Horror Business (10 page)

“This fucking guy,” my dad says, letting go of the money. The sobriety leaves. “This fucking guy. What’s he trying to pull? Admit to it.
Admit to it!
” My dad pulls a blanket off one of the armrests and covers his body up to his chin. He sinks farther back into the cushion. “What a creep. What a creep. What a fucking queer.”

I pocket his money and stand. He falls over and fills the space. He’s already snoring by the time I have my sweatshirt on.

***

I travel with demon speed through the neighborhood. Pumpkin and skeleton windsocks flap from every porch; graves litter every lawn. Little, fake fingers wave to me. I pedal faster. A gust of wind knocks some dead leaves toward me. I swerve to avoid a black cat.

Dark silhouettes watch me from every illuminated window.

The smell of burning wood, leaves, and pumpkin candles fill me with a sweet nostalgia and a longing to be somewhere safe. The chilly night seeps into my sweatshirt and rattles my teeth.

Top Stop is the gas station at the edge of town—a transitional portal that separates the suburban homes and the rustic façade of Silver Creek’s downtown (sometimes referred to as “towne” in promotional pamphlets). Every year, there’s a kid who doesn’t graduate high school, and the Top Stop ends up being their college freshman year. His friends will get hooked up with a year’s worth of stolen cigarettes, but the townie life will lose its appeal. The drop-out will leave for the grander world of convenience stores outside Silver Creek.

I skid my tires dramatically across the smooth concrete; the burnt rubber leaves a dark skid mark. The kid at the register is reading a men’s lifestyle magazine that advertises how to hit a G-spot, and how to perform a head butt. The fluorescents exaggerate the reds and yellows of all the packaged snacks. Everything looks welcoming and warm to the point of oversaturation. My stomach growls.

The air in Top Stop is clammy like a locker room. I head straight for the hotdog rollers. Dogs and taquitos are the only items left in the case; the skin on the dogs glistens. Their synchronized rolling makes them look reanimated.

“Can I get two?” I press my finger on the glass case and leave a greasy smudge. “Three, actually.”

The teenager pinches them with the tongs and places each hot dog in a thick, yellow bun. The meat seems disproportionate and small outside of the rollers and I think,
That’s how they get you.
He rings me up and sneers at the large bill I hand him. He hands me the change, and I crumple the bills around the coins and shove the whole wad in my pocket. The corners of the bills poke my leg through the fabric.

I roam the Top Stop, eating my dinner. There’s a rack of discounted DVDs in a corner. I flip through them. It’s all stupid shit: movies about killers who use Rube Goldberg contraptions to torture their victims. No subtlety, no style, no sense of humor. Gore that panders to weirdoes with ponytails and goatees.

The clerk says “Shit.” The door opens, a chime rings out. Heavy boots clomp on the tile.

I duck behind a display of fruit pies.

Colt stumbles in. Everything about him looks yellow under the harsh lights: his skin, his teeth, his eyes. He stomps a foot and dirt explodes away from his boot. The clerk asks if he can help with anything, but Colt waves him out of his peripheral. The dirty bully massages his temple, winces, and stumbles to the side. He uses another food display for balance; a package of cookies and a bag of chips fall to the floor. He picks up the bag of chips and opens it, upside down. He drops a handful of canoe-shaped corn chips into his mouth and chews. Crumbs fall out of his mouth.

“You have to pay for those!”

Dirty toilet paper covers Colt’s hand—makeshift first aid from Brock’s attack. Blood has soaked through and become brown at the most saturated areas. A yellow rim surrounds the red. Gore has sealed the paper to Colt’s hand—mummification through infection. One collision with a hard object and I’m sure the bandage will burst open and unleash the vile blood and pus necessary to cause an epidemic of evil, zombie bullies.

“Hey, asshole,” the clerk says. It’s a squeak, the sound of a mouse fighting off a cobra. Colt’s terrible reputation precedes him, even in the grown-up world.

Colt empties the bag into his mouth, crumples it up, and drops the trash on the floor. He repeats the word “asshole,” elongates the “hole” until it becomes guttural in his throat, a sick animal roar: “
ass hollle.”
He shuffles toward the cash register with his arms outstretched like Frankenstein. Some of the bandages unravel and spool off his arm. Infection drips on the floor.

Ass hollle.
…

Ass hollle.
…

Colt reaches across the counter and claws the air. The clerk backs up against the wall, looks around for a weapon. There’s a mop sitting in black liquid. He pulls it out and forces the dripping end into Colt’s face. Colt’s head falls back but his arms still reach. The kid gives Colt another wash. The mop’s soggy dreadlocks get caught in Colt’s mouth.

“What the fuck’s wrong with you?”

Headlights from the parking lot pour into the Top Stop, pausing the action between Colt and the convenience store clerk.

The sheriff of our town steps through the doors, silhouetted by the headlights of his vehicle. One hand’s on his hip, the other on his holstered weapon. He looks like Eastwood’s
Man with No Name
. Light shines through the triangles made by his elbows, winged-out and heroic.

“What’s the trouble here, Mr. Stribal?”

“Shithead here doesn’t think he has to pay. And then he was trying to touch me with that.” The clerk points to the wound. The cop breathes through his teeth at the sight of it.

“Yeesh.”

Colt falters. He uses the counter for balance. The cop braces for Colt to fall, careful not to make actual contact. Colt regains his balance.

“I’ll take him home,” the sheriff says. “Hear that?” he yells into Colt’s ear. “I’m going to take you home! You need to see a doctor!”

Colt nods. I wonder what level of hell the cop has to visit to return Colt to his home.

The sheriff ushers Colt out by placing a hand in the small of his back. The bully has become docile.

We watch the sheriff put Colt in the back of his car. He slams the door, sealing Colt in. Then, he jogs in through the door, grabs a donut from the shelf, and leaves without paying for it.

***

In October, the movie theater in Silver Creek only shows horror movies. It’s a single screen relic with sticky floors and stale popcorn, but it shows original 35 mm prints. I’ve come to know the theater crew over the last couple of years, so they sometimes listen to my suggestions, but tonight they’ve decided to play
The Texas Chainsaw Massacre
, a standard. I’ve seen this movie close to thirty times.

I arrive at 11:30 p.m. and Steve isn’t there. I hang outside for twenty minutes. The fluorescent light from the marquee buzzes, turning people into pale-skinned zombies. I buy a ticket.

A stoned kid runs the box office. He’s reading the
Anarchist Cookbook
and looks up with bloodshot eyes when I approach.

“One, please.”

“Right on.” Prints the ticket. “Enjoy, Chief.”

I ask if I can use the phone. He makes like he exerts an enormous effort to let me use it.

I dial Steve’s number.

“Hey,” he says.

“Where are you? Movie’s about to start.”

“Oh shit, sorry. Parents say no way I’m going out tonight.”

“What the hell, man? This was your idea. It would have been nice to know sooner.”

“Hey man, it’s not my fault you don’t have a cell phone. I was planning to come, honest. My mom’s being a real bitch right now. You know, the curfew and everything.”

“Whatever.”

“We all don’t have cool dads,” he says. He severs the line. I give the phone back to the kid.

Fuck it, I’m already here.

The theater is empty except for four other people who have made sure to sit as far away from each other as possible. I catch on and find the most inconspicuous seat on the side. I have a choice between a cushion with a spring poking out and one with a stain on it. I weigh the odds that the stain might be jizz and choose the spring chair. I sink down; the seat provides no comfort and squeaks loudly. One of the other patrons shushes me.

The lights go out.

Nothing happens; the projectionist can’t thread the film.

One of the few people in the audience laughs.

It begins as a chuckle.

It becomes hysterical.

We all sit in the dark, listening to this terrible laughter.

Someone retreats; footsteps pass by me. I’m too afraid to do anything.

Nobody tells him to be quiet.

Finally, the whir of the projection sends a blinding square onto the screen. The laughter stops. The movie begins.

I sit up and make out the outline of the guy sitting in the front row. The Laugher.

The film which you are about to see is an account of the tragedy that befell a group of five youths.
…

The hood of his coat is pulled over his head. There’s probably a skull underneath. Death has come to Silver Creek to see the midnight movie.

For them, an idyllic summer afternoon drive became a nightmare. The events of that day were to lead to the discovery of one of the most bizarre crimes.
…

***

I wake up in the old theater, and my neck is sore from sleeping in the broken chair. It takes me a little while to register where I am. My watch reads 3:23 a.m.

I slept through the whole movie.

I stand up and stretch. I dread the sleepy ride home. I’m about to leave when I hear a noise—a faint cough behind me.

I’m not alone.

The hood.

The Laugher.

I don’t even turn around to validate it. I break into a sprint, crashing through the doors and onto my bike. That laughter follows me out of the theater.

All the lights in the neighborhood are out, but I still feel the watchful eyes from dark windows as I race through the night.

Brock has brought me a gift, I think.

A bird rests, spread and de-feathered, on my porch. It’s missing a leg and tiny guts fall out of the hole where they should be. Most of the stomach is gone and the ribcage is crushed in.

Somehow, it’s still alive.

It’s the worst thing that my dog has ever brought me.

Brock sits on the on the other side of the lawn, absently chewing on the leg. Even from where I stand, I can hear the crunching as the leg splinters and breaks up in his mouth. I look back at the dying bird and try to remember the last thing that Brock killed. Before the butterfly, he hadn’t touched anything. Now he sits there, looking at me with unrecognizing, black eyes. He doesn’t pant or give me the dumb dog smile that I love.

After he’s done with the leg he makes his way toward me. His walk is stiff and his hair stands on end. I’m suddenly aware that I’m standing too close to his trophy. I should back off, but years of friendship keep me from being completely
en garde
. I put my hand out so he can sniff it, to recognize his best friend. Instead, he takes a quick snap at it.

“Jesus,” I whisper.

He lowers his head to the rest of the bird. Without taking his eyes off me, he rips one of the wings off. The skin on the bird stretches like taffy until finally coming off in his mouth. The bird screams. Brock stares at me with the wing in his mouth; blood drips off his muzzle.

His scratches are worse. Much worse. The wounds extend all the way up his side. It’s difficult to tell where the actual wounds are because they’ve bled all over. Dirt sticks to the gore. The wound is laced with infection. It makes me gag. Flies hop around on him like they’re at a banquet. Maggots wriggle in his cuts.

If he would just let me take him to the vet, I could make him better.

I know this is my fault. I waited too long, but I can make it all better
if you would stop scaring me.

The dog keeps growling. Saliva drips from his lips and around the broken appendage in his mouth. When he realizes that he’s at a safe distance to enjoy his treat, he turns around and eats the entire wing.

It occurs to me that Brock keeps the bird alive so it can watch itself being torn apart. It breaks my heart to see him, once my best friend, enjoying this sadistic game so much. I can’t let this continue any longer.

I step down on the bird. I feel it crush underneath my new sneaker. A thick stream of blood squirts out from under my shoe.

I look up and can’t help but think Brock’s smiling at me. It’s the first time he’s done so in some time.

My dad’s voice is hoarse and loud, probably from neglect. Our conversations lately are limited to yes-or-no questions. It startles me when he asks me where I’m going. He might as well have been hiding in the bushes with a mask.

“I’m going to the aquarium.”

“The what?” He’s unshaven and his eyes are bloodshot, but he seems coherent enough. There is a large stain down the front of his
Pismo Beach
shirt, which I hope is chocolate. He stands in the doorway to the bathroom. I try to gel my hair, but his stare is distracting.

“The … uh … aquarium,” I say louder, pushing a gob through my spiked bangs. He watches me with a hint of disbelief through the mirror.

“The aquarium? That thing open?”

“I guess so.”

“Why the hell would we need an aquarium?”

“It’s new. It just opened,” I add as if that would be a sufficient explanation.

He looks down and scratches at the stain on his shirt. “Why are you all dressed up?”

I guess it could be considered dressed up: a black, collared shirt, and jeans with no holes. “I don’t know.”

“It’s that Ally girl,” he says. He lets out a hearty laugh that shakes me. He reaches behind him and fishes around in his back pocket, finally pulling out his dried-up wallet. He flips through some bills before handing me a twenty. This, in addition to the cash he gave me earlier has put me in the triple digits. There’s a picture of a penis drawn over Jackson’s face. He notices me looking at it and smiles. I don’t want to know if it’s his artwork.