B-Movie Reels (17 page)

She moved from the chair to the couch next to him. “Anderson Mills has a bowling alley, or you can hit Barleycorn’s Pub, or Silver Lake is perfect for camping. You ever canoe the lake in the middle of the night? You should try it. It’s peaceful, something I could use now.”

“I wasn’t saying you don’t know how to have fun,” he backtracked. “My fun is watching movies. I’m a simple man. Maybe I’m not the one who knows how to have fun. I mostly like cheesy movies like
Pretty in Pink
and
Mannequin
. You watch those movies now, and it defines the 80’s, but you don’t see movies now that define anything. It’s all to sell something. Movies tie in commercial products more now than ever. It’s not about cinematic artistry. Hell, my college professor hired me to watch these horrible turkey horror movies that are over thirty or forty years old, and they don’t try and sell anything. You can tell what decade they were made just by watching ten minutes of them. It’s a slice of history. A time capsule.”

“So what are your projects?” she asked. “Do you have a movie you want to make? It’s cool you graduated from film school.”

“Right now, I have no ideas. Not really.” He shifted closer to Mary-Sue, enjoying her proximity. “I shot some short films in college. One was about a mom who hides her son when his name is picked for army enlistment during the Vietnam War. Poor guy gets drafted, right? The kid ends up going to war after a lengthy chase from state-to-state, hotel-to-hotel. The movie was pretentious though and bogged down by a lot of dialogue. I’ve done others, but nothing I’m too excited about. I’ve been thinking about shooting a documentary about my uncle and the mystery around his death.”

“You could do interviews around town. Yeah, that’s a good idea. People still talk about him, no offense. A lot of people don’t believe he died and others think something else happened to him.”

“Like a government conspiracy?” He laughed, but the thought had crossed his mind before. “The idea of my uncle murdering thirty or fifty or whatever number of people is ludicrous. He was a drunk frustrated with his career, but he wasn’t a killer. It’s impossible.”

“I agree, but a lot of people take what the police say as law—ironically.”

“That’s bullshit. Now I feel I’d be committing a big mistake on my uncle’s behalf if I didn’t try and straighten things out, or at least shed new light on the situation. I guess it wouldn’t cost a lot to rent a camera—and digital is cheaper than film these days—and to interview people wouldn’t cost money, but I’d probably face a lot of bullshit from the police.”
 

“I bet you’d be fine. I think people would be very interested in knowing the truth, or at least looking at it in a different way. You’d have to be sneaky about it.”

“A lot of independent filmmakers have to bend rules to complete the scenes without a permit or scout locations that they haven’t had permission to use. It’s mostly a matter of budget, but in this case, everything I need is in the people of Anderson Mills. I’ll find a way.”

“I’d talk about what I think happened with your uncle in your movie. And maybe if I was there with you, I could help you convince people to talk. I could be your assistant. I know everybody in town.”

She suddenly checked the time, worried. “Do you want to go looking for my father again for a little while? You could be right. He could be in the woods.”

“Anything to help, sure.”

He waited in the living room as Mary-Sue dug out two flashlights from a kitchen drawer and then returned. “Okay, let’s go.”

2

This is a mistake.

Ned had put it off all day. Pricilla’s Tarot Card Reader and Medium wooden sign displayed the hours of business. She was open until midnight during the weekdays. Underneath the paintings of a glowing crystal ball and numerous astrological signs, it mentioned Pricilla performed house calls.
 

I wouldn’t want that batty chick in my house.
 

He waited on the front step, the porch light’s glow extending out to his parked truck. The light itself seemed to beckon him.
 

What are you waiting for, huh?
 

A shrouded head peeked out from the window and drew back the curtain.
 

Now you have to go. The woman spotted you.
 

The front door opened. He grumbled under his breath, regretting his decision, and walked across the threshold, though he was alone once inside.
Here goes twenty dollars. How many drinks could that have gotten me at the bar?

Whatever Pricilla would reveal, it’d be smoke blown way up his butt, but maybe it’d be fun. He’d glared at the house for years without a second thought, but after Andy came into town and relieved him of it, he still carried the burden of his brother’s death and he wanted to finally be rid of it.
 

“Shut the door behind you,” the lady requested from another room, through a decrepit throat. “Come in already.”

He did as he was told, still without a good look at the woman. He took in the aromas of mildewed carpet and jasmine candles. The furniture was draped in white blankets. In the far corner, she had a television and a collection of astrology books and the occult on a bookshelf.
 

Lucrative hoopla. The woman will probably tell me unicorns and dragons are real by the time the night is over.
 

He caught her profile and followed her. They passed a kitchen to the left. A bottle of wine was propped on the kitchen table alongside a block of expensive cheese and crackers. The hallway he was in led directly to a side room. Silver beads hung in the doorway. He stepped through them to find the strange woman hunched over a round table lighting a series of black and red candles.
 

Her words were a creak. “Have a seat, Mr. Ryerson.”

“How do you know who I am?” He was skeptical, but caught off-guard, nonetheless. “You’ve seen me before? I guess I’m a local.”

“I knew your brother, James, very well.” The woman’s voice had an accusation in each syllable. He couldn’t see her face yet under the gray cloak she wore. She gave off the appearance of a gypsy. “It’s unfortunate what befell him. He was playing with the spirits, and they’re not always what they appear to be.”

“Why are you telling me this, ma’am? I thought you read palms and futures.”

“I do that to make ends meet, as we all do in our own lines of work. But you’re in danger and so are many people. Some have already died because of your brother’s mistakes, but he’s not the only one to blame.”

The woman turned up to him, and he got a look at her. She was shrouded in dark blue velvet with a red sequined sash. Rings choked each of her fingers in the color of indigo blue, olive green, ivory white, and burgundy red. A broach that looked like an eye was pinned at her hip. Her face was deep in shadow, most of her features hidden except her long and crooked nose that looked like a gnarled ginseng root. Hard lines covered what probably once used to be smooth skin, her mouth set in a permanent sneer.
 

“If you want your future to be read through tarot cards or your palm read, then your best advice would be to leave right now, Mr. Ryerson.” The woman picked up a green bottle of unmarked wine from the table. The fluid ran into two bronze goblets decorated with red diamonds. “Drink this with me and have a seat.”

A sliver of anxiety slowed his response.
It has to be a put-on. Somehow, Pricilla knew you were coming. I don’t know how, but something’s not right.

“You’re skeptical,” Pricilla laughed. “Everyone is, and they have a right to be.”

He reached into his pocket to produce a twenty dollar bill.
 

“Keep your money, Ned Ryerson. You’re here now, so why don’t you sit down and listen? I have a lot to tell you. People are in danger, including your nephew. Andy is in the middle of a potential disaster. If you’re to understand, then I’d suggest you keep an open mind.”

The walls of the room were painted black with the glow of neon green stars. He spotted a Ouija board in the corner and a stack of tarot cards face down on a smaller table. A large mirror hung behind Pricilla, gold-framed and gaudy with gems and stones. An astrological map explaining each person’s sign hung to the right of him, written in fancy cursive writing.
 

“Astrology, tarot cards, Ouija boards, magic, it’s all a lie,” she confessed, stealing his attention. “You’re correct to raise your brow at me and this room. But I’m the real thing, Ned, or I became real after I met a priest named Edgar Hutchinson. The priest knew your brother well. Your brother has put the idea in your mind to visit me. That’s the only way he knew you’d ever listen to me and stop what’s happening.”

He lifted himself out of his chair to leave when Pricilla shouted, “Sit down, Mr. Ryerson! I’m making the ultimate sacrifice for people who won’t even appreciate it. Now you listen hard and listen real good. There isn’t much time to banter or question me, so you sit right back down and hear me out!”

Sweat burned the nape of his neck. He didn’t like the way things were turning out tonight. It was getting uncomfortably weird. “Fine.” He lowered back into his chair grudgingly. “I’m listening.”

The tremble in her arms shook the table as she spoke. “Priest Hutchinson was a born oracle. He could communicate with the gods and talk to the dead. He ignored them at first until he grew older. Trips to Egypt, Jerusalem and the Middle East provided him with a basis to confirm the dead were really communicating with him. The spirits begged to be released from purgatory. Those are the only real spirits an oracle can speak to, Mr. Ryerson. These spirits are trapped between heaven and hell in limbo, their fate undecided, and their souls lost. They beckoned him at all hours of the night to be set free.

“The oldest documentation of oracles existing spans back to the New Kingdom. These oracles were mostly plaintiffs to solve cases for the kings in Egypt or appointed by the courts to solve disputes. Toward the end of the 18
^th
dynasty, oracles were finally banned, but the spirits—what the Egyptians called gods—still existed. The rise of Christianity marked the end of the idea of magic, sorcery and oracles being anything but devil-worshipers and sinners. The people with true abilities were hanged, burned, tortured or stoned. But mark me, Mr. Ryerson, the dead can talk to the living, and some of us can still hear them. The only difference between men like Priest Hutchinson and the others like him is that he eventually listened. Priest Hutchinson used the dead to contact deceased family members and friends and lovers.
 

“He visited churches across the United States and Europe, and after years of quiet celebrity, the spirits challenged him with new requests. They wanted to be set free on the world and live again. Never again would they be flesh and blood, but the power of the dead is great, Mr. Ryerson, and when they give to someone, they plan to take later on. The dead demanded the priest murder their enemies, share horrible secrets with the living, to haunt their murderers and enemies, and to bring terror to the loved ones who’d moved on after their deaths. Ultimately, the dead abhor the living. They wish us ill.”

Ned broke in, feeling awkward and scared. “H-h-how do you know all of this?”

Pricilla lowered her hood. The mane of silver hair uncurled. Liver spots showed through her thin hair and speckled her face. Her eyes went small, and then she frowned. “I know this because the priest came to Anderson Mills to face his demons, Mr. Ryerson, and he hid himself in James’s house. Priest Hutchinson tried to heal people despite the challenge of spirits cornering him with their demands. In any given day, he’d be told the whereabouts of dozens of remains of murdered victims throughout Black Hill Woods. Names and faces would flash into his mind. The spirits could send the pain of the families, the heartbreak right into him. Can you imagine the incredible burden? The tortures?

“He came to me in desperation. Maybe the priest considered me a confidant and knew I’d believe what he explained to me shortly before he committed suicide. People heckled him after he revealed secrets of the dead to the living. It isn’t always popular when a stranger tells you the truth about a family member, especially if it’s from a spirit of ill-will. He came here to hide, and I kept him as comfortable as possible through our conversations. Then, after a week’s time without sleep and non-stop bombardment of the spirits, the man couldn’t take it anymore. He took his life at that house, Mr. Ryerson, and his spirit remains there. Being an oracle—born an oracle—he has the power to contact the living as a ghost.

“Priest Hutchinson is an incorporeal spirit, and he’s doing everything he can to escape the world of the dead. He’s responsible for the murders your brother has been accused of. The dead want attention, they want to be recognized, they want to be saved, but they’ve been ignored for so long. They wish to reap terror and death in order for the living to hear their plight, and now that they’ve found a way to channel their intentions in this world, they won’t stop. The reality is the dead can’t ever be returned to flesh. They can’t be saved. And if we can’t save the dead, then the dead wish us the same horror as they experience for eternity, and they’re already succeeding.”
 

Ned was rooted in his chair, mortified. The conviction in the woman’s glistening eyes was alarming. Pricilla drank a full glass of wine and poured another one, taking only a breath before indulging in it. She then eyed him with savage interest as the alcohol kicked in.