Horror Business (16 page)

The veterinarian, Brock’s final victim, steps out from behind the wheel. His face is gray. He’s bled through the bandage on his forearm.

“I didn’t see her, I swear.” He sounds distant and none his words hit their landing. “Shit. Oh my God, I’m sorry. I didn’t see her.”

The father doesn’t hear any of this, but stands up and punches the vet in the face, who squawks like his throat is clogged with pebbles.

It’s obvious that the man’s never thrown a punch in his life, so it comes off more like an aggressive slap. But the vet goes down. One of the mothers kneeling over the broken fairy screams. The father straddles the vet, pinning his arms with his knees.

“I didn’t mean it.” The vet speaks like he’s reading instructions.

The man lands a fist in the vet’s face. At first, his punches are weak and sloppy, but he finds a rhythm that strengthens his blows. Nobody does anything to stop it. Everyone watches as a father pummels a pet doctor into unconsciousness while his daughter dies a couple feet away.

And this is horror business.

***

I put the car in reverse and step too hard on the gas pedal. The car rushes backwards. I jump on the brakes and my head sinks into the cushion before whipping forward. I look behind me and see that the car is inches from toppling the trashcan containing Brock’s remains. I pull forward, straighten out and let the car roll down the driveway in neutral. One of the paramedics at the scene moves the stretchers holding the fairy and the vet, both covered. He ushers me out with his arm

“Easy,” I say. I take a deep breath and ease down on the gas pedal. The car rolls into the street. I put it in drive and watch the flashing lights of the ambulance drift away in the rearview.

***

I’m flying up the windy road to the cemetery. The car hits fifty-eight miles per hour, screeching around corners and throwing bits of gravel and leaves into the surrounding forest. The gun bounces unrestrained on the passenger seat, and I reach over to double-check the safety.

I hit the dirt road and the skeletal arms of trees fold over the car.

***

The stone archway of the cemetery stops me from driving any farther. I pull to the side and wait in the idling car. Another vehicle is parked at the entrance—a white car with black-tinted windows, threatening and inconspicuous at the same time.
Probably just some high schoolers playing in the cemetery.

Still, I imagine eyes behind those black windows. Red and hungry eyes.
Stop it
.

I kill the engine and shove the gun in the back of my pants. The weight of the metal makes them sag, but also makes me feel brave. I move quickly up to the path, careful not to look at the other parked car as I pass.

The sun pays its last respects and dips below the horizon, throwing finger-shaped shadows out from under the headstones. I draw the prop gun and spin it around my finger. I sit on Abigail Buchanan’s grave and play scenes of how I would like this night to end. Some scenes involve Colt crying and begging for his life. Every other scene involves Ally.

I look for the dismembered finger and can’t find it anywhere. The relief of its absence is quickly replaced by the deeper terror of wondering what happened to it.

The owls go silent. A wolf howls. Twigs snap and leaves shake. Something barrels through the brush. A pasty ghoul crashes into the cemetery opening. Its eyes are ringed with black. Blood spills out of its mouth.

It’s Greg Mackie. The last of the missing children.

“Brian!” he calls out. He stumbles and flays his arms for balance. That’s when I see the wound. His yellow shirt is slick with red. He trips and the momentum forces him into me. We both hit the ground. The prop gun falls out of my hand and bounces out of reach.

“We have to get out of here!”

“Where have you been?”

“We have to go.”

“Did you call me Brian?” I stand up. I pick him up off the dirt and shake him. “
Did you call me Brian?
” My voice breaks when I scream. “Where have you been? The whole town is looking for you!” He tugs at my shirt. It’s my favorite goddamn shirt. I grab him by the collar and shake him. His eyes whir like a cartoon character’s. “Calm the fuck down!”

Greg holds his belly. For the first time, I see the severity of it: rips of the cotton reveal the inner workings of his stomach. He whimpers and sits down.

“Greg,” I say, letting the fear creep in. “What happened to you?”

“I escaped.”

“From what?” I ask. Our voices are whispers.

Out in the forest, the treetops shake and unleash a flock of blackbirds that crash and peck at each other for a greater altitude. The moon swells as if filled with blood; dull, red-brown illumination floods the cemetery. A deathly sepia tone. A glowing orb appears between the trees. It reminds me of the spirit photography from my mom’s ghost hunting shows.

Now it’s me who’s doing the pulling. The wet grass provides little traction and my shoes struggle for purchase. It’s a slow-motion escape.

“Freeze!” The orb casts a brilliant spotlight on us and I shield my eyes against it.

Silver Creek’s sheriff steps out of the trees and lowers his flashlight. He approaches us, slightly crouched. A hand rests on his holstered sidearm.

“What are you up to?” He addresses the question to me, a point made by blinding me again. I struggle to find words against the distracting beam.

“N-nothing.”

“I bet,” he says. He puts the flashlight under his chin. His face becomes demonic. “Trick or treat,
Shitassmotherfucker.
”

“We didn’t write that,” I say.

“I really was expecting Colt. You know him? He a friend of yours?” He chuckles at his accusations.

“Please,” I protest. “We didn’t vandalize anything. We need your help—”

“What’s your name?” He cuts me off.

“Jason Nightshade, sir.” The politeness is involuntary.

“Nightshade, huh?” He rolls the name around in his mouth. A realization crosses his face; his features soften. “Oh. Nightshade.”

Greg groans and stumbles against me. The sheriff jolts out of his reverence. He shines his light on Greg and sees the wounds. A holy invocation gets caught halfway out of his mouth and never escapes. He unfastens the strap holding the gun in its holster. A far-off crow screams.

“Who did that to you?”

A twig snaps and the sheriff pulls the gun out. He sweeps the area with it. I duck as the deadly end scans above me. His unsteady hand belongs to a man who’s never had to use a gun before.

“What the
fuck
is going on?”

Greg’s eyes roll back, and he falls forward. The sheriff throws his arms out to catch him. I hear the awkward sound of skin slapping against the metal of his gun. Greg coughs up blood on the sheriff’s tan pants.

The sheriff forms his lips around another profanity, but the forest comes alive with rustling all around. Terror in surround sound.

Somewhere out there, laughter builds.

The trees shake with excitement at the monster they’re about to unleash. It’s the same horrible cackling that I heard that night with Ally. It’s the same laughter from the movie theater and from inside my closet door. It’s my dad’s laughter when he watches his porn
.

I look at the officer. I can tell by his face: we share the same fear. And this is how I know I’ve become a man.

With mechanized strength, the sheriff hoists Greg over his shoulder and holsters his gun. “Can you run?” he asks.

We run. We jump headstones. I fall behind. The sheriff reaches back and grabs my arm. I see the prop gun that Greg knocked out of my hand, but the sheriff pulls me forward before I can pick it up. The soil beneath us shifts as an army of the undead wakes on this dreadful night, summoned by the monster at our heels. The moon’s light flickers as an airborne troop of vampires flies under it, awaiting the signal for an aerial attack. We pass through ghosts, whose bodies swirl and dissipate like food coloring in corn syrup—a horrible last line of defense.

The sheriff pulls harder. His superhuman strength carries us out of the graveyard. The hellish laughter fades behind us. We make it to his unmarked, tinted car. He opens the door and throws me and Greg in the backseat. The cushion feels good, but the darkness within is suffocating. I reach out for the door handle but find nothing. Greg’s already asleep, and his snoring is shallow and wet. He chokes on blood. Metal divides us from the front seat. I place my hand on it when the sheriff slams his door, feeling the vibration. He mouths something I can’t hear, and then fumbles to get the key in the ignition. The engine revs.

He stares at me in the rearview mirror. He looks like a child in the green light of the dashboard.

“We need to hurry,” I say. The sheriff doesn’t say anything. He flicks the headlights on and off. He tries to grasp the situation. It’s a hysteric voice that comes out of me: “
What are you waiting for?
”

“Nobody’s ever going to believe me,” he says.

“What?”

“Kids’ stuff,” he says. “Scary like in the movies.”

He revs again. The engine’s rpms become the sounds of mechanical suffering.

“Officer,” I say. I lower my voice and he eases off the gas to hear me. “I’ll back you up. The only thing you have to worry about right now is getting Greg to a hospital.”

My words erase some of his fear. He nods and throws the car in reverse. My seatbelt locks. Cue the heroic music in my head. He hits the gas and his car fishtails onto the road. I sink deep into the backseat. Greg’s body falls into the footwell.

My dad’s car disappears behind us. The world rushes past, blurred and mixed together.

“Um!” I say. The music in my head fades. “Maybe you don’t have to drive so fast.”

A crow falls out of the trees and bursts apart against the sheriff’s windshield. We both scream. He hits the wipers and scrapes the feathery mass off. The wipers rub blood into the new crack—a red web spreads across the windshield.

A dog runs out into the road. The sheriff swerves to avoid hitting it. I swear it’s Brock. I know then that we are not allowed to go home.

Glowing eyes in the forest leave red streaks against the darkness. The speedometer needle inches toward sixty-five mph. The sheriff jerks the car around a curve. I hit the other side of the cab and feel the opposite side lift up. Tires spin in empty air. The officer works the wheel, trying to get control of the vehicle.

Around the bend, a figure stands in the middle of the road. It’s a child. It’s a ghost. It’s my brother.

The officer hits the brakes and the force throws him against the wheel. The car spins sideways and catches an edge. By the time I realize that it wasn’t my brother but Colt Stribal, we’re in the air and the world’s upside down.

***

What does CHUD stand for? Cannibalistic Humanoid Underground Dweller. Lucio Fulci’s Z
ombie
was actually the unofficial sequel to George Romero’s
Dawn of the Dead
, which was called
Zombi 2
in Italy. Besides zombies, the two movies have nothing in common. The same song was used in both
Evil Dead
and
Creepshow
, both of which premiered at Cannes the same year.

How many onscreen deaths in the original
Friday the 13
^th
series? 160.

How many in the
Nightmare on Elm Street
Series? Considerably less; in the forties.

Chocolate syrup was used for blood in black and white films, red corn syrup for color; killing needs to be sweetened. Bob Clark, the director of
A Christmas Story
also made
Black Christmas
. He died in a car accident.

Dario Argento likes to use his own hands whenever a woman is strangled on film. Many people think that the mutated baby in
Eraserhead
was actually a real cow fetus. The ghost in
Three Men and a Baby
is actually a cardboard stand up of Ted Danson. Heather O’Rourke died before
Poltergeist 3
was released in theaters. The actress who played her sister in the original
Poltergeist
was beaten to death by her boyfriend—causing some to think that
Poltergeist
is a cursed franchise. Ed Gein was the inspiration for Leatherface, Norman Bates, and Buffalo Bill.

The first recorded use of the term “snuff film” was in a book about Charles Manson, alleging that he could have made one. Boris Karloff does the voice narration for the cartoon version of Dr. Seuss’s
How the Grinch Stole Christmas
.

Director John Landis has never been the same after a helicopter killed Vic Marrow on the set of the
Twilight Zone
movie. Ruggero Deodato was brought to trial because the deaths were so real in his
Cannibal Holocaust
that people thought it
was
a snuff film. He had to bring the actors to court to prove they were still alive. They tried to put a dog in an alien suit for
Alien 3
, but the result was too silly.

The word “vampire” is never used in
Near Dark
, a movie about vampires. There are over ninety cuts in the
Psycho
shower scene and it took five days to shoot; Anthony Perkins wasn’t there for any of it. A head crushing scene in
The Toxic Avenger
was made using a watermelon filled with corn syrup—

(Glass sings past my ears and the sheriff’s neck bends at an impossible angle.)

—
The actor playing Michael Myers in the first
Halloween
is only credited as “The Shape.” The actors in
The Blair Witch Project
didn’t know the legend was made up by the producers during filming. The townsfolk they interview are planted actors. Most of the terror caught on film is reportedly genuine. Most of the deaths in
Faces of Death
are staged. The original
Dracula
does not attack any males because producers thought it would be too homoerotic.
Night of the Living Dead
was originally titled
Night of the Anubis
and the zombies are never referred to as “zombies.” The vomit in
Audition
is actress Eihi Shiina’s real vomit.