B-Movie Reels (2 page)

His brother charged back outside clutching an Orion film projector. “The spirits of the dead are inside it! I can feel them. I know they’re in there—those bastards! They refuse to be snuffed out. But I’ll show them!”

“You’re stressed,” Ned reasoned, balancing his distraught brother’s actions against the guns aimed in their direction. “There has to be a logical explanation. Cool down. We’ll sort this out. Nobody else will get hurt this way.”

“No! Everything must be incinerated or else expect more deaths.”

James was about to heave the projector into the fire when he tripped and rolled into the flames that doubled the moment he fell into them. James’s body was instantly vaporized by an unknown force.
 

The projector didn’t touch the flames.
 

“This is all yours, boy,” Ned Ryerson announced to his nephew after giving the young man the grand tour of the house. “It needs repairs, and I’ve got a house twenty-five miles from here in Hayden City to deal with already. I can’t use this property. I can’t sell it either. Nobody wants the ‘infamous’ Ryerson house.”

Andy Ryerson pondered the two-story house, post-tour. It wasn’t anything fancy considering the run-down aesthetic. The place was more of a haunted house attraction. Brambles and vines crawled up both sides of the house and concealed the closed shutters. The gutters were slipping from the roof’s edge, many of them hanging by a single nail. The majority of the shingles were loose enough they flapped in the wind in jarring unison. The white-painted wooden panels had flaked down to bare grain. The fountain beside the gravel drive was colored by algae muck and pelted with blue jay droppings. More eye-catching was the large semi-circle of blackened earth near the fountain. He’d read that’s where James had burned his magic items the night his magic show caused so many deaths.
 

Thinking about death, he looked at what was wrapped up in the hollyhock bushes around the east side of the fence. A length of yellow police tape was tangled in the bushes, partially buried by fallen leaves.

“How long ago since everything happened with James?” Andy asked.

“Been about eight months.” Ned removed his glasses and rubbed at his eyes, exhausted by the smallest mention of his brother. The man had gained thirty pounds in the last year. He was fifty-four, and he’d retired early from managing a textile shop. “The police combed the place, roped it off with crime tape, and then finally let me have it back—not that I wanted it. I packed up everything of James’s except a few items. I’m not sure what the hell to do with it now.”

“Nobody’s buying the place, huh?” Andy asked. “Have you tried hiring a real estate agent?”

“I’ve tried everything, believe me. No one wants it. It’s only been eight months, but I’m sick of it. The murders have contaminated this place. I honestly haven’t had a decent wink of sleep since James’s death.”

“But it wasn’t really determined that he murdered anyone,” Andy argued. “I’ve studied many newspaper articles on the case. There’s no way he could’ve removed those victims’ limbs and mismatched them. It’s impossible. Over fifty people died that night. Someone must’ve been in on it. No single human being could’ve done it.”

His uncle cast his eyes to Black Hill Woods in resignation. “What happened that night was unbelievable, yes, Andy. James had his hands in something strange, some shit nobody understood. I think back to that night, and I remember when he returned from that gig and immediately started burning all of his equipment. He claimed they were cursed. I didn’t know what the hell he was talking about. Investigators searched the place up and down, and the police think he’s alive, but I saw him go up into smoke. No one believes me. Maybe someone took his body. God knows enough weirdoes have snapped pictures of the property or broke in to hunt for ghosts. I’ve caught groups of people with weird flashlights and beeping devices skulking about this house trying to find paranormal activity. I sent them out on their asses. But everyone lost interest when nothing else conclusive came of the investigation. Authorities have nothing on James.”

Andy wanted to inject something positive into their conversation. “Why did James change? He was always fun at our annual family fish fries. He’d do card tricks and make Aunt Marta’s poodle levitate, and I still don’t know how he did that. Oh, and one time, he made Grandma Louisa’s potato salad vanish and he didn’t bring it back—and nobody complained.”

Ned laughed at the potato salad story as he walked Andy up the front concrete steps and back inside. “That was back then. A lot can change in a short amount of time. But I need a drink. How about you, Andy-boy?”

“Yeah, why not?” Andy checked his watch. It was early afternoon, but he didn’t mind an afternoon perk. “I’ve just come off a six hour trip from Iowa. I just graduated, and I’ve already got my first job.”

“Film student, right?”

“Yeah, but this gig doesn’t involve shooting movies, it involves watching films and writing commentary. A professor of mine dug up some gems from his personal collection, and he gave me dozens of reels to watch.”

Ned raised a brow. “What kind of films?”

“B-horror movies.” Andy guffawed, expecting a strange expression on his uncle’s face, and getting one. “You know, you’ve probably heard of
Blood Farmers from Space
, or how about
Caretaker of the
Zombies
? Maybe
The
Mallet Killer,
or what about
Slug-Creature Meets Octopus Man
? If you’ve seen those, certainly you’ve watched
Attack of the Sludge
, or
Chainsaw Charlie
, or even
Escape from Cannibal Clinic
and
Hitler Drinks Blood
? ‘Forgotten gems’ is what Professor Maxwell called them. He’s going to make a bundle re-releasing them. They were filmed between the nineteen fifties and seventies. Supposedly, there’s social commentary in them. I’m all for a job, though. I can’t say I’m a fan of bad horror movies, or any horror movies, really. But we’ll see, right?”

“It’s better than unemployment, Andy-boy.”

The living room was barren of items except for the black and white tiles and the cherry oak cuckoo clock posted under the staircase. The walls were bare of decoration or paintings or any signs someone had lived here before.
 

Ned directed him through the empty dining room, and they entered the kitchen where all of the cabinet shelves and drawers were wide open and empty.
 

“I’ve been cleaning the place up for you.” Ned bent down and reached underneath the sink for the hidden bottle of scotch. He retrieved two highball glasses from a box in the corner and poured them each a drink. “Each of your relatives turned the place down. It’s not a bad piece of property if you fix it up. It’s the stigma over the place that’s made it absolutely unmarketable. Like trying to sell Jeffery Dahmer’s old place or Ed Gein’s house. I wonder how towns fare against such prolific serial killers.”

Andy perked up. “It’s an interesting question. Very interesting, actually. I guess Anderson Mills is living it. How do you feel about it?”

Ned turned his heavy eyes up to him. “Like absolute shit.”

Andy decided not to comment and kept observing the place. He took in the smell of bleach and old wood. The white wallpaper peeled in “V” sections and uncovered the panels beneath. The ceilings were cracked in random forks and certain spots were stained the color of urine.

“How old is this place?”

“Over a hundred years old.” Ned swigged down the contents of the glass and poured himself another drink. “The man who lived here before us died in this place. His name was Edgar Hutchinson. He apparently hung himself from the fan in the upstairs bedroom. James bought it cheap. Dead men’s houses come that way, it’s a real estate secret. When you’re far enough from the city, anyone who dies in town kicks up a big ruckus, especially when it involves murder or suicide. I guess this house has a bad history altogether.”

“So you want me to take this place over, huh?” He pondered the idea of owning a house straight out of college. “You told me the utilities are paid up for a month, and there’s no mortgage. Sounds like a good deal, but the repairs are overwhelming. I can’t imagine how old the plumbing is, and is there a wood-burning furnace in the basement?”

Ned filled up Andy’s glass higher even though he hadn’t taken a drink yet. “Yes, that’s all true, and I’ll help you with those problems later on, but I can’t stay here. Everything about it reminds me of James. I helped him survive and regain his confidence when he was unemployed for five years, but I only visited on the weekends since my job and my house were closer to Wichita. James was by himself during the week practicing his tricks and God knows what else in this place. He didn’t put much care into the house. None at all, actually.”

Andy leaned against the sink counter, peering out of the kitchen window to the lavish garden. A white gazebo was built in the center of tall rows of squash, cabbage, tomatoes, carrots, zucchini, watermelon, and along the perimeter of the garden, daisies and gardenias. A pond decorated with lily pads glimmered behind the garden, modest in size but still impressive.

“Wow, I didn’t see the backyard. It’s beautiful.”

“I was going to save that for last, Andy-boy. It’s not all that bad. I really want you to take over the place. The house needs young blood to keep it going.”

He couldn’t avoid the incoming guilt-trip. His uncle was reaching out to him. He could unload a burden from a man who’d seen his brother accused of murder and die. The house was wearing him down. Given the grim fatigue that aged Ned beyond his years, Andy’s choice was obvious—at least for the meantime. He didn’t have plans beyond finding a place to crash and watching his reels. “I don’t know what my job situation will be months from now. I can’t make any promises.”

Ned smiled. “Then live in it for two weeks. Sleep on it, okay? I’ll be in Hayden City, while you relax here. You being here will at least give me a chance to get away. Can you do that for me?”

He hugged his uncle, happy to give the man a reprieve from his stress. “Sure, I’ll house sit. And maybe I’ll take it. I’m not sure yet.”

He viewed the garden again, this time catching three white-tailed rabbits hopping out of a cabbage patch. Andy considered the history of the place. It was calling out to him to film a documentary. He could easily market a haunted house film. He could interview the people in town and answer Ned’s question about how hardcore murderers affected small towns.

Andy worked around the subject, but now that they’d been talking for awhile, he couldn’t resist returning to it. “Do you think James really murdered those people?”

“The police didn’t care what I thought.” He sipped his scotch. “You ask me, James wasn’t a killer. You said it yourself, Andy, over fifty people were murdered. I was there. It’s impossible. But James was successful for twelve years. He traveled to Vegas, Chicago, New York, Atlantic City and overseas. He replicated Houdini’s drowning tank escape bit and the straight jacket escape—he even walked straight through a wall once. James made hundreds of thousands doing his work. He appeared on television and radio. James was a regular celebrity. He wasn’t a psycho. Hell, even kids thought he was a hero. I remember they had an action figure based on him for a short time. He had such a good time doing all of it.

“It was that show about ten years ago that forced him into early retirement. He was performing at a club in New Jersey, a bar with musicians and comedy acts—The Zebra Club, I think it was called. He was doing his bit with a tall standing box where he’d make someone step into it and then disappear. James chose a ten year old girl. When he put her in there and showed the audience she was gone, that’s where everything went wrong. The girl didn’t reappear. James couldn’t bring the girl back. No one knew what had happened to her. Even today, I haven’t heard anything about Rachael Welsh ever turning up. He was sued, but he settled out of court.
 

“The police couldn’t prove foul play, so he wasn’t tried in court. There was no evidence of why or how that girl went missing. Rachael just vanished into thin air. James quit the business and shut himself up in this house. And then eight months ago, he decides to perform again. He cursed the business, and then suddenly he was motivated again. It was strange.”

Andy ingested the story. “I guess I’ll unpack my stuff and try this house on for size. It’ll be interesting. Like a camping trip.”

“The place is all yours.” Ned hammered back the rest of the drink. “I’m glad you’re giving it a shot.”

Ned dug into his back jeans pocket and handed Andy a thick envelope. “This was the last money in James’s account. I was the beneficiary, so I wanted to give it to you. Call it a graduation present. Iowa State’s a prestigious college, not bad. You’re doing the Ryerson name proud. We need all the help we can get these days.”

“No, I can’t take this. You stayed with James and helped him out, you deserve it. You’re the beneficiary, not me.”

“You’re doing me a bigger favor than you think,” Ned insisted. “Now take it, boy. I won’t hear no for an answer.”

Andy accepted the money, though grudgingly.
 

“I have to rush off, Andy. I’m sorry there’s not much time to catch up. I appreciate you coming out at a phone call’s notice. You’re a good boy. I’ll see you in two weeks, and then you’ll tell me your verdict on the place.”

His uncle gathered up his set of keys and removed two silver ones from the ring. “This one’s to the front door and this one belongs to the shed out back. The lawn could use a good mow, I suppose. It’s up to you, Andy-boy. I’ll be seeing ya. Thanks again for everything. I’ll call you later this week and check in.”