"Midnight approaches, gentlemen," the Funelli Acolytes said playfully. "Release me..." With dramatic sweeping gestures, they added, "Or everyone dies."
The Acolytes vanished in a swirl of mist.
"You all right?" Harlan asked.
The writer nodded a little too emphatically. "Yeah. Let's just get this over with." He lugged his typewriter up under his arm. "I see you found your camera."
"The guy didn't think he had one, either."
Jack narrowed his eyes at him.
"You don't think...?"
"Kid, if he can make those things appear out of nowhere, who knows what he can do that we haven't seen yet?"
Harlan nodded gravely. "Well, I guess we'd better do what he says."
"Now hold on, I didn't say that," Jack said bitterly. "This old dog's still got a few tricks up his sleeve. You just wait and see what I've got in store for you. And for him. Make me do a rewrite. Son of a bitch ain't even paying me."
Jack loped off down the damp street. Harlan gave one last look at Jiffy Pawn--or Yiffy Pawn--and followed.
5 – Videolimbo
FUNELLI'S OLD STUDIO ran with dripping rain from the gutters and still smelled charred after twenty-three years. The fire department had chained the front doors, but Jack led him down a darkened alleyway that reeked like piss and rotting vegetation. Finally, they arrived at a low window, where Jack pointed to a cinderblock that had come free of the structure and lay broken on the ground.
"Pick that up and throw it through the window."
Harlan heaved the block at the charred window. The muted sound was more like the breakaway glass they used in the movies than the sound of real glass shattering. He supposed it would have lost much of its integrity during the fire, but the thought was cut short as Jack told him to drag a crate under the window.
"You know, for someone who doesn't direct, you're doing a pretty good job bossing me around."
"Don't get lippy, kid. Now help me up."
Jack set down his typewriter and held out a hand, opening and closing it into a fist to get Harlan's attention. Jack grabbed his shoulder, using it to leverage himself up onto the box. He slipped through the window. A clatter of wood and metal arose from the darkened interior.
"You okay in there?"
Harlan peered into the gloomy silence just as Jack rose up from the darkness, startling him. "All good, kid. Just slipped is all. Hand me my typewriter and get your ass in here."
Harlan handed the case through. He passed the camera and tripod through after it, and climbed in. The charred smell was stronger inside, reminding him of the twisted jangle of metal and glass left of the family car after his parents' accident.
"Welcome to The Funhouse," Jack said with a sardonic grin.
Harlan looked around. The second floor sagged, resting hazardously on the burnt matchsticks of support columns. Cobwebs hung in places, broken boards and heaps of crumbled concrete littered the floor, glass and broken tile lay scattered elsewhere. Thieves had torn up the walls where the fire hadn't already destroyed them, and loose pipes and the frayed ends of copper wire stuck out everywhere. He felt the dead cold of this place in his bones, the epitome of every abandoned building in every horror movie and thriller he had ever seen.
"Probably should've brought a flashlight," Jack said.
Harlan tugged his phone from his pocket and punched up the flashlight. Jack sneered at it and headed off in a seemingly random direction. Harlan followed into the darkened recesses of the building, where dripping pipes and creaking floorboards gave the atmosphere a spooky Halloween effects vibe. The beam of his flashlight caught a fat, wet rat as it squeezed into a hole in the wall.
"Try not to step on any nails," Jack warned. "Probably get tetanus just from breathing in here."
A moment later the writer stopped in a nondescript corner. He genuflected to right an old plastic school desk and chair combo. Most of the plastic had melted, but the metal frame and pressed wood tabletop remained intact. "This is where the magic happened," he grunted, and set the typewriter up on the lopsided desk. He sat down in front of it, cracking his knuckles.
Harlan set the tripod up in front of the distinctive sloped green screen wall. Now what? "Need any inspiration?" he asked.
Jack glared back over his shoulder. "I need you to be quiet. Only thing I hate more than rewrites is a producer who thinks he's creative."
Harlan shut his mouth.
The writer ran a sheet of paper through the roller and began to type. Keystrokes echoed through the dripping ruin. The old man wrote seemingly in a trance state. Harlan crept up behind him so as not to disturb him and read over his shoulder.
Harlan stepped away from the typewriter and began to pace like an imprisoned animal. Jack kept on typing, tearing out sheets of paper as he finished them, blowing on them to dry the ink, and laying them face down on the table beside the typewriter. He had a good four or five pages written by 11:30, and when Harlan looked over his shoulder again, Jack banged out the words
The old hack cracked his knuckles and leaned back in the chair, stretching out his arms and wriggling his fingers. "Done. Man, I wish I had a stiff drink."
"Can I read it?"
"What good is a script if no one reads it?" He tapped the pages on the desk to straighten them, and handed them over his shoulder to Harlan.
Harlan read.
A fetid gust howled through the guts of the building. Harlan looked up, a chill running through him--whether from the coincidence or the howling of the wind, he wasn't sure, but anxiety leaned toward the former.
Harlan put a smoke in his mouth and lit it. He wandered over to the old camera and bent to peek at the viewfinder. The screen was black. He thumbed the ON button, hoping it still had some juice in it.
The camera buzzed to life. He peered through the viewfinder. The lens struggled to focus on the wall in the gloom.
"What are you doing?"
"Testing a theory."
"Kid, I don't know what you think is gonna happen. This ain't magic. This ain't the movies. This is real life."
"Now who's cynical? Whatever happened to 'suspend your disbelief'?"
"Look, I wrote you your happy ending. That's what you wanted, isn't it?"
"I want Vicky back!" Harlan spat. "I don't need more fantasy bullshit. I wanted you to end this!"
Jack's shoulders sagged as he sighed. "Kid... I'm just a writer. And not a very good one, if you ask the critics."
"Then quiet on set," Harlan said, and Jack's mouth shut audibly.
The lens autofocused.
Nothing.
Harlan stepped back, disheartened. "It's not working."
"You know, I've found sometimes it helps if you read back what you wrote aloud. Get back into the flow of the story."
Harlan nodded. He picked up the script and found his place. "Pull back to reveal the tiny black and white screen. The Kid watches the scene through the viewfinder. The tape whirs as it records--Records," he repeated. "That's it!"
Harlan opened the tape deck. He wadded up some foil from the cigarette package and jammed it into the empty write-protection slot in the NASTiES cassette. He inserted the tape, and pressed RECORD.
00:00:00... 00:00:01... 00:00:02...
"Funelli shoots the scene over-the-shoulder," Harlan read, "prancing around like a madman. His Acolyte steps closer with the whirring drill--"
Slowly, a blurry image formed in the viewfinder. Dark, ghostly shapes moved on the tiny monitor. Harlan squinted to bring them into focus. The lens whirred, twisting and turning, attempting to focus on the imaginary images.
"It's working," Jack stage-whispered. "Jesus, kid, it's working!"
Harlan looked up from the screen, expecting to see vague outlines, mere ghosts. But the scene before him solidified. Vicky lay in the dental chair, eyes wide and jaw tight in terror as the Acolyte stood near with a laser blaster. Funelli, oblivious to Harlan and Jack's presence in the studio, shot the scene over her shoulder, getting her
POV as the weapon reached her open mouth. It was as like watching the scene through two-way glass, a window into an alternate dimension or, he supposed, from the undamaged appearance of the green screen area, a different time.
The fear on Vicky's face physically hurt his heart. His stupid obsession with old movies had gotten her into this mess, had almost gotten her killed. He'd taken their relationship for granted. If the both of them managed to make it out alive, he promised himself he wouldn't pressure her or trick her into taking him back, like he'd done before. He would let her decide whether his actions tonight merited forgiveness.
He looked at his phone. 11:48. Still time to make things right.
"CUT!" Harlan yelled.
The players froze, even Funelli. Tracking lines crackled up Funelli's slim, black-clad frame as Harlan stepped around the camera and reached out to touch them.
"Be careful," Jack said, rising from the desk.
"The Kid--Harlan," he corrected himself, "approached the scene cautiously."
He cast the script aside, no longer needing it. He'd seen enough movies to know what happened next. Pages fluttered to the grimy floor.
"Aww, kid," Jack said glumly. "Those were decent words."
"I'm sorry, Jack, but it needs a rewrite," Harlan said, moving forward. "Harlan approached the scene cautiously," he continued, "holding out his hand toward the Acolyte. A crackle of video noise rippled outward from his touch like a splash in a pond as Harlan gripped the Acolyte's weapon..."
The tips of his fingers vibrated with static electricity as he grabbed the Acolytes pale fingers and peeled them back. Even from an arm's length away all Harlan could see of its face beneath the hood were two blazing white eyes. The Acolyte flickered, like the beam of a dying flashlight. Harlan tore the weapon from the frozen fingers and aimed.
The trigger pulled easily. A green beam sputtered from the barrel and struck the Acolyte in the blink of an eye. The hood burst into flames in the instant before its head exploded, sending microwaved chunks of skull and gray matter and boiled blood every which way.
"Jesus, kid!" Jack groaned, wiping a hot chunk of earlobe from his shirt.
"Sorry." Sucking in a deep, ragged breath, Harlan aimed the laser blaster at the director. "Harlan realized these images couldn't harm him. He stood before Funelli, his former hero, ready to send him back to Videolimbo..."
Funelli came to life with sudden ferocity, swinging the video camera at Harlan's face. It struck his jaw, snapping his head back. He dropped the blaster, tasting blood. The director cast the broken camera aside and grabbed Harlan's wrist, twisting it behind his back. Harlan reached behind himself, fingers grasping for purchase. He managed to knock Funelli's Stetson from his head, revealing the scaled, bleeding flesh beneath.
"You should not have fucked with me, Harlan." Harlan felt the director's hot breath on his ear as the man shoved him toward Vicky. He struggled to raise his head from between Vicky's breasts, as much as he longed to be there, while the director scrabbled with the instruments on the table. They settled on the scraper, and grasped it in a tight fist.
"The director is always right!" Funelli snarled.
Harlan caught a blur of movement in the small mouth mirror. Funelli's grip loosened with a loud jangle of metal coils and springs. He let out a cry of anguish, and Harlan sprawled over Vicky's unmoving legs. He rolled over in time to see Funelli raise a hand to protect himself from another attack.
"Eat my words, asshole!" Jack quipped, bringing the typewriter down on Funelli's already split skull. The director dropped to his knees. Blood spilled down his face, and he blinked twice in a daze. Then he fell sideways, raising a cloud of dust on the floor.
"Untie her," Jack ordered. "Quick!"
Harlan bent behind the chair, found the knot, and began working at it.
Funelli groaned. He tried to push himself up, and Jack kicked him back down. "That's for letting actors adlib over my dialogue," he growled, and kicked the dead man in the ribs. "And that's for ruining my career!"
Harlan worked the ropes free, but his delight was short-lived. He shook Vicky. Her body slumped lifelessly in the chair, teeth clacking together. "She's not moving..."
"You're the director," Jack said, panting over the broken typewriter. "Say the magic word."
Harlan couldn't seem to think beyond fear. He shook her again. Her dead stare jumpstarted his mind.
"Action!" he cried.
Vicky sprung from the chair and threw her arms over his shoulders, kissing his cheeks and his dry, cracked lips, moistening them with her vanilla lip balm. Harlan laughed and embraced her. He'd never liked vanilla before, but now it smelled like heaven.
"I love you," she said between kisses.
"I love you, too," he said, kissing her back, not caring that it hurt his injured jaw and lip. "Now let's get out of here before--"
BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!
The red record light flashed. Out of tape. Harlan wasn't sure what would happen, but he squeezed Vicky as tight as he could, worried she would disappear again, sucked into the void.
The scene crackled and disappeared around them. He held her, closing his eyes tight, feeling her blood pulse against his neck. The camera stopped whirring. Jack had stopped gasping for breath. Even the wind had stopped.
Harlan opened his eyes.
Funelli's scene had vanished. No more dentist's office. No more Funelli. Harlan spun them around. Vicky's eyes widened as she came to the same conclusion.
The camera was gone. Jack was gone. All that remained was the damaged typewriter lying in the dust and debris.
"Oh no..." He let her go, running a hand through his hair. "Shit shit shit!"
"What?" she said. "What happened?"
"We're trapped in here! He got out!"
"Trapped?"
Harlan stepped up to the spot where the tripod had left marks in the dust. "Jack! Jack! Action! ACTION!"
The echo of his voice filled the silence.
"What do you mean we're trapped, Harlan? Trapped where?"
Harlan slumped down on the floor. "Videolimbo," he panted. Frustration welled up in his throat, and he let his tears fall in the dust.
6 – A World Inside the Movies
HARLAN'S PARENTS DIED the year he'd headed off to film school. After hearing the terrible news of their car crash he'd dropped out, intending to take care of legal issues and clean up his childhood home to put on the market. What he'd done instead was sit in the basement his folks had converted into his bedroom and watched hours and hours of bad horror movies. He didn't bathe. He rarely ate. He'd just watched, remembering those long-ago trips to the video store, staring up in childish delight at all the exciting movie covers on the shelves.
Some good came of that time. He'd bumped into Vicky, an old friend from high school, and she'd helped him through his grief, lifting the dark fog of depression and pessimism that had fallen over his life since a young mother paying too much attention to the kids movie playing on the dashboard DVD player had T-boned Tom and Judy Wallis's hatchback on their way home from the movies.
Life isn't all horror and darkness, she'd told him, the night she'd first brought him to her bed. There's paradise, too, if you want it.
Somewhere along the line he'd forgotten that. Years of frittering away the hours behind a computer instead of working at his passion had worn down the magic of that night until nothing remained of it. Instead of being appreciative, he'd grown to resent her not just for getting him the job, but for letting him keep it now that she was effectively his employer. A part of him had thought of her as his jailor.
As they looked over the vast, empty wasteland beyond the crumbling walls of Funelli's studio, Vicky said, "Remember when you wanted to be the next great director?"
The dream was a bitter reminder of his failure. There'd always been an excuse not to try: he'd never had the time, he'd never had the money, he didn't have enough connections, the gates had been closed to him. But the truth was he'd been scared to put hims
elf out there. He'd been too scared to take a risk.
"It was a stupid dream," he said.
"No, it wasn't. You proved it here, tonight." She left him ruminating that while she wandered back into the burned husk. When she returned, she carried Jack's typewriter with her.
"It's broken," he said.
"It's not too bad," Vicky told him, holding it up for him to see. "It just needs a little TLC."
"Don't we all."
Harlan spent the following hour working on the machine, setting coils and springs back into place, and returning the carriage to its cradle. When he'd finished, and all it missed of its former glory was the U key, he sat cross-legged in the dust, rolled a sheet of paper through, and began to type:
"Hon...?" Vicky said. "It's working!"
Harlan stopped typing. He looked from the same words he'd typed to Vicky, who stood in the sun. Coincidence, he thought, and shook off the idea. He stood up to meet her at the door.
Outside a white sand beach stretched for miles in either direction. Vicky slipped her arm around his waist. She looked up at him and smiled.
He supposed he owed his good fortune to Funelli. The man had given them an ending he could have never predicted.
7 – Funelli's Revenge
HARLAN AND VICKY stayed on the beach for days, bathing themselves in the ocean, eating fruit from the trees, consuming a self-replenishing stock of cold beers and exotic food from the fridge in the small cabana. Vicky had been right. Life could be paradise, if they wanted it.
On the third perfect day, while they lay tanning under another perfectly unblemished blue sky, a small black and white television appeared between them and the beach. All dials and rabbit ears, it rested on a rickety-looking stand.
"Vick...?"
"Mmm?" she said, rolling over from tanning her back. She sat up abruptly, covering her breasts with an arm.
The TV flickered on.
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