Horror Business (13 page)

It’s in your hands.

RAIMI looks down to see that he’s holding his revolver. Police sirens ring from outside and a voice from downstairs calls for RAIMI.

TED (Cont’d)

We need to hurry. Point it right here. (He points to the center of his head, right between his eyes).

RAIMI, zombie-like, lifts the gun and aims.

CUT TO: Downstairs. A group of cautious police search with their guns drawn.

Sound effect: BAM!

A gunshot rings throughout the house. They all run up the stairs to the bedroom where they see dead RAIMI with a bullet-wound in his head, laid out next to his bashed-up wife. Some of the officers can’t look, others get sick.

POLICE OFFICER

Detective Raimi?

CUT TO: Black for five seconds

TITLE: The End.

The finished script sits on the dresser near my bed.

My camera rests on top of the script.

I run fingers through my hair and pace the length of my room. Those two items on my dresser are what my brother has become. The thought feels like golf balls in my throat. I sit to calm down, but can’t focus for very long. Maybe something outside is watching me. I get up to look out the window and see no one. I close the blinds anyway. I stand above the dresser and look down at the camera guarding the script. I have trouble remembering if the camera’s position was my doing or not.

In the muted light of my basement room, I reach down to steal the script from the video camera.

I slide one finger carefully under the paper and recognize the weight of our movie. It feels good and official. I hesitate, let the story travel through the pages into my fingers, up my arm and into my brain, where it dominates the ghosts and tits that live there. With my other hand, I pull the stack of papers out from under the camera and set the machine back on the dresser. I return to the bed to flip through our script. There are little notes and corrections, highlighted with non-sequitur pictures of bats and gravestones. Most of the comments say
nice
or
could use more
and I wrack my brain trying to remember what more we needed. I flip through more pages.

I hear a sound from my dresser—a moving sound. I keep the video camera in my peripheral.

Every time I reread the script, I always stop before the end, but now I’m compelled to keep going. My heart races as I inch toward the final showdown between Detective Raimi and Ted. I turn the pages, mouthing the words. Paragraphs and dialogue mix together, becoming one big blob on white. I can’t stop. I brush some wetness off my cheek.

Again, I hear movement.

I stand, still holding the movie script in my hand. The papers tremble. I face the dresser, and the terror that lies on it. I feel foolish for believing that I could ever feel safe again.

The camera has turned around to face me. I see the silver ring around the lens turning, manually fixing the focus on me. Watching me. It makes a mechanical whirring noise and the red recording light flares up. It wants to document this moment. I stare deep into the black lens and see my brother

“Fuck you,” I say and rip the script to tiny pieces, letting the little white memories of my brother flutter to the floor. Tiny, paper ghosts.

Before I slam the door shut behind me, I hear the recording buzz stop and then silence.

End of tape.

I don’t really sleep anymore. When I do, I have nightmares about Brian with black eyes, missing fingers, and teeth that appear longer and sharper with each consecutive dream. I spend the nights in his bed, under the covers, and breathe through a small opening in the blanket. I often wish for a snorkel. I keep the lights on. Sometimes I hear scratching through the wall. It comes from my own bedroom.

Every time I have to piss feels like a mission of survival. There’s the leap from the bed to the floor to dodge whatever’s under the bed. Then the dark of the bathroom, and the split second it takes to wrap my arm around the doorframe to turn on the light. That second, reaching into the void, could cost me an arm. I’m sure of it.

I take three breaths and make the leap. I stop at the foot of the stairs. There’s a light on in the family room.

Dad sits in front of the TV. The TV is off.

A trunk sits between the two-foot rests. It looks like he’s praying over it.

“Jason. You’re up. Come here. I want to show you something.”

I forget about pissing. The pressure on my bladder is replaced by a sour stirring in my stomach. My dad wears an open bathrobe; his once-powerful chest has shrunk into a concave cup holder. His belly is large and distended. I can’t remember the last time I saw him without a shirt, but the transformation seems sudden—the effect of an extended illness. I stand frozen in the doorway to the stairwell and clutch the frame, try to sink my nails in it.

“Come here.” It doesn’t sound like a request anymore. He waves me over like he’s trying to catch my scent. Trying to determine my taste. My hand slides off the frame. “That’s my boy!” he shouts. He pats the space next to him and bounces on the cushion. A bottle at his feet tips over. Glass against hardwood.

I sink in with him.

He knocks on the trunk in front of us. The wood is painted dark green; it’s adorned with faux-leather straps. Two tarnished latches keep the trunk sealed. The thing smells like mold.

“You and that Ally girl are pretty close, huh?”

“Dad.” I feel my cheeks burn.

“Don’t think I haven’t noticed,” he says. He opens another beer. Foam spills over and drips down his knuckles. He licks them clean. “She’s not bad.” He tightens his lips into an approving line. “Don’t really know her parents, but they seem like good people.” He pulls another beer from between the couch cushions and wrenches the cap off. “Here. Take this.”

I hold the sweaty bottle out in front of me. My elbow makes a right angle.

“Go on,” he says. “It’s yours. It’s okay.” He takes a swig from his beer and motions for me to do the same. The bitterness makes me retch. I hold the liquid in my mouth until it gets warm and then swallow. It has a faint taste of rotten bananas.

“Good, huh?”

I nod.

“Let’s chug.” He sees my hesitation. “All you do is open your throat.” He strokes the stubble on his neck—it almost connects with the chest hair splayed out of his yellowed undershirt collar. I place the bottle to my lips. “Ready?”

He tips his beer back and a series of air bubbles float to the top of the inverted bottle. I do the same. I throw my head straight back and the beer falls down my esophagus without touching my tongue. After three gulps, I move to take a breath. Dad puts his fingers under the bottle so I can’t put it down.

“Almost there,” he says. “Chug. Chug. Chug.”

My stomach puts an embargo on liquid entering. It tightens. Beer fills my throat, spills over into my windpipe. The bitter liquid flows out of my nose. Dad takes his hand away and pats my back while I sputter.

“Nice work.”

My head becomes light, my vision blurs. A dumb smile spreads across my face. Dad beams.

“Now!” He says it like he’s announcing medieval royalty, all hands in the air. He does a drumbeat on the trunk with his palms. “For the main attraction.” He flips the latches on the trunk open and flings the top like he’s throwing a barrel over his head.

Inside, there are rows and rows of black VHS tapes.

“My stash,” he says.

I bend over the cartridges. They all have a white strip displaying my dad’s handwriting:
Debbie Does Duluth, Bang Plane, Penetrating Gazes, Slippery When Wet
(vols. I-V),
The Return of Debbie.
So many tapes with names that seem bootlegged from a dream on the verge of becoming a nightmare.

There’s a tape with my parents’ names on it.

In the corner, there’s one tape without my dad’s penmanship: King Kong Video’s copy of
The Lost Boys.
I pull it out, and the row topples slightly, like dominoes.

“How long have you had this?”

He doesn’t look at the tape. “I haven’t opened this thing in years.” He leans in close and whispers: “Vintage. They don’t make them like this anymore” The tape feels hot in my hand. I drop it. “Go ahead, pick one out. They’re all pretty good.”

“Dad, I’m not really in the mood. I’m kind of dizzy.” It’s not a lie.

“Don’t be silly.” He traces the length of each row; his finger bounces over the slight ridge of each tape. “Eeny meeny miny moe.” He stops on
Back Ally
and claws it out from the rest. He taps the title strip and laughs. “Get it?”

Everything separates into twos. I close my eyes to stop the spinning. When I open them, Dad is at the TV, fidgeting with our old VCR. A horrible whirring sound leaks out of the machine. Static rolls down the screen. The picture kicks in: an office setting, blurred by years of analog deterioration. The colors jump out of their boundaries, making everything look like it’s on fire.

A woman sits in the office, writing with a pencil on a single sheet of paper. The set design is just a clock and a globe. A door opens and a handsome, rugged deliveryman enters, hoisting a five-gallon jug of water on his shoulder.

“Where do you want it?” the deliveryman asks.

“Anywhere you can put it,” the woman says.

“Great dialog!” My dad cracks up. “Back when they used to have stories.”

The woman navigates the table separating them. She takes off her top.

“Au natural,” says Dad.

A line of static breaks the picture. For a second, I swear I see Ally and Brian in the park. The porn floods back in.

The woman’s mascara runs down her cheeks. The man’s grunting sounds like a gorilla. I close my eyes and listen. The grunting speeds up, slows down, sounds submerged underwater. The joy of analog.

I open my eyes and she’s bent over the desk. They’re both so hairy.

Again, the tape cuts out. Brian’s black eyes fill the screen. The analog screams. I put my hands over my ears.

Back Ally
returns. It’s a close-up. My eyes cross involuntarily, pinks swirl together. It looks like gore. My stomach heaves the beer.

I spray vomit all over my dad’s tape collection.

“Oh. Hey!” My dad picks me up under the arms and rushes me into the bathroom where I throw up the rest of my beer. “I’m sorry, bud. Just let it all out.” He pats me on the back. “Didn’t know you were such a lightweight”—he chuckles—“You’ll get a taste for it.”

I stand, and he shakes my hand. He congratulates me on my new manhood.

Mom sounds tired when she picks up the phone. I’ve forgotten about the time difference.

“Jason?” The loud, scratching sound of her face against the receiver before her voice fades in: the tail end of a yawn. “What time is it?”

“I’m sorry Mom. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“No, no, honey. It’s okay. How are things?”

“They’re all right.” She doesn’t sound happy, but she sounds relaxed. At ease. Her distant tone of voice is gone. For the first time since Brian disappeared, she sounds alert.

“Why are you calling, Jason?”

“When are you coming home?”

“In a few weeks, hun. A few weeks.”

“Mom?”

“What is it?”

“Dad’s acting weird.”

“I know. It’s okay. He’s been going through hard times.” She pauses. “It’s been hard for everybody.”

“No, I mean.” I don’t know what I mean.

“Jason, are you crying?”

“No.”

“Is everything okay?”

“Yeah.”

She doesn’t talk. She listens to me blubber. My lip flaps with each inhale. I squeeze hot tears out of my eyes.

“Hey, Mom?” I wipe my nose with the entire length of my arm. She waits.

“Yes?”

“Why are grown-ups so weird?”

“I don’t know, Jason. We just are.”

I’m facing a wall of meat.

Outside, lightning breaks the sky. The thunderstorm makes the lights flicker. Weary, panicked parents look beat-up in their ponchos, their hair plastered. The grocery store is full of puddles.

Thunder crashes, overpowering the music playing through the store’s speaker system. I flinch.

The sight of the meat reminds me of the inside of a rotting zombie. No reds, only grays and whites. A lady piles her arms full of steaks. The rain has made her look water-logged and translucent, or how I imagine floating corpses look. She walks with tiny footsteps to keep her balance on the wet floor, but a loud squeak signals her fall. She loses the steaks to a brown slick of water.

Hamburger is on sale. Out of all the meats, it’s the one that looks the least processed, the most raw. The most likely to excite primordial hunting instincts in dangerous creatures.

I buy two plastic-covered trays of the bargain meat.

I recognize the cashier who rings me up.

“You have cash?” she asks. “Storm’s been fucking with our computer system.” She doesn’t apologize for the language. She holds my items up to the light and inspects her reflection in the tight plastic. “You kids sure like this stuff, don’t you?”

I hand her a bill and she gives me change. She holds my bag out for me, and then pulls it away when I reach.

“Be careful,” she whispers. “This stuff will kill you if you don’t cook it right.”

I take the bag, thinking:
Silver bullets, holy water, and bodily dismemberment—maybe. A little rotten meat isn’t going to do shit.

***

Wind sweeps ice across the house. I stare at my reflection in the window. It looks, like I’m cross-fading out of the scene. Like I’m disappearing completely.

A bolt of lightning breaks the reflection and illuminates the yard in blue-white. There’s a shape out there. Two red pinpricks are set inside a stooping, black mass. Lips curl back to reveal an interlocking trap.

Brock watches me from outside.

I open the meat and immediately smell its expiration. White chunks cling to the plastic as I peel it off. I turn the knob and the wind forces the door against me. The rectangle of light shines out into the yard. It inches toward my dog but stops in front of his paws. It seems that even light is afraid of him.