The Film You Are About to See, page 6
When the creature reached the vehicle containing the strange girl with the blended and fractured energy, their eyes met. The creature forced a smile that its host resisted and failed.
It searched for dark and saw it beyond concessions, where it lugged away the dead human.
As it pulled the man into the shadows, a new warmth struck it.
A new human approached.
Tall, lanky, and thin.
The creature was grateful its appetite was for fear rather than flesh.
Friday, August 7, 1959
8:49 PM
The laughter and wild screams on the other side of the trees died and gave way to a quirky, melodic tune.
The marquee blinked in and out, creating shadows before the ticket window, then blanketing them in darkness. On and Off. On and Off. It hummed with electrical strain.
William waited for The Tingler to end, and once he saw the familiar colors of the concession advertisement, he closed up shop. Peterson’s Pictures had strict box office hours. No tickets sold after one hour into the show. However, this being the first DUSK TIL DAWN SPOOKTACULAR, they told him to allow in stragglers who came along during the first film.
William walked the lone path to the drive-in lot where Anna Lou waited for him in her red Chevrolet Bel Air. They agreed to catch Cat People once his shift ended.
William hadn’t quite figured that girl out. She had an undeniable mean streak. He’d seen it. He’d seen her punch a girl square in the teeth the previous school year. He’d also seen her swap the failed test in her student mailbox with another student’s. She’d erased and rewritten the names at the top. And when she got caught, boy did she raise hell.
She never seemed to unleash this rage upon William, though. Because of this, he began to think of Annie as someone else. Annie was a bully. Annie was so angry.
Anna Lou was different. Anna Lou teased him, but in a playful, intimate way, when they laid on their backs and floated in the ravine. Sometimes she’d sing for William. He loved to hear her sing Rita Hayworth and Doris Day songs.
Anna Lou, still tough as heck, would probably punch William if she heard him say it, but he thought he loved her.
Free-flowing vomit bags swirled around his feet in the wind. He still had several in his pocket. They sounded like whispers as they swished, swished. He thought of letting the rest go in the wind, but it felt wasteful. He didn’t know what the Petersons paid for all the props and special effects. Maybe they’d want to use the leftovers for a double-feature horror night. He’d keep them, maybe make sure Anna Lou had one. She’d get a kick out of that.
Eventually, his lanky legs carried him around the trees and to the lot of cars. He headed for the concession stand at the back.
He noted the timer floating on the screen. He had ten minutes to get his stuff from the projector room storage closet, which doubled as the staff “locker room,” and get to Anna Lou.
He noticed one of the actresses Mr. Peterson hired for the night, struggling with a prop of some kind. He drew nearer and saw the pale nurse dragging a large dummy around the concession windows.
“Need a hand?”
Wait. Is that—
As he came closer, William saw it was a man she pulled; not a dummy. He followed her past the bathroom, and to the back of the building.
“Wait,” William said, hurrying after her.
He wanted to know if the man was okay. If the nurse was trying to get him away from the crowd for treatment.
She’s an actress, William reminded himself.
He wanted to know how the actor remained so still. How the petite woman dragged him with impossible strength. The man’s head clipped the edge of the building as she tugged him around.
The man looked so heavy.
There must’ve been some sort of rolling device beneath him, something the nurse slid in place. But if trucks and other automobiles struggled through the mud on the lot, William surmised whatever little wheels were on such a tool would too. When he caught up to the nurse, the door marked STAFF ONLY swung shut.
He reached for the handle with an uneasy hand. The motion, though he didn’t know why, filled him with dread.
“Hello? Ma'am?”
There was no answer. And no one in sight. The usual yellow gloom from the dying overhead light fixture was off. Mr. Peterson usually left it on for him and the concession workers until they closed for the night. In fact, there was a note posted, reminding employees to leave the light on. The space doubled as a supply room for high intensity lamps used in the projector, fluorescent tubes used at concessions and in the bathrooms, and film reels.
“Two words,” Mr. Peterson told them when he posted the note, pointing to the storage shelf. “Flammable.” He counted on one finger. “Toxic.” He counted on another. His mother said something about mercury in fluorescent lighting, too. She was a real nurse.
William felt for the light switch beside him and shot it up and down. He waited for the light, but it didn’t come.
“Hello? Ma'am, are you in here?”
The darkness swelled.
“Shit.”
A cold panic settled within him. The only reason to fear the dark, he reminded himself, was because of the unknown hidden within. His father had told him this. Identify the threat, he’d say.
But the actress was no threat to him. And he’d seen this room every day, all summer long.
Nothing to be afraid of.
So, why didn’t the angst that dwelled within his every bone dissipate?
Because you’re a fraidy cat.
His father’s voice this time.
A wetness squelched beneath William’s shoes as he, carefully, felt for a flashlight on the supply shelf. His hands found a thick roll of parking tickets. Good. He picked the right shelf. He reached to the left too quickly and sent aluminum cans crashing to the floor.
William startled. His pulse pounded behind his eyes and drummed in his ears. He tried again and finally found the metal handle of a flashlight. He sighed in relief and clicked it on. The floors were slick with a red goo and, before he knew it, William’s long legs spilled out from beneath him with a quick squeak from his shoes. He threw his arms back to catch himself too late, and the crown of his head collided with the cement floor.
His flashlight pointed to the far corner of the room, where the door to the stairwell leading to the projection room was. He swung the light to the far end of the room, and William blinked away the disorientation swimming in his head. Still, he couldn’t be sure if what he saw was real. It could be a gag. A conjuration of his state. A trick of the jitters. It was part of the show. Had to be.
The fair-skinned nurse hunched over the hefty man’s unmoving body. William saw floating duplicates of both of them like when a cartoon character gets bashed over the head and sees stars. The nurse held two of the highly flammable projection rods. She twisted them, one at a time, like a corkscrew, into each of the man’s eye sockets. Only he didn’t react. He didn’t scream. Or thrash.
William remembered how still the man had been as the nurse towed him away. No one was that good of an actor, right?
William lifted his head, still dizzy with pain.
This isn’t real.
The nurse circled the man, admiring her work, and ignored William. Then, she leaned over the rods, resting both of her palms atop them, like she was thinking. She gripped each and twisted the rods deeper, through the eye and into the brain with a sound like beef thrown on a slab. The nurse, determined in her mutilation, gave the rods a final crank, cracking the back of the man’s skull.
Why hadn’t the man reacted? William had seen plenty of horror films and seen men scream for a lot less. That had to be agony. It nauseated him.
He didn’t have much time to think about it. Before William knew it, the nurse was on him. She brought her strong hands around his throat. She dug her thumbs against the little ball in his neck. He gagged as he swallowed involuntarily, air restricted. He fought with all the resistance the dead man lacked. Without missing a beat, she beat William’s head against the cement to quiet his fussing, but he fought on.
She dug deeper into his throat with her red thumb nails. Then, all at once. She stopped. William took the chance and pinned her onto her back.
His eyes burned into hers, and he didn’t see the multi-legged creature slide out from beneath her. Didn’t catch it skitter over to him. He only felt it once it had crept over his shoulder, and latched onto his spine.
The villainous nurse’s eyes sobered into confusion. Then, horror. She brought her hands to William’s wrists and tried to pull them free. But he tightened his grasp. “Please,” she coughed.
But in that moment, William was gone. He lifted the nurse’s head from the floor and pounded it back down. Again and again. Dousing him in her blood.
When there wasn’t much left of her head, William tossed the nurse aside. She fell beside the dead man. He’d been dead all along, the creature mused.
It took its new host back outside into the lot. It would let the kid lead the way. For now, it sank back into the depths of William, and gave him back to the night as he left the storage room behind.
William winded around the side of the concession building and felt a heaviness in the back of his head, a headache coming on.
Floating, blurry lights guided him forward as the pain throbbed with persistence.
“Look who it is,” a voice said. His vision focused on those bright red lips from earlier that evening.
When he didn’t say anything, she tossed a cigarette into the mud and didn’t bother stomping it out.
“Long time no see,” Ingrid said.
William, shy as always, struggled for words. “How—” He had to think of something. Then he remembered the thunderous roar of laughter and the nurse. He wondered where she’d gone off to. Back to the show, he supposed. There it was. The show.
“How are you liking the show?” he asked.
He noticed the other girl, June, had been looking him up and down.
“What’s that all over your shirt?”
Ingrid and William followed June’s pointed finger to the splatters of crimson sinking into the white cotton.
William tugged the hem of his t-shirt, so he could see for himself. “Oh my god.”
Panic struck him and he tried to recall an explanation.
The creature clicked its pincers and just as William shot a hand to his spine, it took control once more.
His arm fell awkwardly to his side. The creature searched William’s consciousness and produced a response.
“Oh, just a bit I did for late comers.”
His smile, uncertain and blushing before, turned sly. Too big for his face. Too wide to look sane.
Without another word, he walked right through June and Ingrid, separating them.
“William?” June called.
But he kept on toward Anna Lou’s Chevy Bel Air.
There, the girl sat in the driver seat, primping, waiting for him.
In the reflection of the glass, he stared back at himself. A strange, emotionless gaze.
The door nearly hit him as it stretched open.
“Quit starin’ at me,” Anna Lou said, “and get in.”
He did.
Friday, August 7, 1959
8:54 PM
The usual RESTROOMS sign had been replaced with six white letters plastered over a black-painted wooden plaque. MORGUE it read, with an arrow directing patrons to either side. This got a laugh out of June.
Vomit bags lined the metal shelf beneath the large vanity in the ladies’ room. A woman who looked about the same age as June’s mother powdered the shiny ball of her nose. She did so absentmindedly, unblinking and entranced by her own reflection. She was as white as a sheet.
She and Ingrid made for the furthest stalls, surprised to see a few small children bustling around the cramped restroom with their mothers. They slid the door locks in place with twin clicks.
The Tingler, June analyzed further, was a lot of fun, but plenty scary, too, especially if you read the papers. All that talk of nuclear energy, atomic bombs, and medical experiments–science that had the potential to or already had gone terribly wrong.
June couldn’t blame the pale woman for responding to that film exactly as William Castle teased the audience might; with nausea, hysteria, and shock.
If viewers thought about it long enough, immersed themselves in the experience of film, they’d see these very real subjects like war in the horror movies they consumed. That alone was terrifying, never mind a parasite that feeds on fear like the Tingler.
Of course, this was the brilliance of the film, too.
June tried to think of things such as this instead of the china doll nurse and the dull bite of an emerging headache. The pair summoned bloody visions of her grandmother, and she did not want to go there.
June hummed an Elvis tune to herself. The bathroom was plenty loud enough, between the otherworldly swamp sounds like in The Creature From The Black Lagoon playing over the speakers and the crossover of conversations.
June dropped her poodle skirt, spotting a few stains from Officer Reed’s masochistic and messy getaway. She couldn’t stand that man, but was thankful for a distraction.
The music distorted into a shrill ring.
June’s mouth went dry. She rubbed her tongue against the roof of her mouth and swallowed but found no relief. That’s when she realized how heavy she was breathing. Furious and panicked shallow breaths escaped her lips. She hunched over as pain punched her skull. Tension shot through her neck and down her back like her spine was aflame. She gasped, bracing herself with her hands stretched to either side of the stall.
Women shuffled outside her door, bending to search for shoes of sitting women and girls, the indicator of occupancy. Through the space at the bottom of the stall door, June no longer saw the bathroom floor, but dirt. Bloody chunks of meat strewn within it. Eager carrion beetles swept over them. Was that a beak, from a bird or chicken? More dirt fell upon the mound, some tossed over onto June’s own feet. She heard soft whimpers and then a squeal of terror. Something thrashed beneath the mound of dirt.
The edges of June’s vision waned and soon became a storm of red smoke, except for the rattling box beneath the dirt. It ceased, and a fierce laughter and screams from what sounded like a dozen or more people ensued. Children, too.
The dirt settled, but June could hear the beetles. Crawling atop something solid, then gnawing away at something slick and gamey. Flesh.
A theatrically ghoulish voice, distant but sobering, said, “Ten minutes ‘til showtime.”
Anticipatory dread tormented her, coiling and springing in her gut. An agitated snake ready to strike. She thought she might retch. She cupped a hand over her mouth, and the voice repeated, “Ten minutes ‘til showtime.”
The red fog held its grasp on her.
We just saw The Tingler.
Next, Cat People.
This isn’t real.
Immense pressure knotted in her throat, leaving her wheezing and prying at an invisible assailant’s hands. The sense was taking control, filtering her out of her consciousness and into a sea of misery. She thought of Janice’s broken ankle. Her grandmother’s final moments. The boy she plowed over with a vehicle in her dreams. The soldiers overseas. What it was like to be shot. To starve.
Everyone was hurting; suffering was infinite.
She resisted with all her might. Trying to call herself back.
If June leaned too hard into the sense, she would feel it all. In strange circumstances, like earlier that week, she could see it, too. And if she stayed for too long, wandered too far, she feared she could be lost forever.
She felt a vibration against her lips. She’d begun humming the playful theme from The Blob, again.
She focused and visualized the clouds of red floating away and returning to the moment.
Focus.
Ingrid’s hand shot from under the shared wall between them and toward June’s feet. “Hey, Junie, you got one?”
When June didn’t answer, Ingrid knocked on the shared wall. The noise rang in June’s head, thunderous and booming. She turned toward the sound and saw her grandmother once more. She smiled, then her head swung back with a crack. When it came up and faced June, it was someone else. A man. Face smashed to a pulp. She brought her head forward and into her hands.
Focus.
“June?”
A young boy, accompanied by his mother, took a spill on the floor, getting a good bump on his head and erupted into hysterics. Was that what June sensed? Is that why pain prodded around in her skull?
The boy screamed and June hugged herself and rocked.
This can’t be happening. This can’t be happening.
“Shhh,” a woman, the mother perhaps, said. “It’s alright. Where does it hurt?”
As if the mother spoke to her, June indicated the specific spot just beneath the crown of her head by bringing a hand to it. It throbbed under her hand.
“Here,” June said.
Ingrid waved her hand, searching the air for a tampon. “Where is it, June?”
“Here,” June repeated, touching a slightly lower position on her head.
The boy’s wailing eased, and so did the blinding red before June. He sniffled.
“I feel a little bump,” the mother said. “We’ll get some ice on it, but I think you’ll live.”
The pair shuffled out of the restroom, which fell as quiet as a morgue after hours.
“June?” Ingrid said with a degree of impatience.
June saw Ingrid’s waving hand and bent wrist, coming to.
“Oh.” June unwound toilet paper and passed it beneath the stall, her hand brushing Ingrid’s.
All at once, the red lifted completely.
“No, June,” Ingrid said, exasperated. “You know what I mean.”
Finally, June did. June was the group’s tampon supplier. Most mothers in town bought into the whole tampons robbing young girls of their virginity hysterics.
