—with a rotary dial, sitting on the coffee table next to our empty soda cans and crumpled bag of popcorn—
—anxious for it to ring. The four-year-old sits on the floor and plays with his Tonka truck, while the father smokes a cigarette and paces the floor.
Another flash of light, followed by a roar of thunder.
Storm’s getting closer, the father says.
Sheriff Hazelbury said he’d call. The mother leans forward from the sofa and lifts the receiver. I can’t wait any longer.
The father crosses the room, tamping out his cigarette in an ashtray, then putting a gentle hand on his wife’s shoulder. He can’t call us if he doesn’t know anything.
We cut to an outside shot: the house at night, and pouring rain. A flash of light, and the shadow of a tree flickers across the closed window.
Inside the studio, there’s no roof over the living room. The ceiling and dormant arc lamps are so far above they’re practically invisible—as if we’ve no protection from the storm.
On the projected image, the mother still holds the phone receiver. She raises it slowly to her ear.
Listens. And, That’s odd. A beat. Rain patters against the window. Edward. The line’s dead. Sheriff Hazelbury couldn’t call, even if he wanted to.
Let me try. The husband takes the receiver, jiggles the switchhook, then spins a few numbers on the dial. I think I’m getting something.
Edward, our son’s out there somewhere in this storm, my mother’s been missing for three days—
Quiet a second, I’m trying to listen. He holds the receiver to his ear. A crackle of static mixes with the heavy patter of rain. A voice.
The mother leans forward. I sit on the same couch, in the same spot, and I also lean forward.
It sounds like a woman, her husband tells her. She’s whispering.
Dead silence, save for the storm. Medium shot: the mother on the couch, leaning forward as if she can hear the whisper; her husband stands with the phone receiver pressed to his ear.
A flash of lightning, then a pause while we wait for the rumble of thunder.
Instead, there’s a loud crash of glass on the soundtrack as a huge tree limb smashes through the window and onto the sofa, finger-branches wriggling, passing where the mother’s head was positioned before she leaned forward.
I’ve seen this movie more than a dozen times, but I jump as if the limb has crashed behind me on the sofa.
Even Melissa seems caught up in the excitement now. The experience is so much better than watching a film on television. This is the only Budget Studios Production I’ve ever seen in a theater setting, and the “drive-in” style setup adds the perfect touch.
On the projected image, the husband draws his wife close. His hands cradle her head, imagining how easily it could have been crushed by the limb.
Then the frame shakes as if the characters are in an earthquake, accompanied by a sputtering sound.
I jump in front of Melissa, but then can’t find the shutoff switch on the projector.
“Fix it, Brendan. Hurry!”
A black dot appears on the movie-wife’s face, then it expands and curls and burns. The side of the stone stairway looks like it’s on fire.
The film snaps, and the broken half grinds through to the take-up reel.
Melissa pushes me aside and turns off the light to the projector, sending the studio into complete darkness.
“You should have let me do it,” she says.
“It happened so fast.”
“Yeah.”
We wait in the darkness for a moment.
This might be the only surviving 35mm print of the movie, and I had to watch helpless as it got damaged. Maybe it’s not fair, but I feel like I’m the one who should be more upset, since Melissa didn’t really take the movie seriously.
As in last night’s dream, I sense a presence in the studio, gliding down the stone stairway. Then I hear the thump as a destructive poltergeist begins to knock over furniture—but it’s only Melissa, miscalculating where she last set the lantern.
A click, and the lantern comes on. “We shouldn’t have done this.” The light on the coffee table beneath casts distorting shadows over her face.
Melissa had put together a really cool event, and I definitely appreciate it. But I also realize we weren’t really working together. She’d moved the projector from the locked room, chose the movie, and scheduled the date. I’m here only as long as her whim permits, and that whim seems ready to strike again, in a negative direction. If I can’t improve her mood, I might lose another couple days, maybe more, my studio dreams slipping farther and farther away.
Thinking about the locked room gives me an idea. “There’s the editing machine in your dad’s office,” I tell her. “I’m sure there’s splicing tape, too.”
Her disappointed face hovers in the strange shadows, dark bands under her eyes and deep furrows in her brow. “It’s ruined,” she says.
Even though the film is part of her family heritage, I know it doesn’t mean as much to her as it does to me. I can’t fathom why she’s so upset.
Later it will occur to me how Melissa set everything up so perfectly to impress me. It isn’t the film that was ruined, but the date.
But what did I know then, about dates?
When Melissa and I discussed our fellow students, we saved particular derision for the kids who identified themselves as couples. Silly displays of affection or embarrassing public spats—and all too soon. Playing at being adults, before their time, making themselves look even more like children. Such discussions clearly signaled a tacit understanding: any idea of us on a “date” should only be considered in ironic terms.
Most of what I learned about life came from movies—and in Bud Preston films, the plots didn’t place much emphasis on romantic elements. Our relationship with the supernatural or otherworldly far outweighed our relationships with each other. Social interactions were often the root of any problem, as exemplified when the public’s revulsion turned Thomas Hendricks’ character into a murder suspect.
If Melissa really was a ghost or possessed by a demon, as the odd-angled flashlight suggested, I’d be better equipped to understand her. At least movie monsters follow a consistent set of rules: vampires only at night, werewolves only during a full moon.
“It’s getting near time for you to leave, Brendan.” She lifts the lantern and swings its beam away from her face and onto the floor in front, indicating a pathway out.
#
While we’d been inside and a thunderstorm raged on the projected images, an actual early-evening storm had begun to roll in. When I leave Melissa’s house, the sky is heavy with black clouds, and a deep mist coats the lawn and the surrounding forest. All the day’s color is muted. I step into a black-and-white film.
I walk fast through the fog, barely able to discern the path in front. I think of arctic travelers surrounded by white, with no guideposts to confirm their position. The outpost is nearby, but they can’t see it. Fresh snow falls, erasing their footprints; without realizing it, they walk in circles. They freeze before they starve, which is a small blessing. Their bodies are later discovered only twenty yards from the snow-covered shelter.
Fortunately, I’ve visited Melissa’s home often enough that I can find my way on instinct, even as the clouds finally burst open in a heavy downpour. I pull my jacket over my head and run toward the junction of the access road.
As I usually do when I reach the end of the clearing, I turn for one last look at Budget House. In the mist and driving rain, the building had completely disappeared.
#
I’m soaked through by the time I reach my apartment building. The jacket kept my hair mostly dry, but wind blew rain into my face and neck, and my sweater is heavy and damp with the smell of wet wool.
I pause to wipe my feet on the mat by the downstairs mailboxes, then head upstairs to the second floor. Even after wiping off the mud, I still leave damp footprints on the painted wooden stairs.
<
br /> I’ll have to throw my wet clothes in the dryer before Mom gets home.
As I approach our floor, I hear voices that I know can’t be coming from my apartment. If Mom came home early, she’d be worried about my being outside in the storm. Possibly the heavy storm had prevented me from noticing her car in the side parking lot.
Because as I get closer, that’s definitely her voice coming from inside our apartment.
Who is she talking to?
If she’s home, the door’s unlocked. I reach to test the knob.
Mom’s voice is raised, so she doesn’t hear me enter. From the living room, I finally hear the other person speak.
A familiar voice, but these days it’s one I usually hear only on the phone on Thursday nights.
#
Connections
They are arguing about me—another familiar memory I hadn’t expected to confront this evening. My mom is seated at the kitchen table, and my dad is leaning against the counter, his arms behind him.
I’m standing in the hallway, dripping water onto the hardwood floor.
“Brendan, where have you been?”
Since I hadn’t expected my mom to be home so early, I don’t have an alibi prepared.
“Tell the truth, son.”
Although I’m happy my dad’s come to visit—it’s what I’ve been wanting for so long, after all—I don’t appreciate the skepticism in his remark. He’s the one I have been telling the truth to all along. It’s not my fault he doesn’t believe me.
A partial truth is the best I can summon: “I was at a friend’s house.”
“Geoff?” My mom has a pencil ready. “I asked you two weeks ago for his parents’ phone number. Don’t make me ask again.” It’s a bad sign that she has a legal pad in front of her, turned sideways to make room for multiple columns. Whenever I was in big trouble, Mom listed abbreviated “talking points” in the first column, to make sure she’d address each thing I’d done wrong. In the next column she’d jot key phrases for lessons she’d want to reinforce (“Respect your teachers” or “Rules exist for a reason”). Then a column to take notes on my responses (“I’ll try harder” or “I’ve learned my lesson” or “I promise to apologize tomorrow.”)
We hadn’t had one of these legal pad “discussions” since Mom and I moved to Alabama. The most recent was with a Guidance Counselor in Delaware. It’s been three years since my dad took part.
“Geoff and I had kind of a falling out, after I insulted him by accident. We’re not friends anymore.”
Mom makes a quick note in the last column, then she puts an “X” through the first few talking points. I assume these are all related to Geoff, but I’m not close enough to decipher her handwriting.
She rolls back the first sheet, and unfortunately there’s another full page of topics. As she readjusts the pad on the kitchen table, some tucked-in items shift against the pad’s cardboard backing. The corner of a photograph sticks out, and the edge of a time-worn scrap of paper.
“Brendan, who’s Melissa? You’ve mentioned her to your father, but never to me.”
I can’t think of anything to say. My sweater smells of wet wool, and my jacket and jeans are still heavy with rain. Dad leans silent against the kitchen counter: his only contribution to this conversation has been to betray my confidence.
“She’s a girl I know from school.”
“Why don’t I know about her, Brendan? Your father says you talk about her all the time. You make up stories about her.”
“They’re not stories.” I look right at Dad, hoping he feels a little guilty for bringing Mom into this. He’s been in a few fights with her, too, as I recall, so he should remember what it’s like.
She lifts the notepad and pulls out the storyboard sheet that’s been tucked in the back. “How about your art project? Stained with coffee or tea to make it look old.” She holds the page close to her nose.
“I didn’t make that. I borrowed it from Melissa’s house.”
Borrowed is a trigger word, and she probably has notes in a second column entry: “Stealing = wrong.” “Taking something from a friend or family member is just as bad as shoplifting. Maybe even worse.”
Before Mom has a chance to recycle those old chestnuts, my dad finally decides to chime in. “Let me try, Katherine.” Then to me he says: “Dry yourself off, kid. We need to talk.”
#
I’ve changed to a different pair of jeans and put on a fresh T-shirt. I sit on the bed, and Dad sits wrong-ways in my desk chair, his legs straddling the back.
“First, it’s good to see you. I’ve missed you, kid.”
“Why’d you come? I mean, I wanted you to visit…”
“I needed to figure out what’s really going on.”
“I told you.”
He nods. He’s my dad, the same guy I’ve known my whole life, but now it’s weird to see him in person. He should look older, even sadder—the toll of living without my mom, without me. He looks exactly the same. Which makes me feel like it’s not really him, but some imposter, modeled exactly on an old photograph but missing the soul.
“That’s why your mom has to ask so many questions,” he says. “We’ll need to approach this differently, depending on what’s wrong.”
“What’s wrong is that you don’t believe me. And Mom’s always gonna ask questions.”
He smiles for the first time during the visit. A small moment of connection: I see the real Dad, finally. “I can’t argue with you there. But I have the same questions, Brendan.”
He wants the conversation to be about me—my delusions, my adolescent “acting out,” whatever spin he and my mom want to put on things. I wish he could be the one on trial instead.
“You called Mom, just to cause trouble for me. Thanks a lot.”
“Brendan, I talk to your mother all the time. Whatever happened between us, we always share you.”
This doesn’t make any sense, and I tell him so. I’ve never heard Mom talking to him on the phone.
“I call her at work,” he explains. “It’s easy to catch her at her desk, and there’s less chance we’ll get into a shouting match.” He leans forward and two of the chair legs lift off the rug. “I had to tell her about those things you’ve been sending me in the mail. We’re both worried about you.”
“What’s the worry? That something interesting happens to me?”
“Oh Brendan, you’ve created such an elaborate story. A fantasy to try to get me to visit—which tells me something’s wrong. Maybe you’re still upset your mom and I separated. Or there’s a crisis at school: with your grades, with friends. Tell me the truth. You need me here, that’s the easy part, but I still don’t know why.”
I’m surprised he didn’t mention drugs. Instead of trusting me, he’d rather think that I’m crazy. On Thursdays, this might be a time when I’d slam down the phone—because I’m angry and frustrated, but also because I wouldn’t want him to know what came next, when I started crying.
I don’t have that luxury now.
And I find myself sobbing, talking about how close we were when I was younger, how we bonded over those horror movies. Blubbering about the special connection we shared, and how sad I was to lose it. “We’re the only ones who understood those movies.” The bed shook underneath me as I tried to control the sobs. “Mom never liked them, but we did. Just us. And you don’t seem to get it anymore.”
My eyes are blurry, and Dad disappears from the chair. He sits next to me on the bed, puts an arm around my shoulder to comfort me, but I only feel worse.
“I was afraid of this,” Dad says. “Your mother and I couldn’t work things out. It’s nothing to do with you.”
He still doesn’t understand. He’s come all this way to see me, and I’m crying, and he won’t make himself understand.
“Son, you have to move on. We can’t go back to the way things were,” Dad says. Then he corrects himself: “Your mom and me, I mean.” Too late. He pretends he talking about his marr
iage, but he’s also talking about the two of us. We don’t mean the same thing to each other anymore.
Son, you have to move on. He might as well have said, I’ve got a new life now. I barely think about you, let alone those silly movies we used to watch together. That’s all in the past.
I’m angry enough now that the sobbing subsides. Dad pats my back, then stands. “Give yourself a few minutes, then come talk with us in the kitchen.”
#
Pulling the sheets off the bed, I use craft scissors to cut and tear them into strips that I knot together into an escape rope. The rain continues in full force outside, with a harsh and howling wind, but it’s a second floor window so I won’t have far to drop. I tie the makeshift rope to the foot of my bed, then lower the loose end out the open window.
I dump my school books from my backpack and gather some essentials—change of clothes, toiletries, wallet, my sketchpad and script pages—then sling the pack over my shoulder.
One last look at the room before I grab the knotted sheet and climb through the window and into the waiting storm.
I will go to Budget House, find my way inside and into the studio—and I’ll survive there as long as I can, moving from room to room, inhabiting better worlds. When authorities find me, I’ll have grown feral—more a case for animal control than for the police. I’ll snarl and growl and leap at the uniformed men, and they’ll have to shoot me dead.
If that’s the path I choose—and believe me, even with the tragic end, this scenario right now seems more attractive than further conversation with my mom and dad—here is what happens in my immediate absence:
Dad knocks on the door. “Brendan, we’re waiting.”
“Don’t you think it’s time you stopped sulking?” Mom knocks too. Harder. Then she opens the door and walks into the bedroom.
It doesn’t take long for them to register what’s happened. The room’s empty.
Dad crosses to the desk. “He didn’t leave a note.”
“Never was much of a writer.” Mom goes to the open window and reels the wet sheet inside. She shuts the window with a bang.
Life in a Haunted House Page 13
