She yelps. She pulls her hand out of the water and shakes it dry before sticking her finger in her mouth like the kid earlier. She grimaces at the taste. She coughs. She puts her other hand up to her neck and her eyes roll back, white.
“Ally?” I reach out to grab her shoulder, but she falls right on me. I ease her on the floor.
I look around to see if anybody’s watching. One of the kids stares in amazement. “You’re not fooling me.”
Her gagging quickly becomes laughter. “I totally had you.”
“Not for a second,” I say. “I can’t believe I let you be in my movies. “
She gets up and brushes herself off. “Whatever. When your movie wins for best acting in the talent show, you can thank me.”
Before leaving the room, I take one last look behind me just in time to catch the kid, who just moments ago was screaming in pain, reaching back into the Petri dish for another go at the urchins.
The room funnels into a dark hallway. Two more animatronic robots wait for us at the end. I see their eyes. Another child’s scream flies past us, bounces off the far end and echoes back, distorted and alien. I reach for Ally’s pinky with mine, but she forgoes the pinky and takes my hand.
The robots at the end of the hall are supposed to be two bioluminescent anglerfish. They’re posed like guardians to the deep-sea exhibit. Their fins flap with excitement as we move close. Motion activated.
“Welcome,” says one of the robots. His gaping mouth is filled with jagged, plastic teeth and his eyes are milky-dead. At least the octopus’s Romanian voice was somewhat charming; the sound coming out of the angler is purely robotic and droning.
“To the world of deep-sea!” His buddy completes the sentence. We whirl around to face the creature behind us. Fiber optics run through them both, lighting up random parts of their bodies. A protruding branch grows out of each forehead; at the end, there’s an illuminated bulb. A lure to trap its victims.
His voice is at a higher pitch. It makes him sound slightly manic.
“In this room you’ll learn all about …” Angler One begins.
“… how guys like us see and eat in the pitch black of the deep,” Angler Two finishes.
Something in Angler Two malfunctions; a whirring of gears or something else fails. The voice becomes distorted beyond comprehension. The giant mouth keeps opening and closing, flashing massive chompers. The high-pitched scream of electronics peels out from the dark mouth. Behind us, Angler One tries to give us the necessary information to enjoy the deep-sea room. His eyes seem brighter, excited at his buddy’s malfunctions.
“Let’s just go in,” I say.
Ally laughs at the crazy robot. A smelly, disheveled maintenance guy appears out of nowhere and unplugs the creature.
“Shit. I hate it when they go all coo-coo-bananas.” He bends down to work on the thing, exposing his hairy ass. “You kids better just continue on.” He hocks a wad of snot and swallows it.
The fish’s dead eyes follow me. I push Ally past the robots and into the deep-sea room.
***
Ally notes how scary the fish were when we leave the deep-sea room. Outside, a mother is trying to convince her frightened children to go inside. She gives us a dirty look, knowing that we just set her progress back. Ally sticks her tongue out at the woman, and we run off.
The last room is the shark room. There are no robotic monsters guarding the door, but that doesn’t keep it from being threatening. The doors are industrial black with SHARK ROOM written, stenciled-yellow, over them.
“I don’t know, Jason.” Ally seems very serious.
“What are you talking about?”
“It’s nothing.” But when my stare persists, she shies away. “I’m afraid.”
“But you weren’t afraid of the deep-sea fish?”
“Those are different. They’ve never made a movie about an anglerfish before.”
“It’s the last room.” This is actually the one room I’m looking forward to seeing, and the idea of missing it irritates me. “You can close your eyes if you want.” I take hold of her hands. “Please?”
She hesitates. “I guess.”
We enter. The room feels pressurized, more oppressing. It feels like entering a funeral home or old folks’ home, or any place where death is imminent. The entire room is half-moon shaped and submerged. There are no windows to let in natural light. The curve is entirely made of glass that looks out in the dark water. Lights in the water give everything a bluish hue. Even Ally’s skin looks like the blue zombie skin from the original Dawn of the Dead. Like the first room, muffled music and British narration play through unseen speakers, adding to the claustrophobia.
There is no shark.
The depth of the tank extends farther than I can see.
We sit on one of the cushion islands and listen to the polite narrator.
The bull shark, Carcharhinus leucas, also known as the bull whaler, Zambezi shark or, informally, Zambi in Africa.
Zambi, I think. Zambi zombie. Zombie. I look over at Ally and her blue skin.
“You remember the other night in the graveyard?” she asks.
“What about it?” I think I know what she’s trying to get at. The kiss.
The kiss crosses my mind before the detached finger.
“I’m sorry if I led you on.” She pauses, looks away into the deep. “It was probably the whiskey.” It sounds like she’s pretending to sound mature, like a soap opera, but it still hurts to hear.
“You didn’t mean it?” I follow her gaze and realize that far off, a dark shape moves in circles.
“No, it’s not like that. It’s just, you know. Your brother and everything—all the crazy stuff that’s going on.”
“Brian’s gone,” I say. I mean it to sound hostile.
Bull sharks tolerate fresh water, and will sometimes travel long distances up rivers. As a result, they are responsible for the majority of shark attacks on humans.
Ally does something that I don’t expect: she leans over and kisses me on the mouth. I feel her tongue. I kiss back. I can’t help but feel that this is some way to pacify me, to let me feel like I’ve won. Were we fighting?
I peek, curious to see if she’s keeping her eyes closed. In my peripheral, the shadow of the shark slides across the length of the wall. I squeeze my eyes shut.
I reach up to cradle her face with my hand but then reconsider halfway. I try my luck in her shirt. I venture with caution, first rubbing the bra-strap under her arm until finally bringing my hand around to her front. Before I have the chance to wonder if this means that we’re together, she stands up and walks out of the room. I remain on the cushion, out of breath. I glance around to see if anyone had walked in—her reason to leave—but there’s nobody here. I look to the shark tank.
The shark is gone.
I stand and move closer to the glass. I lean in on the glass, use my hands to block the peripheral. I scan the entire window. Nothing.
I look down. The shark is there, four feet beneath me.
I jump back.
It’s just floating.
Like other fish, sharks extract oxygen from seawater as it passes over their gills.
The shark rises as if lifted by an invisible string. It stops when we’re face to face. I’m reflected in its dead eyes.
It’s fake, like one of those scary robots. It has to be.
I reach out to touch the glass that separates me and the creature. Those eyes. I think of the videotape, the dog, the finger, and Brock all at once. I put my face close to get a better view.
The shark lunges.
I scream and fall back. Its black eyes roll back, replaced with frightening whites. Its jaws push forward and the teeth break off as they slam into the glass. I cower with every thud. It saw me making out with Ally. It’s angry. Jealous. Blood pours out of the shark’s snout—a dark red cloud that makes everything hard to see. Just thrashing, teeth, and blood. The
pain doesn’t stop the fish from hitting the glass. A crack forms. The audio playing the woman’s voice keeps repeating responsible for the majority of shark attacks. I run the length of the wall to the door, and the shark follows me, leaving a trail of blood, like plane exhaust. When I get to the door, I look behind me and the shark is floating again, docile and nightmarish, watching me retreat with a toothy grin.
[rec 00:06:23]
Warm colors sharpen as the focus reveals an image of a boy. He sits slouched and light reflects off his glasses and sweaty face. From offscreen, a voice tells him to take off his glasses to reduce the glare.
Boy: But I won’t be able to see.
Offscreen: It doesn’t matter. Just talk.
Boy: Okay. (Takes off glasses) How is this?
Offscreen: You look like a mole. I mean, it’s good.
Boy: What do you want me to say?
Offscreen: Just talk about your favorite scary movies.
Boy: Gee, there are so many.
Offscreen: Well, what type of horror do you like best?
Boy: I guess I like slasher movies a lot. I just watched Halloween again recently.
Offscreen: The original?
Boy: Yeah. I think Mike Meyers is the epitome of movie villains because he’s based on urban legends, which, for all intents and purposes, are real enough.
Offscreen: What do you mean?
Boy: He is the perfect example of the faceless stranger who watches us from the street at night. Or the robber who enters our house when we’re asleep. Or the sound of footsteps that signify our impending doom. We can’t lie to ourselves and say that it’s just a bad dream, or that these monsters don’t exist. Despite what the numerous reincarnations and sequels would suggest, he was just a regular human once. The most effective horror villain has always been your neighbor. Killers are us, or what we have the potential to become.
Offscreen: Don’t they mention something like that in the original Dawn of the Dead?
Boy: Yeah, I like zombie movies for that reason too. And vampire movies. That dude in Dawn of the Dead—
Offscreen: Ken Foree.
Boy: Yeah, he has that line about the zombies: “We are them; they are us.” But those movies are different because they deal with what we could become. That familiarity is especially noticeable in those fucked-up scenes where someone the character knows—a loved one, family member, child—becomes a zombie or vampire or whatever and they have to kill it. It’s actually more tragic than terrifying.
Offscreen: That’s why they have to pile on the gore—to counteract the philosophizing and all that. Zombie movies have imagined every possible way that a human can get opened up.
Boy: Well yeah. That kind of segues into body horror, another genre I really like. Movies where change is going on inside you, stuff that you can’t control. Alien, The Fly … I guess most stuff made by Cronenburg.
Offscreen: Oh yeah. Shivers used to be called They Came from Within.
Boy: Right, when you can’t control what’s going on with your body. (Pause) Was that good? Did you get everything you needed?
Offscreen: Yeah, thanks. (Pause) You know what, Greg?
Boy: What?
Offscreen: You’re a big fucking nerd, you know that?
The boy laughs and the image goes black.
October 14th
It’s Ally’s birthday, but there’s no party. She says she’s sick of all her friends, that all they ever do now is talk about boys. “It’s so boring,” she says. I tell her that we should watch a movie at my house.
“I have one in mind.” she says. “You’ll like it.”
She arrives around 9:00 p.m. wearing a big sweatshirt with the hood over her head—prime sneaking-out attire. She seems nervous, constantly looking over her shoulder. A car rushes past and she pushes her way into my house.
She pulls out a box with a grainy black and white image of a madman on it. Eraserhead, it reads.
“Have you ever seen this?” Ally asks.
“No.”
The stark contrast on the screen puts the room in an eerie glow. I keep double-checking to see if the shadows in the corners are cast from the television or something else. I scoot closer to Ally and pull a blanket over us.
From quick glances at the movie, I can tell that I probably would like it, but that interest quickly fades when I slip my hand under her shirt, resting on the bare skin of her waist. She wiggles closer, filling any space between us with her body. We become twin lightning bolts. I try to hide my excitement by pulling away but she keeps pushing. We pretend to watch the movie.
I sweep my hand up her side, brushing my fingers against the bottom of her ribcage. My hands are sweaty, and my pulse pounds. I curse myself for not being smoother. When she makes no attempt to stop me, I decide to take the plunge and move higher up her body. I almost make it up to her boobs when I chicken out and end up in her armpit. My sweaty hand rests under her arm. She giggles and tells me that I’m tickling her. I retreat back to her ribcage where my thumb can still scrape the bottom of her bra. Ally’s breathing hard. Her stomach muscles are tense too.
I suddenly have to sneeze, and I take my hand out from under her shirt to cover my mouth. She takes the opportunity to turn around. We face each other.
We make out.
My hand moves back under her shirt. It finds confidence. I move up past her ribs so I’m cupping her padded bra, and try to enter from below and above but just end up crumpling the material in my hand.
I relax, lick the inside of her mouth some more.
My fingers slip under the wire until I’m skin to skin. She’s colder than I though she’d be; no amount of pillow-holding could’ve prepared me for the softness of her flesh. The bra presses my hand hard against her breast. Once I’m in I can’t really do very much but hold it.
She gets rid of her bra with some amazing trick that doesn’t require her to take the sweatshirt off.
Back to making out.
With no bra, I’m free to roam the territory. I move from breast to breast, cupping the sides. Kneading them. I even pinch her. She lets out a little yelp when I do this, but reaches up to grab my head and run her fingers through my hair. I take this as passion and grind harder onto her leg.
I hold her face and mess her hair, like she did for me. Hopefully she appreciates this passion.
My hand is now at her waist. My pinky feels around under the elastic of her pajama pants, lifting it up, inviting the rest of the fingers in. They all follow until they reach the beginning of a small patch of coarse hair. They stop.
“Um …” Ally begins.
“What is it?” I ask.
“Never mind.” She closes her eyes and pulls my head to hers.
In her pants, I hesitate longer at the hairline and casually buy time by sweeping my hands around her thighs in a U-motion. She rocks her hips in anticipation so I move down.
Ally groans deeply and shivers.
“Careful,” she says.
I’m careful.
While I’m doing this, Ally reaches down. She pulls my belt loose, pinching my belly with the latch. Then she opens the button and unzips the fly. When she slides my boxers down, I’m exposed and volatile without the comfort of fabric. She glances down and looks back up at me with what I hope is approval. She wraps all her fingers around me.
We begin a rhythm.
Breathing hard in each other’s faces, we don’t even pretend to make out anymore. I know this is a moment that I should be noting every detail. It’s hard to concentrate though, and my mind becomes light. A small pressure builds. My toes curl. I desperately reach for Ally’s mouth with mine.
A door from somewhere in the house opens and shuts.
I throw the blanket over us. Ally grabs for her bra on the floor. Shuffling footsteps pass behind us. The kitchen light turns on.
Dad opens the refrigerator and grabs something to drink. He’s in his pajamas and doesn’t make an
y attempt to acknowledge us. He settles on some old milk, drinks, burps, and returns to bed.
We put on our clothes and watch the rest of Eraserhead without any more interruptions. It actually turns out to be pretty scary.
***
We wake up around 5:00 a.m. and Ally kisses my cheek before she goes home. I go back to sleep. I forget to tell her happy birthday.
Script: Fade Out
INT: DETECTIVE RAIMI’S HOUSE, DAY
RAIMI kicks open the door to his house, gun drawn and ready to go. He looks delirious: a loose cannon. The hand-held camera follows him from room to room as he searches for his wife, SISSY.
RAIMI
Sissy! Where are you baby?
RAIMI bursts into his room but the POV is from inside the room; the audience can’t see what he sees. Something horrible. He lowers his gun and sits on the bed. He puts his head down and cries.
RAIMI
Oh God. How could this happen? I’m sorry. So sorry. I thought I could save you but I failed.
CUT TO: Dead SISSY lying on the bed. Her head is bashed; there’s brain all over the headboard. Her face remains perfectly intact. Her eyes stare back at RAIMI. He reaches out to close her eyes.
TED
(Appearing out of nowhere, surprising RAIMI) I wouldn’t do that if I were you.
RAIMI
(Completely full of rage) You son of a bitch! You give me one good reason why I shouldn’t blow you away right now (cocks his gun).
TED
Easy, shooter. We both know that you’re not going to kill me or else you would’ve done it when you had the chance.
RAIMI wipes tears from his face and lowers his gun.
Horror Business Page 9