There's Blood on the Moon Tonight (35 page)

And as wolves howled outside the castle walls, the Count uttered his most famous line, just as his audience once again took up their journey:
‘Listen to the children of the night! What beautiful music they make!’

In succession came the Werewolf, the Mummy, and the Creature from the Black Lagoon. They reminded Tubby of his Aurora models, only on a much grander scale. They were for the most part exactly what he imagined when he studied his glow-in-the-dark kits in the privacy of his bedroom. He wondered again at this bizarre twist of Fate that had placed him on this odd little island off the coast of South Carolina; where there existed this group of people who recognized him as one of their own.

Who thought as he thought!
He pinched himself to make sure it wasn’t some cruel dream.

They left the Universal Monsters behind them and traveled on, making regular pit-stops at other freeze frames of the celluloid fantastic, reminding Tubby of
The Wizard of Oz
. When Dorothy stepped out of her house after its tornadic journey into the Land of Oz. From the dull sepia tones of Kansas, to a surreal Technicolor world of color and dreams. Tubby thrilled to the next sets honoring the imagination of Harryhausen and other stop-motion geniuses; a lost art in this age of CGI proliferation. But they were nothing compared to what followed…

The sci-fi flicks of the fifties were obviously Bill Brown’s preferred playground. While weird, futuristic music warbled overhead—Tubby recognized it as the score from
Forbidden Planet
—the ride took them through an alien ravaged landscape. Sets from
The War of the Worlds
,
Invasion of the Body Snatchers
,
The Thing
,
and, of course,
Forbidden Planet
—minus its Robby—trolled on by in all their Post-War, paranoid glory. The care and detail put into these designs were meticulous and awe inspiring.

Definitely by an artist who adored his subject matter.

“I’ve got Robby down in my workshop,” Bill explained to Tubby with a conspiratorial wink. “Tim Garfield came by this week and I didn’t want the two bumping in to each other. I sold him that robot in his window. It’s just a shell, really. Not like our working Robby. No sense rubbing it in, right Ralph?”

Tubby smiled and shook his head. 

They left the brick tunnel and entered a metallic hollow tube, the ebony coffins now gliding silently through the shadowy bowels of an apparently empty space ship. Tubby recognized it right away as the
Nostromo
. The strident echoes of an alarm, announcing the ship’s imminent destruction, blared through the speakers overhead. Just as in the movie, the countdown ratcheted up the tension. What had once been a vast ceiling had turned into a claustrophobic experience, inserting the museum’s visitors into Ridley Scott’s extraterrestrial world of the
Alien
.
Only on this occasion, despite its monstrous bug-like shadow looming over them at every turn, the drooling Alien would go unseen. It was a stroke of genius, for it dropkicked the imagination into hyper-drive. Tubby considered it the scariest part of the tour thus far.

That was before they stopped in front of a certain address in Georgetown. Outside the ivy-covered townhouse, a sickly yellow light fell from a two-story window. Otherwise, the house was dark and fog encapsulated. Tubby kept his eyes on the lit window—

Something unspeakable passed by the glass…

“This is the last stop on this part of the tour,”
Bill Brown whispered to him. The cars pulled further ahead, until they had settled in front of the ill-fated bedroom.

Tubby’s throat constricted into a familiar knot of dread. In his opinion this was the scariest movie ever made. Maybe the
only
scary movie ever made. He’d never been able to watch the film without that feeling of dread stealing over him, making him feel as if he’d somehow garnered the devil’s attention, simply by watching the movie. He’d known kids who claimed
The Exorcist
wasn’t so scary. Not like the
Saw
movies, or even that dumb franchise featuring the Chucky doll. Ralph felt sorry for those insipid souls. Somewhere along the way, their constant diet of violent video games and torture porn movies had robbed them of their imaginations. The one thing that sets us apart from the hapless adults—that helps us
see
what
cannot
be seen. 

What was that insightful line from
The Usual Suspects
? The one Keyser Soze says to the detective?

             
The devil’s greatest trick was getting us to believe he doesn’t exist...
Yeah. True that, Soze.

That feeling of dread stole over him once again, and Tubby wondered if the devil was watching him,
watching him
. He needn’t have worried. If he’d learned one thing this night, it was that Evil never won out in th
e
Dark Side of the Moon Wax Museum.
No…not even the devil.

Tubby leaned forward and watched the brave priests make their final stand. At stake was the soul of the torn and tortured, thirteen-year-old girl, tied to her bedposts. The padded bed rose slowly, silently off the floor. The demon child grinned through tattered lips, her eyes a leering window into a frightening netherworld. Her head began its twisted journey upon her torqued neck. Muscles stretching, tendons tearing. The room as cold as Satan’s black heart—the priests’ breaths whisping out in smoky tendrils of condensed air, creating a nearly flawless illusion of horror.

                                          All that was missing was the pea-green vomit.

             
After the scene concluded, and Good had once again vanquished its timeless foe, the subdued spectators moved on to what Tubby assumed was the end of the ride. One last set of oaken doors before them. Only it wasn’t the Exit he’d been expecting. It was another section altogether. One Tubby hadn’t known existed. The blood dripping sign over the oak door read
:
The King of Horror.

             
The ebony coffins pushed through the doors into another series of tableaus—the first, an ordinary New England country road leading into a quaint little town.

             
They passed a green highway sign, pockmarked with old bullet holes and ringed with rust…

            
 
Welcome to Jerusalem’s Lot!

             
A satisfied smile crept across Tubby’ face. He’d been somewhat disappointed that the Browns had made no mention of his idol’s considerable contributions to the Horror genre. But like all good showmen they’d saved the best for last! A separate homage t
o
The King of Horro
r
.

             
For the next thirty minutes, the ride traversed the vast landscape of Stephen King’s storied imagination…

             
Danny Glick hovering at the second story bedroom window of his childhood chum, Mark Petrie (Tubby knew there had to be wires holding the wax figure aloft, but doggone if he could spot them!)
.
Danny’s long fingernails scratching against the glass, beckoning Mark to come closer…closer. A school bus parked along the curb. Pale, wraithlike visages peering out hungrily at the passing visitors. Ruby red lips writhing on top of long incisors…

             
The old Marsten House looming large over the town. Its gables and doorways as dark as the parasitic creature lurking within its cancerous depths. 

Then all too soon they were leaving
‘Salem’s Lot
and entering the town limits of Castle Rock. A long, Nosferatu-like shadow bleeding out of the doorway of
Needful Things
. A shuddering multitude of sparrows covering the power and phone lines into either distance. Silent and watchful. Like the ones in Hitchcock’s film. Then they were passing an overgrown field with a lonely elm tree standing tall in the middle. Cradled in its sturdy branches was an ordinary looking treehouse. The carefree laughter of callow youths carried out to them.

Nope, nothing wrong here.

              If there was a running dialogue that went along wit
h
The King of Horro
r
,Mr. Brown had let it slide, as he had ever since they’d departe
d
Murderers’ Row
.
  He sat beside Tubby and pointed up at the tree house. “Like the sparrows, most people at first miss the significance of the treehouse; even those who describe themselves as fans of Stephen King. But since you’re
a
Cree
p
, I expect—”

“It’s from the novella
The Body,
from Stephen King’s book
Different Seasons.
They made a movie about it called
Stand by Me.
One of the better adaptations of King’s work. Rob Reiner was the director; he also directed
Misery
, another excellent adaptation
.
Those kids inside the tree house are Vern Tessio, better known as Penny. Gordie—”

“Okay, okay!” Bill Brown surrendered. “You know your King, kid.”

The coffins lurched on to the next stop. They faced a tired looking farmhouse and a dusty barn; the doors of which stood open wide. The interior as dark as an Acme inkblot. The kind Wil-e Coyote always threw on the side of a mountain for the Roadrunner to crash into.

For a moment, Tubby was confused as to what he was looking at—then he saw the mailbox.

The name upon it read
Camber.

Tubby looked back at the bare yard, separating the farmhouse from the barn. A battered old Ford Pinto sat underneath the blanket of faux stars. Cicadas again chirred sleepily in the background. A warm, muggy breeze wafted across Tubby’s face. A humid night in the ol’ Rock. He could just make out the outlines of two heads, stirring about in the Pinto’s interior: one adult and one child.

A thin cry wafted out on the still summer air.

Suddenly a deep and familiar growl interrupted the scene. Bright red eyes in the inkblot. Tubby held his breath as the Saint Bernard, known to the entire world as Cujo, stepped out into the yard. Its alien eyes pinned Tubby to his seat. Like the strange, glowing eyes hovering over the damned in th
e
Chamber of Retributio
n
, the Cujo animatron was a bit too close to the real thing to suit Tubby.

He turned around to see if this was some sort of sick joke his newfound friends were pulling on him. They stared back at him apologetically. It was obvious they’d forgotten how similar this was to their shared ordeal in the Pines. (In fact, the red waiting eyes throughout the museum, had been Bud’s idea, and only now did he wonder at that.)

Tubby’s attention snapped back to the shaggy mess creeping towards him. Despite his trepidation, he couldn’t help but be impressed. “How do you get your wax figures to move like that, Mr. Brown? It looks so…”

“Real?” Bill said, smiling at the compliment.

Tubby looked back at the Saint Bernard, the filthy matted fur, the foam, which actually dripped from the open mouth, the black lips curled back to reveal the dog’s bared teeth. Oh, and lest we forget, the blood red eyes. Yeah, it was real, all right. “Uh-huh,” he managed.

             
“I appreciate that, Ralph; but that’s not a wax figure. Truth is, son, there are very few wax figures in my museum. The ones I do have, I had to send away for. My specialty is in robotics. Wax, in my opinion, is too stagnant a medium. Fear is motivated by movement. And like all of my moving features in the museum, such as little Regan and the Universal monsters, Cujo here is a
working
robot. He and Robby are my pride and joys. Yet if you were to remove his lifelike exterior, his inner workings would be no more intimidating than the insides of a toaster.”

“So why do you call it a wax museum?”

“Because the Dark Side of the Moon Robotic Museum sounds insipid, don’t you think? It loses the human drama that’s more closely associated with sculpted wax—thanks to that Vincent Price classic. Besides, the museum’s name was my wife’s idea.”

Tubby could only nod at that. “Does it always…do that?” he asked, pointing at the dog.

“Uh-huh. I programmed it to come out of the barn and walk to that very spot, then stare and growl at the lead car. Like the Mona Lisa, his eyes never leave you.”

“Convincing, isn’t it?” said Josie, from the rear.

“Sorry we forgot to mention it,” Rusty said.

Ralph was relieved when the cars rattled on, leaving Cujo growling after them. They passed other exhibits that weren’t half as unsettling, though no less authentic.

A 1957 Plymouth Fury (“Couldn’t find a ‘58”, Bill Brown said with a shrug, when Tubby pointed out the real
Christine
was a 1958 model Fury) lurched out at them from an alleyway, its twin headlights blinking on at the last second. Josie screamed, even though she’d seen it a hundred times before, and used it as an excuse to bury her face in Bud’s chest. Christine gunned her engine in frustration as they passed her by…