Horror Business (6 page)

Bird man shrieks and descends upon the cat, which is still trying to claw at the fluttering creature. He grabs the cat by the scruff and winds up to throw it against the wall.

“
What are you doing?”
This time it’s cat lady who’s screaming. She stands up and hits bird man with the empty cat bag. “Let her go you sonofabitch!”

I lead my dog back up to the receptionist, who alternates between thumbing her phone and watching the fight with indifference. “I think I’ll come back later.” She takes the forms back without looking at me, and we leave.

Once Steve learns that Ally’s filming with us today, he goes home to change his shirt. He comes back smelling like cheap hair product. I look pretty good too, but give myself a once-over just in case: black sneakers, black T-shirt, and jeans with holes. My hair stands up in spikes from a lack of washing. I make Steve come with me into my room while I put a fresh tape in the camera. I’d rather not do it alone. I still handle the machine like a wild animal.

“I don’t understand why you keep insisting that we use that old thing,” he says, removing his phone from his pocket. He taps on the screen a couple times and brings up the built-in camera. “Just as good of quality, and without the tapes.”

“Get out of my face with that,” I say. “That’s pretty much like a homing device— anyone or anything can find or follow you. No thanks.” But Steve’s not listening, distracted with something on his screen.
They’re always watching,
I think. My internal monologue mimics the voiceover of a horror movie trailer.

Back upstairs, Steve helps himself to one of my orange sodas. Dad’s put a list on the fridge where I can add food requests. Below Oreos, Doritos, and Hot Pockets I add orange soda
.
“When’s she coming?” asks Steve, more anxious than intended.

“Hold your jets,” I say, but honestly I always get butterflies before hanging out with Ally too. (
Jets?
Better cut that shit before Ally gets here.) From somewhere in the house, Dad’s snoring gets caught in his throat. Ever since Mom left, he hasn’t gone to work—all he’s done is sleep. We quiet down. I pick up the camera, and let Steve fiddle around in the pantry. I open the LCD screen and hit
play
. The timecode starts from 00:20:28 and continues to turn the seconds over. The demonic footage is gone.

There’s a knock on the door.

“Finally,” Steve says.

Ally and a friend whom she introduces as Megan stand at the door. Megan has bigger boobs than Ally, but her pants are too tight, which makes her waist stick out like a muffin top. Her face is cute even though she wears too much make-up. She smacks her gum and utters a “hey.” Steve’s mental boner is obvious as she struts over to where he’s standing.

“I thought maybe we could use some extra help,” Ally says, shrugging and tucking her hair behind her ear.

“Yeah, sure. It’s cool.” Whatever keeps Steve off Ally will give me a better chance.

“So anyway!” Ally says as I offer her the rest of my orange soda, “I was watching this movie last night. So scary.” Her eyes widen. “I thought of you when I was watching it.”

“Hmm?”

“It was old. Have you seen
The
Haunting
? Black and white … .”

Steve, from behind me says something about how black and white movies aren’t scary, and though I agree with him, I nod. “I’ve heard of it.”

“I mean, it’s not like a
slasher
or anything. Just really like atmospheric. When you’re watching it late at night it puts you in this weird mood.” She looks around for any empathy, shrugs. “Ghost movies creep me out,”

The word “ghost” stirs something in me. “How come?” I ask. I think my voice shows too much concern, so I add, “Like, compared to a monster movie.”

“A couple years ago, before we moved to Silver Creek, someone broke into our house. My mom and dad were asleep, but I was having trouble sleeping. I have a lot of nightmares. I remember lying there and hearing footsteps around our house. I was so scared, but I didn’t want to scream. It was kind of like when you wake up from nightmare and there’s still some image left over and you’re not sure if it’s real or not. Have you ever had that?”

Steve and Megan shake their heads.

“Yes,” I say.

“I was just sitting in my bed, not sure if the footsteps were real, or if I was just making it up in my mind. But then”—she takes a gulp of soda—“but then, the door to my room opened a crack.”

I think of my closet door. My stomach lurches.

“And I sat up in bed and gasped a little, you know, because I was so scared. I sat and stared at that small crack and whatever it was stared right back at me. It felt like a long time but then I heard the footsteps walk down my hall and leave out the front door.”

“Whoa,” says Steve, in an unintentional
Keanu
impersonation.

“Yeah but,” she continues, giving up the dramatic story-teller voice, “there was nothing missing the next day. I must’ve set the robber straight.”

“Or,” Steve says, “maybe it really
was
a ghost.”

“Doubt it. He left a bunch of muddy boot prints.”

“Were they
g-g-ghost
boot prints?” Steve asks.

“Ew,” says Megan, cocking her head back. “I
hate
ghost movies.”

“Wait,” I say. “You don’t believe in ghosts?”

“No, not really. Do you?”

I most certainly do, but this isn’t what I tell her. “I just don’t want to rule out any possibilities.”

“I bet you wouldn’t spend a night in a haunted house,” Steve says while looking at Megan for approval. She’s busy looking at her shoes.

“Are there any haunted houses around here?” Ally seems delighted at the possibility.

“There’s the graveyard.”

“Why don’t we spend the night in the graveyard?”

“Seriously?” Steve whines. “And get slaughtered like some cheesy 80s movie?” He adds: “G-g-ghost slaughtered!”

Ally jumps up and down. “And we can have a séance! I’ll bring my Ouija board!” Her eyes get wide and she claps her hands together.

“I
definitely
don’t
want to do that,” Megan says, rolling her eyes.

“Fine. You guys can just say you’re scared and we’ll call it a day.”

“We’re not pussies,” I say. “I’m down for a little graveyard sleep out.” My fear of ghosts becomes trumped by the chance to spend a night out with Ally. I try to send Steve the hint. “It’ll be fun.” I side nod to the where the girls stand.

“Oh. Right.” I think he gets the message.

“Cool, this Saturday. We can bike up there. Come up with something to tell your parents.”

We all nod except for Megan, who only sighs.

“I thought I was dead,” Ally says. Megan looks horrified. I’ve only known her for a few minutes, but I can’t see why Ally would keep her around as a friend. “I mean”—Ally looks between me and her friend—“I mean, what are we shooting today? Didn’t we already film my death scene?”

“There’s still a lot of the script that I haven’t shot yet.” I pause. “I’ll just edit it together later. You’ll never know the difference.”

“Then what scene
are
we filming?”

“It’s the disclosure scene, where Ted pretends he’s Sam and—”

“Hold on,” Steve says. “I thought Brian was playing—” He stops.

“No, I can play both parts,” I say.

Steve mutters an apology, but not loud enough. Megan leans back against my counter and smacks her gum. Somewhere out in the autumn afternoon, there is a faint scream of a child. We begin filming the scene.

I sit on my front porch before school starts and eat my breakfast Popsicle. The sky is overcast. My breath, visible. I put my hands in my sleeves to hold the stick. A couple kids walk by, younger kids on their way to elementary school. Two girls and a boy. When they see me, the two girls whisper something and giggle before scampering off. The small boy shrugs at me and continues on his way. A minivan trails not too far behind them with a stressed-out mother hugging the wheel.
They’re always watching
.

Inside the house, Dad turns on the TV and puts the volume so loud I can hear it through the door. More children walk by, bullshitting and laughing until they notice me watching them. I wave, and they run away in the same manner as the others, almost right into my dog.

Unfazed by his near-collision, Brock saunters up the sidewalk to our yard. I don’t remember letting him out last night, but maybe I forgot to take him in. He looks worn out—his tongue flops out of his mouth and his head is so low that his nose almost scrapes the ground. He carries a wet-dog
smell along with him. I retch from the stink.

“Hey boy.” I put my hand out to pet him.

He doesn’t come, not immediately. He stops a couple feet from me and takes a seat himself. He pants and looks around with darting eyes. An early-morning butterfly floats by. Brock becomes enraptured. He can’t seem to focus on it for long, like a drunk failing a sobriety test. He starts whimpering and looks to me, as if for advice, then back at the insect.

The butterfly bounces close to his snout and with sobering speed the dog chomps down on the bug, severing one of the wings. Pieces of it flutter to the sidewalk. Brock chews absently as the rest of the bug falls out of his mouth. Content on destroying the butterfly, Brock stands up and walks over to me. He licks my face, trying to get some of the sugar there. I shudder. I hold the remnants of the stick high so he can’t reach and I try to push him away. He slobbers all over me. The wet-dog
smell becomes overwhelmed by his breath. There is a distinct smell of something dead on it. I imagine him tonguing dead butterfly pieces all over my face and push him off.

“Down.” I give him my best stern voice.

Obediently, Brock backs off and sits.

“Good boy.” I watch more kids pass, trying not to pay attention to Brock in front of me. It’s difficult; I’ve never seen my dog beg like this. Never seen him beg at all, actually. He whimpers again and bows his head to nibble on his scratches. It’s been days since the battle and the scratches don’t seem to be healing at all. They look worse and the skin is bare from my dog biting at it.

He’s not panting or whimpering anymore. He stares at me with black, unblinking eyes. He breaks eye contact to stare at the Popsicle.

“No beg!” I scold him with my finger.

Brock takes a step toward me and growls. He’s never growled at me before.

“No beg,” I repeat, but my voice fails me, and I whisper it.

Brock steps closer and bares his teeth. I stand up. He barks. I throw the stick across the yard, and he chases it. He picks it up and chews it with the side of his mouth, his face in a half-grimace. Jagged splinters litter the ground around his paws. He whimpers but continues to chew. He gnaws until the entire stick is in pieces. He looks back at me with his usual dumb-dog smile and his tail wagging.

“You’re welcome, fucking mutt.”

Brock keeps wagging his tail. I can’t stay mad at him. “I’m sorry,” I say and walk over to pat his head. He lifts his snout and licks my hand.

I go inside to get my backpack and do some adjustments to my hair. I wash my hands. When I come back out, Brock has left, leaving only the dead butterfly.

Warm colors sharpen as the focus forms an image of an older woman. The image shows her more radiant than you know her now. It reminds you that she was happy once. She sits obediently as the image brightens, darkens, blurs and sharpens.

Woman: My. You’re so professional.

Offscreen: Well, you know. All right, I think we’re set. Are you ready to begin?

Woman: Yes, dear.

Offscreen: What’s your favorite scary movie?

Woman: I like the old ones. The ones you guys watch are too gory for me. However, I really like
Jaws.
That has some pretty gruesome parts in it.

Offscreen: Yeah. Well,
kind of
.

Woman: Movies about nature always upset me, because nature is so unpredictable. There was a reason that
Jaws
kept people off the beaches for an entire summer after its release. Because it was
real
, that it could really happen.

Offscreen: Hm.

Woman: I know it seems a little silly. It’s the same with
The Birds
. That movie creeps me out. They seem so docile, and we keep them in our houses. Ew, it makes me cringe thinking about their little black eyes.

Offscreen: Have you seen
Cujo?

Woman: No, what is it?

Offscreen: It’s about a dog. He’s bitten by a bat and becomes rabid or something.

Woman: Yes, that’s what I’m talking about. Corrupted nature. These are all good examples of how a “controlled” animal can turn on us, thus toppling the hierarchy.

Offscreen: You
are
old.

Woman: Oh, you be quiet. (Laughs) Is that what you were looking for?

Offscreen: Yeah, that’s perfect. Thanks, Mom. Can you state your name for editing purposes?

The woman does and the image goes black.

These days, it only takes the wrong kind of glance to get people suspicious.

Especially with everyone on edge and all.

“What’s going on?” I ask. Steve stops walking and slings his backpack from one shoulder to the other.

There are two police cars parked in front of Old Hilborn’s house with lights flashing. The sheriff questions the decrepit old man while two deputies crowd him on both sides. The afternoon is hot and Hilborn is dressed in his underclothes and knee-garters that hold up his black socks. From where we are standing, we can’t hear what he’s telling the officer, but his arms wave above his head.

“I don’t know,” Steve finally responds, transfixed on the spectacle. “Oh wait.”

“What’s up?”

“I overheard some girls in the hall, maybe it was Shelly English? But yeah, anyway”—he licks his lips—“I think she was saying something about Hilborn saying something to her about her being pretty or something.”

“What?”

“I don’t know, but you know how it is. Especially now.”