Horror Business

by Ryan Craig Bradford

“I think we should stop here.”

  We take off our backpacks and huddle in a small circle. We pass the water around and finish it.

  “Anybody want some whiskey?” Steve pulls the bottle out of my backpack without asking.

  Megan smiles. “Totally.”

  We pass the bottle around. Our inexperience makes us retch with each swallow. Ally looks like she wants to vomit and passes on the second time around. The liquor works quickly. My initial fear is replaced by warmth and eagerness. My headache subsides. Being in the cemetery isn’t such a bad idea after all. Steve hiccups. Megan rolls her head around on her shoulders. I slant toward Ally and move my hand so our pinkies touch.

  “Shit,” Steve says after a drink. He takes another swig, half of it running down his chin. “Fuck, man.”

  We crack up. It’s the only thing to fend off the monsters lurking in the woods surrounding us.

  “Didn’t you bring an Ouija board?” I ask.

  “No,” Ally says. “There wasn’t any room left in the backpack.”

  “I wish we had an Ouija board.” Megan emphasizes the last few syllables to cover up the slurring: wee gee board.

  “We could tell ghost stories,” Ally says.

  We each tell our stories, shining a flashlight beneath our chins to under light our faces. Ally begins to tell the story of the green ribbon, but halfway through she can’t remember if the girl was killed by her boyfriend or in some automobile accident, and she doesn’t even end it with the head falling off. Megan’s story is about the babysitter whose stalker is actually calling from within the house. It’s boring, but Steve pretends to be interested. I tell one about a phantom hitchhiker, ending it with a loud yell that doesn’t scare anybody. Steve’s idea of a ghost story is just some zombie tale, but it keeps going off on gory tangents. When he starts to talk about gouging eyes, Megan asks him to stop.

  “Gross. Let’s do something else.”

  With the liquor gone and our courage replenished, we decide to look at the headstones. A lot of graves are tagged or broken from weekend visitors.

  “Look at this one.”

  Here Lies Phillip T. Wright

  Born: March 29, 1895

  Died: May 21, 1957

  Smoker

  The word “shitassmotherfucker” is tagged on it.

  “A warning from the grave,” Steve says, curling his fingers toward Megan. In a demonic, guttural voice, he says: “Don’t smoke, shit-ass-mother-fucker.”

  “Stop it.”

  “Look, here’s another one.” Ally leans in close to brush some dirt off the tombstone. It’s an old-fashioned cross with one of the arms broken off. Someone drew a heart with initials in it: an RB and JB. I wonder if it is the handiwork of the disgusting couple in the car. The tombstone reads:

  Here lies Abigail T. Buchanan

  Born: October 14, 1943

  Died: October 14, 1957

  A Touching Angel, In Loving Splendor

  “She died on the same day she was born,” Ally says. “On her fourteenth birthday.”

  Same age as Ally.

  “C’mon,” Steve says, drunk and flirting with Megan. “Let’s go look at the other graves.” I get the hint and don’t tag along.

  “You don’t really believe in ghosts, do you?” Ally asks after our friends disappear.

  “Sure.”

  “How come?” She sits down and leans against the dead girl’s broken tombstone. I sit next to her.

  “I guess it’s a little boring to think that I can touch everything that scares me.”

  She considers my answer. I try to picture what she looks like under her sweatshirt, but the residual unease of the graveyard dulls my imagination. “That’s probably the best reason I’ve heard for believing in ghosts,” she says. “Still not going to convince me though.” She puts her hand on mine and leans against me. I’m pretty sure it’s on purpose.

  “How many funerals have you been to?” I ask.

  “Just one. It was my grandpa’s. I was pretty young, so I didn’t understand the whole death thing. I just remember everyone crying. But I do remember him. It actually makes me pretty sad to think that I didn’t cry at his funeral.”

  “You were little.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Kids are dumb.” I add, which makes her smile.

  “I know.”

  “So let’s say there are ghosts, and you could see any dead person you wanted. Would it be your grandpa?”

  “So theoretically there are ghosts”—she looks up from my shoulder to emphasize her doubt—“and I could pick any dead person to see.” She pauses and considers her options. I move my arm around her shoulder so we’re cuddling. “I actually think I would want to see my old golden retriever, Brittany. I think seeing a ghost dog would be like a hundred times more adorable than seeing a human ghost.”

  I knew she wouldn’t take my question seriously.

  “Who would you want to see?” she asks.

  “I don’t know.”

  “You know, you’re just afraid to say it. I’m afraid to say it too.”

  “I don’t know if he’s dead though,” I say.

  “Yeah—” Ally trails off. She snuggles closer to me, and my hand drops from her shoulder to her waist. “Do you miss him?”

  “It seems a lot of things remind me of him lately,” I say.

  She’s quiet before saying the words that I should’ve said, “I miss him.”

  A breeze picks up. She leans in closer for warmth. The wind tosses dead leaves around in little whirlwinds and drowns out the shouting and laughter of our friends. Time slows down. Her hair blows in my face. I don’t even brush it away. The moonlight flickers on our moment. She raises her head and our eyes meet. She looks at me like a stranger. She leans in. With eyes closed in anticipation, I feel the warmth of her mouth pressing on mine. She opens wider and her tongue touches mine. I try to impress her with kissing styles I’ve learned from movies. I reach up and cradle her face in my hand, but then slide my fingers up in her hair, messing it passionately.

  We’re both breathing hard, and I taste her whiskey mouth. Letting gravity hold us, we fall to the hard ground. Cold seeps up into my back. Ally’s whimpering seems very far away. I open my eyes, and the grave looms over us while I crave her mouth. The whimpering still seems very far away, but more urgent. I realize that it’s not coming from Ally anymore but a child. A child screaming.

  My brain persists to break through the thickness that’s attacking all my senses. It tries to tell me that it’s not a child screaming. It’s one my friends. A girl screaming. Ally hears it too. She lifts her head out of our embrace. Then a frightened look and a struggle to get free from me. It’s a zombie, is the only thing that would destroy this moment: A zombie with eyes rotted out and one arm. It must’ve eaten Megan. That bitch. The speed of time returning to normal is jarring, causing me to stumble as I try to catch up with Ally.

  There are no zombies. Just Megan, screaming.

  “What’s going on—” I start, but stop when I get close enough for a better view.

  There is a small finger on the ground.

  “Ohmygodohmygodohmygod.” Megan speaks in quick gasps.

  “Fuck, man,” says Steve. “Shit.”

  It’s hard to tell if the finger is a small child’s, or if it’s just a pinky finger. I bend down to get a closer view. Megan puts her hand over her mouth and turns away. The finger is old. It’s been decomposing for weeks. The skin at the base is jagged, ripped off. A piece of sharp bone sticks out, also broken. Someone behind me holds up the flashlight and we see flies jumping all around it. It’s probably so cold and stiff that it only serves as delightful-smelling platform for them to play on. The knuckle is worn down, exposing more bone, but I think the most dreadful thing is the dirt under the fingernails. I can’t help but think of the poor kid who showed off his filthy fingers like he would a merit badge in the last days of summer. I kick the digit o
ver so I don’t have to look at the dirt, and the bottom of the finger is skinless, just black from where creatures have come up from the dirt for a nibble.

  “Let’s get out of here.” No one objects.

  Our faces redden when we run down the hill toward our bikes. I hold Ally’s hand as we jump headstones and slip on dewy grass. When I look over at her, I see lines of wetness reflected in the moonlight run down her cheeks. My shoe comes undone, and I almost trip. I stop to fix it, and Ally’s hand slips out of mine.

  “Hang on,” I mumble to myself, watching everyone pick up their bikes and ride into the night, outside the cemetery gate.

  My laces are muddy. It takes me three tries to tie them. Ages later, I finish. I’m about to make the final lunge toward my bike when I hear something behind me.

  A rustle of leaves. Against all instincts, I turn around to look.

  Two eyes stare back at me, red and reflecting. A terrible roar comes from the darkness and then a horrible sound that could be cackling.

  The laughter fades behind me. I’m on my bike and flying.

  ***

  I pedal blindly down the dirt road, every moment expecting the graveyard monster to throw itself on my back and rip me from my bike. From every dark nook and brush, more eyes watch me escape. They wait for any vulnerability. I don’t give them any.

  I speed around a bend and there’s a body in the middle of the road.

  I almost don’t stop. Just got to make it home where there are no more dead things. I see the bike on the ground next to it.

  Oh no.

  I skid to a stop and run over to find Ally curled, hugging her knees with her arms. She’s sobbing, and for the first time in my life I feel that I have the right, the duty, to comfort a girlfriend.

  “What happened?” I ask.

  Her syllables come out between sobs. “I-I-I fell.” She moves her arms away from her knees. Road-rash extends from her knees all the way up her thighs, blood soaking into her shorts. Despite a bloody nose, I’m surprised at how little injury her face sustained overall. “I just want to go home,” she finishes and I’ve never wanted anything more myself.

  I help her up and we turn her bike into a makeshift crutch. We walk the rest of the way. The scene is so pitiful that the surrounding monsters allow us to make it all the way home without killing us.

  ***

  It’s a long, slow journey home. By the time we make it to my house, the light of dawn lines the horizon. Early-morning birds replace the omniscient hooting of owls, which filled our mostly-silent walk. My head throbs from the combination of hangover and no sleep, but the promise of daylight and getting some have kept my mood chipper.

  Dad’s still asleep. An empty bottle of wine on the counter lets me know that we don’t have to be especially quiet. I clean Ally’s wounds. I give her a jungle wildlife Band-Aid as a finishing touch. I usually refuse to wear something so childish, but Ally seems into it. I secretly thank my mom for buying them.

  Before she leaves, she asks: “Do you want to go to the aquarium sometime?”

  I try not to smile too much when I say, “Yeah.”

  Script: Split Screen

  INT: ABANDONDED WAREHOUSE—TED RAIMI’S LAIR, DAY

  SAM RAIMI and LT. CRONENBURG burst through the door to the warehouse, guns drawn. TED’S lair is covered with pictures of body parts, random trinkets hanging from the ceiling (bones, mannequin heads, hardware tools á la Texas Chainsaw Massacre). The room is filled with full-sized mirrors, which immediately has a disorienting effect on the two detectives. Once they realize there is no immediate sign of TED, they put their weapons away and investigate the scene.

  CRONENBURG

  Jesus, Chief, you could write a textbook on this shit. (Picks up a jar with a decomposed appendage in it) This is one sick puppy we’re dealing with. (Puts the jar down and looks to RAIMI as if he’s misspoken) Er, no offense, sir.

  RAIMI

  None taken, Crony. My brother or not, we must not forget the heinous things he’s done. As far as I’m concerned, I have no brother. I’d prefer to take him alive. Let him find justice in a cold dank cell! But if it comes down to it, shoot to kill. We can’t let him escape. Understand?

  CRONENBURG

  Got it, Chief.

  RAIMI and CRONENBURG keep searching the place (use weird camera angles here to convey the increasingly fucked-up nature of TED RAIMI). Light reflecting from the mirrors keeps blinding them when they walk through the beams. RAIMI moves to a table with documents sitting on it. He rifles through them.

  RAIMI

  Shit.

  CRONENBURG

  (Looking up from another pile of documents) What is it?

  RAIMI

  Pictures of my house.

  RAIMI flips through the pictures, which start from a long shot of a house. The POV (point of view) moves closer, up to the door and inside the house. As RAIMI flips faster, the pictures move like a flipbook. The POV goes around the house and then up the stairs until finally ending on a candid shot of RAIMI’S wife, SISSY. She’s stepping out of the shower and soaked, barely covered by a towel. RAIMI tears them up and lets the little pieces float to the ground.

  CRONENBURG

  What should we do?

  RAIMI

  (Fuming with rage) We take this asshole out. (Cocks his gun)

  RAIMI, in a violent outrage, shoots randomly. Pieces of bone and paper explode into the air. He shoots the mirrors, sending shards of glass flying everywhere in a deadly shower. CRONY jumps to the ground to dodge RAIMI’S rampage. RAIMI aims for one particular mirror and something in his reflection catches him off-guard. He lowers his gun, but the reflection does not.

  RAIMI

  Teddy?

  Sound effect: BAM!

  The “reflection” is, indeed, TED RAIMI. TED fires his gun, hitting RAIMI in the shoulder. RAIMI drops his gun and falls to the floor. CRONENBURG points his own gun at TED.

  TED

  (Stepping out from behind the empty frame) C’mon now, Crony, you shouldn’t be messing around with these family affairs. (Cocks his gun and points it directly at RAIMI) Shoot me and your boss is a guaranteed stain. My finger’s motion-activated.

  RAIMI

  Put it down Lieutenant, I can handle this myself.

  CRONENBURG holsters his gun.

  TED

  Good boy.

  RAIMI

  A gun, Ted? Isn’t that a little domestic for you? I thought you would do me in with a coat hanger, at the very least.

  TED

  (Laughing) You know me too well, brother. And believe me, I thought about that. But I really don’t have any intentions on killing you … yet. Did you like the little scrapbook I made for you? (He nods toward the pictures of RAIMI’S house)

  RAIMI

  I swear to God, if you touched Sissy, that shit you do to your victims will seem tame compared to what I have in store for you.

  TED

  Don’t worry, brother. I didn’t touch your precious little wife. I just wanted to take a look at the life you’ve made for yourself. The girl didn’t even know I was there. (Pauses, licks his lips) But she will next time, if you don’t give me what I want.

  RAIMI

  And what’s that?

  TED

  Your life.

  RAIMI

  What are you talking about?

  TED

  I want to be you. I want your job, your house, your wife. You’ve always had it better than me. Mom loved you more. The world fucked me, Sam, drove me to do these horrible things. I can change though. I want to be you.

  RAIMI

  Don’t turn this into some goddamned sob story. You’re insane, and nothing Mom did could ever explain what you’ve done. You can’t just be another person.

  TED

  (Aggravated) Sure I can! What does identity mean anyway? People steal them all the time. We look alike, our DNA’s the same, and I’m an incredible ac
tor, Sammy. You’d be amazed at how good I am at playing a cop. That’d be the perfect cover for me to continue my rampage—because, let’s face it: killing’s fun! How many people have you killed in the line of fire? I bet if you put us side by side, our body count is pretty close. (His speech gets more impassioned, his attention wanes. He lowers the gun) That’s right, I could play cops and robbers. I could be both roles! Investigate my own killings and then go home and fuck my beautiful wife on the side. It’s brilliant. Besides a couple cards in your wallet, what really separates you from me?

  RAIMI

  You mean apart from the obvious screw loose? You’re nothing compared to me. You’re shit. You always were shit and you always will be shit. (Spits at TED)

  TED

  (Giggling) So, I guess it’s not a deal?

  RAIMI

  Never. I’ll tell you what—if you come with me, I’ll let you choose between dying a painless death or rotting away in a jail cell. That’s the only deal I’ll give you.

  TED

  Not very good options, brother. I think I’ll pass.

  RAIMI

  It’s too bad that you don’t know your priorities even when they’re clear as glass.

  As RAIMI says “glass,” he holds up a broken piece of mirror that he’s been able to sneak into his hand during TED’S speech. The reflecting light blinds TED for a second, but it’s enough time for RAIMI to get to his feet and stab TED in the leg with glass. CRONENBURG scrambles for his gun, but it’s caught in the holster. RAIMI reaches for the gun that he dropped, but TED manages to fire off a shot, hitting CRONENBURG in the face. CRONENBURG drops to the floor.