by D I Russell
OUTSIDE
D. I. Russell
FIRST EDITION
Outside
This book is a work of fiction.
Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
This work, including all characters, names, and places:
Copyright 2020 D. I. Russell
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of both the publisher and author.
About the Author
Australian Shadows Award finalist D. I. Russell has been published since 2003 and featured in publications such as Dead on Arrival 2 and 3, Pseudopod, and Andromeda Spaceways Inflight Magazine. He was also the former vice-president of the Australian Horror Writers' Association and was a special guest editor of Midnight Echo.
Contact the author at [email protected], and sign up for the monthly newsletter right here.
Also available:
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Entertaining Demons
For the drinkers of the Tudor House Hotel, Wigan, 1997-2000,
Play
He flicks a cigarette between his lips and canters down the grimy stairs, passing streaks of graffiti on mouldy white tile, kicking aside stray pages of newspaper and empty cans.
Samara wondered: what came first?
The monster?
Or its world?
In the golden age of cinema, the monsters lurked in gothic castles in faraway lands, or the deepest depths for only the brave or foolish to venture. Decades later, bizarre creatures invaded from the stars in black and white science fiction shlock. Hackers and slashers would deliver their retribution among the parties of summer camps and dormitories of the seventies and eighties. Simple creatures would, of course, dine on the simple folk, while the more articulate beasts would stalk the educated, ensuring the challenges of their philosophies were not to be squandered. The mutant freaks hid in the deserts and sewers, sites of human refuse. Demons coveted the innocence of young girls.
New York, but not blockbuster New York. Not the city of CGI invasions and exploding skylines. The low budget underbelly. The alleyways, the bars, the street corners at the dead of night. A place teeming with souls; but on these streets contact was to be avoided, shunned…to be feared. Did the monster seek this place out to call home? Or did the darkness of the city spit her out, a nightmare abortion of hunger and shadow?
The smoker has no name, other than “Man on Train”. He was played by Curt Harris, an actor Samara had yet to see in anything else. He turns a corner on the subway platform, meandering through the commuters exiting the train. Before stepping through the open doors, he savours one last drag of his cigarette and tosses it aside.
In the background, sitting on a bench a little way down the platform, a girl with long dark hair turns in his direction, features blurred, with the shot focussing on the foreground.
Oblivious to the attention, Man on Train lives up to his name and heads through the double doors. Perhaps this is the last train of the night, or maybe it’s heading to the end of the line. We don’t know who this man is. We don’t know where he’s going. It’s late, and he finds a seat in the empty carriage, facing the camera. His gaze drifts as he ponders something. It brings a small smile to his lips. He peers out of the window as the doors slide closed. The train pulls away.
The score eases in, inspired, perhaps, by Oldfield.
Plunging into the first tunnel, the carriage fills with darkness for a moment before the lights flicker back into life. The man looks up with a frown, unaware of the girl now sitting at the rear of the carriage. Her dark hair hangs over her face in a glossy veil.
Watching both players, Samara smiles.
The best bit is coming up now.
The shot cuts to the point of view of the man as he fidgets with his lighter, then cuts back as he sighs. The girl is now a few rows closer, face still hidden. Only the score reveals her advance, as the relentless piano theme steps up a notch.
The man drops his lighter.
“Damn it.” He bends down to retrieve it from between his feet and sits back with a grunt, hiding the girl to his rear. Once again, he appears to sit in an empty carriage, watching the city lights dart past the window.
The girl slowly tilts her head to the side, now sitting directly behind him. She raises a pale, withered hand, her thin fingers snaking over the back of his seat. From the hidden face seeps a low hiss that rises in volume.
Man on Train glances back over his shoulder.
The seat behind him is empty.
No style in a quick kill from behind, Samara thought. Terror lives in the realisation. Dread lives in-between, those sweet and bloody seconds before the realisation hits, hope scattered, the surf hitting the rocks.
The camera angle changes to a wide shot. Across the carriage, the girl sits rigid, hair hanging, hands neatly folded in her lap.
Man on Train peers up and down the aisle, and finding his only companion, smiles in her direction.
“Didn’t hear you get on, cutie.” He licks his lips. “You need help gettin’ off?”
Samara grins. No one said the writing was award-winning. At least they gave Curt Harris a few lines.
The girl ignores him, and his smile descends into a sneer.
“Hey! Hey, I’m talkin’ to you.” He shakes his head and returns to staring through the window. “Fuckin’ freak.”
A side angle now as the hiss slowly builds once more, joining the heightening score, creating a distorted lullaby. In the background, the girl looks up, narrow face peeking out from behind her hair.
And there we have it. The mask slips.
The girl beams in a delayed response to the stranger’s crude come on, her mouth stretching wide, slender jaw dropping towards her chest.
Man on Train starts to turn, starts to scream.
The face of the girl fills the screen in all her horrific glory. The first full reveal, and an effective jump scare as the creature screeches and—
1.
“Samara! Down here, now!”
Her painted black thumbnail hovered over the pause button on the remote control. After a split second of defiance, she slammed her thumb home, squashing the rubber button. The VCR responded with a quiet click. The steady hum from the turning reels ceased. Samara suffered its absence more than the lack of screams and howls. On screen, the distorted face of the demon was trapped, kinetic white bars crackling across the glass, twitching as if nervous of the murderous deity they restrained.
“Samara, for the last time!”
“Okay! I’m coming…” And in a hushed addendum, “for fuck’s sake…”
Samara swung her boots, laced up to the knees and hanging off the bed, to the carpet. She usually preferred something comfortable once she returned home, once again in her bedroom, shutting out the world. Her usual pyjama pants and baggy long-sleeved top still lay in a small heap on the floor beside her bed, cast off in the chilly morning when dressing for college. Her boots, black leggings, and Tool t-shirt, with a long-sleeve underneath to cover her arms as always, were evidence of her excitement on returning home. No time to change. No minutes spared for an interrogation from her mother. Barely a moment to dump her bag in the hallway and slip away to her sanctuary, her prize clutched tightly in her hand.
Every night she imagined a thick, black goop, a c
ancerous tar that filled the gap between bedroom door and frame. It squirmed and it bubbled, finding every crack and crevice, to glue the door shut behind her. When she heard footsteps coming up the stairs, Samara imagined this slime, sentient and listening to the approaching intruder, tightening its grip, keeping them out, holding her safe in solitude.
It never worked.
She quickly gathered up her art supplies from the mattress and returned them to their plastic toolbox. While watching the film, she’d checked everything was ready for class the following day, preferring to use her own tools rather than the tired, worn supplies at the college. She dropped various pencils, charcoals, and thin brushes into the box. An art knife not yet used for clays or prints, but handy for sharpening. Finally, her pictures cut from magazines as prompts and guides. They’d be pinned up around her canvas for quick referencing.
Rising from the bed, Samara stretched out the kinks in her back from lying on her discarded clothes and turned on her desk lamp. Radiance from the bulb reflected on the glossy plastic sleeve of her new purchase. The video case remained closed. She could only watch it for the first time once, so why not make a night of it? A double bill.
Samara had caught the first Outside film by chance. One of her favourite bands, of which there were many, had been filmed playing the Brixton Academy, and MTV had been advertising the showing all week. Waiting for her parents and sister to go to bed, Samara had started on black coffee in a bid to stay awake. She didn’t trust the timer on the VCR. Plus, her dad had an unfortunate habit: he’d sneak back down stairs once everyone was asleep and flick through the foreign satellite channels for a smutty film from the seventies, or one of the many erotic game shows the Germans seemed to love. This completely fucked the video recording, as the VCR recorded the satellite TV channel. The finale of Hellraiser had been spoiled when Kirsty was about to escape the Cenobites and suddenly the screen was filled with oiled-up girls in a show called Die Sexy Olympiade.
Needing to see her band play from London, she’d planned around her father’s libido, but events still did not go to plan. Forgetting MTV broadcast from Europe and had advertised the appropriate European time, she completely missed the recording. Seething and still hyped up on too much caffeine, she’d flicked through the channels, seeking something to consume the rest of her night. Hours later, her eyelids starting to grow heavy, Samara flicked to a movie channel for background noise to dose to.
The pitch eyes of a deformed monster stared out of the screen, her jaws snapping free at the hinges, mouth stretching, thin teeth pushing through her gums like sewing needles. The demon drove a talon through the hazy barrier between waking and sleep.
It had snapped Samara awake.
Watching the current victim being disembowelled, Samara had grabbed a cushion and settled back in to see this masterpiece through. A quick glance at that week’s TV guide informed her she was watching Outside (1992). On the verge of suicide, a man makes a pact with a demon to bring suffering to those who ruined his life. R18.
And so the obsession had begun.
She’d recorded the film the next time the channel had aired it after scouring the listings each week. She insisted on watching it at the same time to protect it from her dad’s channel switching.
After a few years of watching the horrid, dark film at least once a week, the old tape started to deteriorate. Samara’s skill with the tracking dial achieving little. So she bought it on honest-to-God-official video. It occupied pride of place on her shelf with the few other bought videos she owned. She loved the artwork on the cover, and the extra details on the reverse.
Now it had a companion. Outside 2: The Return of Woe.
“Samara!”
“Okay, Mum, okay! Christ!” Reaching across her desk, she swept up her pad and charcoal.
She cast the gruesome, elongated face on screen a longing glance. Years she’d waited for the sequel. Should’ve known her family would try and ruin the big day. Hopefully she could finish the first movie and watch the sequel uninterrupted after dinner.
In her mind, the gelatinous black ooze receded, allowing her to open her bedroom door. The thick soles of her boots clomped down the creaking stairs.
***
Dinner wasn’t quite ready. Samara stared at the empty table, calculating how much of Outside she could have got under her belt before it was really time to eat. Only her younger sister sat waiting, reading a pop magazine. A neatly clipped and dressed boy band stood in perfectly arranged formation on the cover. Nobody stood like that. Not an instrument between them.
Samara considered grabbing her own choice of magazine from her bag, waging war across the dining table. Real music versus manufactured crap. She sighed, already losing the battle. Her parents agreed with her sister. Samara’s tastes weren’t real music. Men shouldn’t wear makeup. The drums are too loud. The singing is just screaming. Her sister would bring in her reinforcements, and it would again be three against one. Always three against one.
Through the archway that led into the lounge, Samara noticed her father remained in his chair watching a rugby match. Mum’s order obviously didn’t apply to him. Hanging her head to form a black curtain of hair to hide behind, Samara placed her pad and charcoal on the table and sat opposite her sister. While she hated the seating arrangements, this is how it had always been, and how it always must be. Looking at the same two pictures on the wall beyond Kelly’s face brought comfort in their familiarity. On one side, the sisters aged three and seven, arranged in the photographer’s studio not unlike the boy band on Kelly’s magazine. Both children grinned up at the camera, Samara missing her two top teeth. Their dad liked to joke to visitors how glad they are to have the picture, as it’s the last time Samara smiled. On the other side was the man himself, younger and slimmer, sporting a curly black mullet and leaning proudly against his first car. A blazing summer day in the early eighties.
What he’d lost on top he’d made up around the waist. With a groan he pulled himself up from his chair and entered the dining room, still in his blue jeans and England football top from work. I drive a cab, not a limo, he liked to remind them. I don’t need to dress all fancy to take little old ladies shopping or pick up lager louts at two in the morning.
As he passed behind his oldest daughter, he leaned over to peer at her sketch pad. In that moment, Samara’s senses flooded with the smell of his day trapped in the car. His physical presence seemed to exist beyond his body. Samara could almost feel him draped over her. She eased away to the side a little, anxious at the thought of touch.
“And there was me thinking you might be doing a nice landscape,” he said. “Or a bowl of fruit. They don’t teach you that at college? I like a nice colourful bowl of fruit. Something natural.”
Samara didn’t warrant that with a reply and picked up her slim length of charcoal. The creature on the page, nails reaching from the paper, hair swirling about the narrow head as if drowning, needed more work on the mouth.
“We always had to do bowls of fruit at school,” said Samara’s mother, delivering the first meal from the steamy kitchen. Fitting in with the rest of her family, she too wore her uniform from the day; black skirt and white blouse. Fancy for working on a checkout at the supermarket eight hours a day. A dishtowel was slung over her shoulder. She placed the serving of lasagne and vegetables in front of her husband. He reached for the knife and fork perched on the side. “Every year in art. Bowl of fruit. Apples. Oranges. Always a banana on the side.”
Kelly sniggered, her eyes not leaving the pages of her magazine. “Not gothic enough for Sam. Severed head in a bowl with guts and maggots sprinkled on top. That’s more her style.”
“At least I have a style,” Samara mumbled. “Don’t just follow everyone else.”
“Just Wednesday Addams,” said Kelly.
Their parents chuckled with her. Samara tried to ignore them, concentrating on the twisted features scratched out by her hand.
In a sad way, Samara could understand
it if Kelly had something about her. She wasn’t the stereotypical blonde stunner that boys drooled over. She had the same plain brown hair, tied back in a ponytail. Samara’s own natural colour was hidden behind a bottle of raven black. Kelly wasn’t overweight, nor curvy, nor athletic or super model thin. Kelly was just…Kelly. A girl. Just another girl. Samara had turned her over and over in her mind, trying to find the secret. People liked Kelly, but what did Kelly offer?
Her mother retrieved the remaining dishes from the kitchen, always sorting herself out last. She dropped into the chair to Samara’s right, out of breath. She’d probably come in from work just before Samara had returned from college, not having a moment, heading straight into the kitchen to prepare dinner. The lasagne might have been oven ready, but it was hot, and the carrots and broccoli had been thrown on almost as a healthy apology, restoring balance. Her mother sighed and finally allowed herself a few minutes to eat.
“Do you really have to do that at the dinner table?” she asked, jabbing her knife towards Samara’s work in progress.
“It’s homework.”
“When I was a kid,” chipped in her dad, “we’d do stuff like that just to get in trouble. Draw dicks in the margins of our maths books, that kinda thing.”
Samara’s fingers tightened around the charcoal; the tip threatened to snap against the smooth paper.
“What about you, Brenda?” he continued. “Were you any good at art back at school? I don’t know where she gets it from.”
“I didn’t do much,” replied her mother, chasing a stubborn slice of carrot around her plate with a fork. “Just the basics. Art wasn’t…well it wasn’t something people did back then.” She pronged the illusive vegetable. “Wasn’t much work in it.”
Silence descended on the dinner table, which Samara attempted to keep at bay with a frantic scratching of the charcoal. Add to the eyes, the glistening obsidian orbs. Use the method Miss Jones had taught her. Consider the source of light, the curve of the eyes…