sounds so good.” He turned away from the monitor bank and pointed across to the corner, the one without Noddy Holder sitting in it like some glum substitute. “At twelve o’clock, we’re sending in the rats. They will be funnelled into the walls and will have access to the entire house. There’s nothing more disconcerting than the sound of scratching in the walls. Am I right? I’m right.”

  Samantha didn’t look convinced. “Wouldn’t it be better to start things off with a bang? I don’t know, maybe fire a shotgun off in the bathroom, just like Roger Hathaway did all those years ago when he blew his face off?”

  “We’re going with rats,” Callum said, with some finality. “Besides, we don’t have a shotgun. This is England, not fucking Texas.
” He turned back to the monitors, watching as the housemates intermingled for the first time, sharing the complimentary champagne (of which they had two bottles, and once it was gone, it was gone) and salmon vol au vents. “Look at them,” he said, stroking the place he would have had a beard had he been able to grow one. “Like lab rats, they are. Precious little things for us to manipulate and play with.”

  Samantha lit another cigarette – her ninetieth of the day, not that she bothered counting – and glanced at her watch. “Can I get off now?” she said. After all, she wasn’t required until the first eviction, scheduled to take place two nights from now.

  “Sure,” Callum said, without taking his eyes off the screens. “You did great out there tonight, kiddo.”

  As Samantha left, she wondered whether Callum saw her reflection flip him the bird in the two monitors that weren’t working properly.

  10

  So this is it, Peter thought, standing there in the drawing room, unsure of which alleged celebrity he should be talking to, knowing that he didn’t want to talk to any of them. Sure, they were probably nice people, in their own special ways, but did he really want to get to know them? After all, he would be with them for one week, at most. It wasn’t as if he was going to continue to speak to them after the show. They were nothing to him, and he was nothing to them.

  They were eight people that, for one or many reasons, needed a decent pay-out, needed one more moment in the limelight, needed – judging by the handsome bastard mixing cocktails for the ladies over at the bar – to thrust themselves back into the public’s memory, whether they looked like absolute arseholes doing it or not.

  “Thith ith going to be a lot of fun, yeth?” said the boxer as he sidled up alongside Peter. “I jutht hope I don’t have to fight anyone in here.” He chortled, spilling his champagne a little.

  With your record, Peter thought, I’m not surprised. Peter used to gamble, and the easy money had been in backing whomever Frank Henry was fighting. This man, this hulking beast of meat and sinew, had made Peter more money than some of his books. It wasn’t the kind of thing one could easily bring up in conversation, though, and Peter was loath to get off on the wrong foot with any of these people. You don’t shit where you sleep, the old adage went, and Peter didn’t know whether these people were capable of shitting where he slept, should he royally piss them off.