Horror Business (18 page)

“Tell who what?”

“Your parents, everybody. What did you see up there?”

I tell her the truth: “I don’t know.” Ally nods, accepting the answer that the doctors, police and my parents can’t.

“Some people still think it was the sheriff,” she says.

“It’s a free country. People can think what they want.”

“And they’re burning the forest around the cemetery, trying to smoke the
wolves
or
bears
or whatever out. You should see it. The whole mountain is on fire.” Skeptical emphasis laces her words, and I would reach up and hug her if I wasn’t so weak. I can’t help but smile at the thought of adults doing stupid things in the name of fear. It’s comforting.

“I don’t want to talk about it anymore.” I nod to the bag in her hands. “What’s that?”

“Oh these?” She holds the bag to my face. I pull away from the severe edges sticking through plastic. Videocassettes.

“Oh.”

Her smile disappears. “Oh? What’s wrong?”

“I don’t think I can watch those anymore.”

She looks like she wants to say something, but then stops herself. Her face relaxes, but the hurt remains.

“I’m sorry.”

“Just kidding.”

“You!—” She pauses and looks around. “Fucker!” She says it right when my nurse enters the room. The nurse gasps. She turns around, and leaves, embarrassed.

“No, wait!” I say, then to Ally: “Go grab her. They have to have a VCR somewhere in this old dump.”

Ally runs out into the hall and yells in the direction of the nurse’s retreat. “We need five CCs of VCR, stat!” She claps her hands twice to accentuate the annoyance. “Chop, chop!”

Moments later, they roll in an ancient TV with a built-in VCR. The screen’s not more than 10x10 inches. The picture is washed out; the blood’s orange. It’s okay because I’ve seen these movies a thousand times.

We talk along with the dialogue and cover our ears at the tense parts because the surprising sounds make us jump.

We watch the most violent fucking shit until the nurse wakes us and tells Ally to go home.

It’s called “communal mourning,” a gentler way to say “mass burial.”
We drive to the next closest cemetery, twenty miles away, because the police have taped off
the road leading to Silver Creek’s, which by now is a smoldering wasteland. I’m pretty sure the only person who will ever set foot in that place again will be Colt. Finally, a Hell suitable enough for him.

Dad unfolds the wheelchair before helping me out of the car. The painkillers I’m on make this seem like the ultimate act of affection. Mom watches as Dad adjusts my legs onto the footrests. She lifts her glasses and dabs at her eyes with a Kleenex. Her dress is simple and black, but despite her drab attire, I can’t remember the last time she’s looked this alive.

It’s a massive turnout—nearly half the town. People keep crowding around the wheelchair, trying to shake my hand.

“Please back off,” Dad says, gently but firmly. “This is not the place. He’s been through a lot. We all have.”

The priest stands at a podium and delivers a eulogy for all the dead children. A couple local television crews stand in the outskirts. I see a cameraman inconspicuously filming the crowd, trying to get an artsy shot with a tombstone in the foreground. I want to grab the camera away and show him how it’s done.

After the eulogy, everyone disperses to pay respects to the individual graves. The wheelchair rolls easily over the dead grass. Dad pushes me swiftly through the thinning crowd. In my mind, I make racecar sounds.
Oh, painkillers,
I think.

We arrive at Brian’s casket—shiny, black and monumental. My parents didn’t skimp.

A cloud rolls across the sun, turns the entire cemetery gray. The flowers on the casket shiver in the wind. Dad hunches deeper into his collar and puts an arm around Mom. She leans into him and they both cry. The temperature turns bitter cold and the wind kicks up, whipping an occasional snowflake sideways. I can’t help but think this is somehow Brian’s doing. Pride swells in my chest at the thought of my brother’s new power to make things chilly.

Harried cemetery attendants rush to remove the flowers. They hit the lever on the silver frame surrounding the grave and Brian’s casket lowers into the ground. I reach into my pocket and touch the bony tip of Brian’s thumb—the last remnant of the skeletal hand that accompanied me in the graveyard. Unaccounted for in the car crash, it somehow ended up in my pocket. I keep it as a lucky charm.

I look up and see Ally and her parents on the other side of grave, slowly revealed by the descending casket. Black tendrils of mascara run down her face and I realize it’s first time I’ve seen her wear makeup. I wave, but the wind pushes her hair across her face before I can see her response. Then, Dad’s pushing me, running to get us out of the cold.

***

After the funeral, a memorial service is held at a nearby non-denominational church. Black-suited strangers sip lemon-flavored beverages out of plastic cups and eat frosted animal cookies off of napkins. Everyone’s face looks like it’s filled with cement. It’s a smaller crowd than what was at the cemetery. I suspect a lot of people ducked out before the weather got worse. No sign of Ally, so I wheel myself into a corner with a good view out the window. A thin layer of snow has splattered the side of every car in the parking lot, blasted like a zombie headshot. I replay an image in my mind: Ally, revealed by a casket.

Badass,
I think.
It’s definitely going in the script.

I feel a hand on my shoulder and jump. Old Hilborn stands above me. He leans down.

“I know what you saw,” he says. “Up there in the graveyard.” White hairs sprout out of his head like corn silk and do nothing to cover his pink skull. This close, his eyes look faded, like that of a dead man. “Nobody else will believe you, but I know.”

I crane my neck to find my parents. No sign of them. His fingers dig into my shoulder. “Listen to me,”
he says. His lips curl back, revealing a black-gummed smile. He cocks his head to the side, and stares at me with that terrible smile frozen on his face.
“I know what you saw because I saw it too.”

I wriggle out of his grasp. “Excuse me,” I say, my voice breaking. “I need to—”

“It was in my backyard last night.” The smile pulls higher on his face, stretching the skin across his skull. His pupils shrink to dots. “The dead cop, he was in my backyard last night,” he says.

My throat feels hot. “That’s not what I saw,” I whisper.

“Maybe not,” he says. “Or maybe it just found a new home.” The smile falls. His eyes get wide. He pulls me close. “Sometimes it rests, but it never goes away.

“Leave me alone,” I plead.

“
It never goes away
,” Hilborn repeats. “
I saw that dead cop in my backyard last night. His eyes were black as hell. Jagged, long teeth. He was eating my kitty cats. Taking big bites out of their furry little necks.
”

Dad appears behind Hilborn. “What’s going on here?”

“Can we go home now?” I ask. “I’m not feeling well.”

“Sure, bud.” Hilborn steps out of the way for Dad to take hold of the wheelchair.

“I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Nightshade,” Hilborn says.

“Thank you,” Dad mumbles. He pushes me toward the exit, putting as much space between us and the old man as possible. Hilborn never takes his eyes off me. That smile.

In the car, Dad asks, “What was that all about? What did he say to you?”

“Nothing,” I say. “That guy’s crazy. Doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

“Jason,” Mom says. “That’s not nice.”

“I’m with Jason,” Dad says. “He gives me the creeps.”

A noticeable shiver runs through Dad. Mom puts her hand on his back when he leans forward to see through the snow pummeling the windshield.

Night falls and brings a dancing blizzard. I sit in my room and listen to the wind blow snow against the house. It’s warm under the blankets, and I pick up the yellow notepad that I keep by my bed. The monsters in my posters wait patiently while I get into a comfortable writing position. The muscle in my calf twists, and I suck air through my teeth, but it’s only a fleeting pain. Across the room, the crack in my closet door watches me too. And that’s fine. My parents’ footsteps beat softly on the ceiling above me.

After some deliberation, I write this down:

INT: DETECTIVE RAIMI’S HOUSE, DAY

RAIMI kicks open the door to his house, gun drawn and ready to go. He looks slightly delirious: a loose cannon. The handheld camera follows him from room to room as he searches frantically for his wife, SISSY.

RAIMI

Sissy! Where are you baby?

RAIMI runs upstairs and kicks through the door to his bedroom. Inside the room, TED is holding SISSY with a knife to her throat. He laughs and SISSY struggles to get free.

RAIMI

(Struggling to control his rage) Listen Ted, you don’t have to do this.

TED

You’re right, I didn’t
have
to do this. I gave you the chance. But you
fucked
it up. Now, you’re going to watch as I cut up your little wifey in front of your eyes! (He draws a sliver of blood from SISSY’S neck)

RAIMI

Wait! Look. (He raises his hands to show no gun) You’re right, you’ve always been right.

TED

(Stops cutting) What are you talking about?

RAIMI

Like you said: we’re not different, you and I.

TED’s smile wavers.

RAIMI (Cont’d)

I
have
been lying to myself: I’ve been thinking about nothing but myself, about my job, when all you needed was someone to care. To show affection. To be a brother.

TED

Well, it doesn’t mean anything now.

RAIMI

You mean you’re not interested in being me? (Beat) Because I could definitely use a break.

TED

From being you?

RAIMI

Exactly.

TED

Well, what do you suggest?

RAIMI

Why don’t we team up? I can be you and you can be me! You commit the crimes and I’ll hunt you. Or the other way around! We’ll BOTH be famous. Don’t you see? We’ll show how big of a joke this fucking police force is.

TED

I don’t know.

RAIMI

And it might even be fun. Think of it: WE ARE THE SAME. We’ll split it all 50/50. The fame. The notoriety. And you wouldn’t be doing it alone this time, you’ll have a partner.

TED thinks about it and lowers the blade from SISSY’S throat, who has been squealing the entire time. RAIMI has hit something deep inside TED, who is dealing with the conflict. We do this with a slow zoom in on TED’S face.

TED

Do you really mean that? Brother?

CUT TO: RAIMI, who has pulled his revolver out.

RAIMI

No. And don’t call me brother.

RAIMI fires a round and hits TED directly in the shoulder, sending him spinning. Blood sprays across the wall. SISSY flees from his grasp and into RAIMI’S arms.

TED

(Gasping) What are you doing? You’re top cop! You can’t lay a finger on me!

RAIMI cocks his gun.

TED (cont’d)

Wait, no, you can’t do this!

RAIMI

Yes I can. Consider this my retirement.

RAIMI fires the gun and blows TED’S brains all over the wall. SISSY says something and RAIMI says something else. They kiss. They wrap it up. Credits roll.

THE END

I place the pencil on the nightstand and read the last two words over again.

Next spring, if I’m all healed up, I’ll finish filming it.
I look to the motionless camera sitting on my dresser and think,
Yeah, definitely next spring.

The wind blows. No one walks around upstairs. By now everyone has gone to sleep. I place the notepad on the nightstand and reach out for the switch on my lamp. I stop. Something scratches on the window from outside. I roll out of bed and limp to the window.

Boot prints litter the snow. They come from the road, up to my window, and disappear out into the night. A cautious minivan inches past my house, but the headlights don’t reveal anything.

I go to bed and let the light from the street shine through the smiley face scratched into the frost of my window.

Thanks to Natanya Ann Pulley for reading the first draft all those years ago and the unparalleled encouragement. You saw something in it when there really wasn’t anything there to see. Thanks to Brian Hickey, Kristin Everson, Brian Walsh, Laura Braley, Megan Breunig, and Ben Bradford for early reading and input.

Thanks to Rebecca Podos and Nicole LaBombard at Rees Literary Agency for their tenacity and support; to Georgia McBride for taking a chance on this monster.

Thanks to Justin Hudnall and everyone at So Say We All for making San Diego a place for writers.

Thanks to my family: Mom, Dad, Amy, Ben, Laura, Lucas, Dane, Molly, Katie, Sage, Megan, Aaron, Cassidy, Karen, Lee, Craig, and Burton. My gratitude for all of your support is too great to fit in these pages. Love you all.

And to my incredible wife and partner in crime, Jessica: thank you. I couldn’t have done any of this without you. Let’s make out.