Elsinore Canyon

by J. M.

  “Oh, how could Dad—”

  “However you set it right, don’t touch him. He has a conscience. Let it do its work. Help me, Dana!”

  The ghost looked at Dana longingly, turned—

  “Mom, don’t go! There are things I need to tell you!”

  —stepped to the edge of the roof—

  “Mom, I’m sorry about everything, I love you!”

  —and vanished from sight. The sounds of nature returned. Dana screamed and dashed to where the ghost had stood, looked every way around her, and threw herself down on her arms and knees and screamed at the waves, which crashed noisily back up again. “Mom! Can you hear me? I’ll remember you! I swear I’ll do what you said, I’ll work night and day!” From her knees, she tightened down into a ball. “Aunt Claudia, you bitch, you smirking, filthy bitch! I am coming for you, you bitch!” And then she was screaming madly and crying, no words, just screams, rolling at the edge of the roof, pounding her fists and screaming, and that was how Marcellus and I found her when the door swung open and we rushed out to drag her back inside.

  Dana sat beneath the sun and looked at me, perfectly still. The breeze lapped at her skirt and lifted tendrils of her hair. “Right here. I swore to her. If she’s telling the truth, Aunt Claudia killed the person I owe everything to. How would you treat a killer like that?”

  My heart was pounding. I had seen that ghost, too—twice. I had to believe Dana, and yet I had to doubt that black presence, that—good lord, Dana’s vision of hell, her fears, her antics, her neglect of me for all those weeks and then her call for help—this was what it was about. How would I treat a killer like that? I knew it wasn’t a rhetorical question. That demonic ghost, damn that thing, was it making me the biggest dupe in the world? Jesus, did tortured souls somehow purge their pain and sins on loved ones like Dana? Dana. She needed me. I tried to imagine what she was describing, but the only loss I could ever feel that deeply would be the loss of Dana herself. I knew what I would want to do.

  “What’s ‘everything,’ Dana? Do you owe her your soul?”

  “Why did she tell me what happened? How am I supposed to make things right?”

  “I don’t know. But remember, Dana: we’re the living. We’re the ones who have action. We’re the ones who have decision.”

  Dana lowered her eyes. “She said she couldn’t move her arms.” She licked off a few tears. “We’re alive. And she’s not. It’s so harsh.”

  What could I do to comfort her? “I love you, Dana.” I didn’t say it. “We have each other,” I said. She raised her eyes to mine. “I mean, the living do. To make things less harsh.”

  “I want to kill Claudia. It’s the thing I have to do before anything else, and it’s the thing I can’t say to the most important people in my life. But I’ve said it now, to you. And I’ve poisoned you. How can I be so schizoid? I also want to live with the people I have, and be happy. I have Phil—almost. I have you.”

  “Keep what you have, Dana.”

  She toyed with the cuff of my trousers. “I do have you, don’t I?”

  “Yes.” From somewhere in the darkest depths of my soul came a thought I’d had before, but never accompanied by the unthinkable thoughts I had now. What if Phil didn’t exist?

  She smiled at me. “Come on, let’s go.” She got to her knees and picked up my chair. “The movie tonight is going to be a blast.”

  A DAGGER MADE OF PIXELS

  Being her typical self, Dana had announced that the screener would start precisely at seven seventeen. Not seven fifteen, not seven twenty. I rolled into the media room around seven ten with Rosie and Gale. The three of us had spent the last two hours laughing it up with TV and beer, then curry and beer, then cards and cigarettes and tequila. I told them I had to take it easy on the drugs because I only had half a nervous system, they said they had to take it easy because of their bulimia, I told crip jokes, they read reviews from Hated and Slated out loud, I arm-wrestled them separately and then together, they took off their shoes and I pressed them over my head like horizontal beams—balancing them on their ribs and hipbones, their internal obliques as firm and cool as ivory—then we shot some hoops with a toy basketball set, and they talked about the resort where they’d be staying in Costa Rica. Gale liked golf. Rosie liked partying. We were about to go outside and play fetch with the Hamlets’ dogs, but the girls didn’t want to mess up their hair any worse so we had called it quits. Who’d have known? We could have some pretty incredible fun when we were catwalking a ledge of normalcy with a pit of deceit yawning below.

  The Hamlets’ media room had a 92-inch monitor that faced four ascending rows of chairs. A projection booth at the back contained vintage equipment that had been around since the estate was built. Digital players and receivers were now racked out front. Perla and Miguel had prepared snacks and desserts in a colorful spread on a table in a center row, and decorated the place with movie memorabilia. Dana’s life-sized inflated Batman stood in a corner.

  Marcellus wandered in. He and I waved at each other straight-faced. Then Oscar. He sat next to Rosie and they smiled chummily. “You’ve got some five-thousand-dollar gift certificates waiting for you in the hotel room,” he said as he patted her hand. “Don’t mistake them for the comment cards.”

  “Five thousand? She told us to pack light and go shopping.”

  “That’s just to get you off the ground. There’ll be more.”

  My phone buzzed and I found a text from Dana.

  I can’t find my copy. Bring yours.

  I deleted the text. Bring mine? What? Copy. Copy of…the DVD? The DVD, must have been. Oh for heaven’s sake, Dana, be more careful. So she couldn’t find hers, well—my copy was…a cold wave poured over my scalp. My copy of the DVD was in my jacket. Which wasn’t with me. I had taken it off for the feats of strength I’d performed with Rosie and Gale, and forgotten to put it back on. It was still in—I texted her back:

  Bring my jacket from the game room. It’s in the pocket.

  I pressed Send. Okay, she’ll get the text in time and she’ll find the disk. No. I couldn’t sit still. To let Dana down now—the cold turned to heat, my skin tingled. Make a casual remark and wheel out. “I’m gonna go get—” I rolled. Perla and Miguel passed me, on their way in. Fake, stupid smile. “Don’t let them start without me!” Fake. I’m a bad actor. The game room wasn’t that far. I rolled in and looked for the jacket. Nowhere. How? There weren’t that many places it could be. On chairs, under chairs, under tables, in corners, where? I flung furniture and toys away from the spots where Rosie and Gale and I were eating and goofing around. I had dropped it, hadn’t I? Or had I flung it? I dove out of my chair and crawled on my elbows, scanning every square foot of the floor. Shit, someone was going to see me doing my spastic lizard impression. I crawled back to my chair and wheeled like mad to the door to shut it. BOOM—pear-shaped Oscar wobbled back from the door like a punching clown. “Whoa, Horst!” His eyes popped at the sight of me. “Polly’s got your jacket.”

  “Oh-ho! You startled me.”

  “I can tell.” He made a goofy smile, and we went back to the media room without a word. Polly was scooping snacks onto a plate and Phil sat in the front row, under a hell of a cloud. Poor guy, but I didn’t have time for him. There it was, my jacket—thrown over a chair in the first row. I raced to it, realized I was acting frenzied, and put it on as slowly as I could under Rosie and Gale’s measuring eyes. Adding a layer while I was already sweating rivers. Crushed the pockets. All of them soft, empty. Felt the whole thing over. No disk. I looked up at the food table. Polly was grinning down at me. “I thought you’d want it,” he said.

  Holy fuck. He kept grinning at me and he raised his eyebrows as he waved a cracker at me. Was he that smooth of a bullshitter? “Thanks,” I mouthed. I swept my eyes over the floor and the theater chair. Nothing. I thrust my hand behind the cushion and felt all around. My nails flicked against stiff paper. I closed my fingertips and pulled. A square paper sleeve. Th
e one. The disk was inside, the one. Sweet Jesus, blessed holy shit thank you God I am heartily sorry and never again will I engage in underage drinking or feel up girls I do not intend to marry. I slid the disk into a pocket and neatened myself up. I’d been sitting there with my shirtsleeves bunched inside my jacket like a retard. Get hold of yourself! I had come here for Dana, to observe, not to create a spectacle.

  Dr. Claudia and Mr. Hamlet strolled in, the very models of rich, sun-toasted beach bunnies. She wilted prettily against his chest with a chemical sort of smile. Right, block all unpleasantness, loll in anticipation; Dana’s banishment to Costa Rica was at hand. I reached for my phone to text Dana again. I hadn’t gotten it out when she swung into the doorway.

  Her eyes—

  My eyes—

  I winked.

  She skipped in with a big, easy smile. “Good to see you, Horst.” She leaned over my chair.

  I grinned and brandished the DVD. “Good to see you, Dana.” She slid it from my fingers and my head spun. I really had overdone it on the tequila.

  She shook her hair over her face like a curtain. “I’ve got to talk to Phil,” she said, barely audible. “I wasn’t sure he’d be here.”

  “You ready for this?”

  “Mmp.”

  She swung away from me and seated herself next to Rosie, who sat at a little table smearing Brie on a cracker. “Have you watched it yet?” Dana said.

  “No. I want a surprise.”

  “Oh, that’s what you want.” Dana followed Rosie’s fingers as they fashioned a little cone of Brie and loaded it onto her tongue. “What’s in this for you?”

  Rosie swallowed leisurely, and took a sip of ice water. “What do you mean? You asked me to bring the screener.”

  “That would be a perfectly reasonable answer if it weren’t for everything else. But considering everything else, it mystifies me a tad. You’re not a stupid fame whore, Rosie.”

  “‘Everything else’?”

  “And you don’t need the work. You have all the money a girl could possibly want.”

  “What do you mean by ‘everything else’?”

  “I mean everything else.”

  Rosie’s eye chilled. “Everyone wants to get what they want.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I take it one thing at a time.”

  “And you never look back? You never wonder if you made a mistake?”

  “I don’t know what the fuck you’re getting at, Dana.”

  “Just that you’re a wind-up toy.”

  Rosie gave a resigned little smile. “I see. Well, fuck you.”

  “That you’re not going anywhere with this. You might toddle along with that key in your back all over Costa Rica, but afterwards, what? I mean, one plastic foot in front of the other to the end of time, going nowhere. Like. A. Toy.”

  “Dana!” called Mr. Hamlet. He and Dr. Claudia were ensconced up in the back. “Come sit by me!” He gave her a fatherly smile.

  Dana stood up and smiled back gaily. The DVD dangled from her fingers. “No thanks, Dad!” she called over the tiny crowd. Everyone quieted down, watching her. “I think I’ll sit with the father of my child.” Groans went up, and I saw Phil’s mouth fall open a little. “Who could it be?” she said, scanning the audience. “Aha!” She flung herself on the inflated Batman. “Batman and Danegeld!” she fawned. “Animal and mineral. Perhaps together we’ll have a little vegetable.”

  Gale muttered. “I hope she meets a good dealer in CR.”

  “So everyone, everyone!” Dana called over the groans. “Rosie got us this wonderful screener for Second Generation—thank you, Rosie.” A patter of applause; Rosie gave a profile of her lifted nose by way of acknowledgment. “And as a surprise, we are starting off with a short of some Hamlet family home movies. You can all see me in my first bikini.”

  “Calvin Klein for Pampers,” called Gale to laughter all around.

  “No,” Dana joked, “I said a bikini. Not topless.” The laughter rose. “For that, you’ll have to wait for my next production, ‘Dana Does Stanford.’” More laughter, more painful head-shaking. Perla covered her eyes. “So without further ado, Marcellus, can you work that thing?” She waved the DVD at a multi-disk player. Marcellus stepped up. “The screener is already in there. This one first, if you please.” She handed over the DVD and sat down next to Phil. I saw her give him a cautious glance and take his hand.

  Marcellus took center stage. Christ, Marcellus—I hadn’t even thought about punking him. I felt kind of rotten. He gave the crowd a lopsided smile and held the DVD out in his fingers like a magician demonstrating there was nothing up his sleeve, and loaded the player. He touched a dimmer switch, and the room slowly darkened. My cue. I rolled back against the wall and turned my eyes towards Dr. Claudia. She and Mr. Hamlet appeared to be bracing themselves for some mischief.

  Julie Andrews singing “My Favorite Things” wafted through the speakers, and tiny Dana appeared on the screen, scampering around a Christmas tree in a tutu. A soft chorus of “Awwws.” Perla laughed. God, so innocent—it wasn’t too late to stop this thing. Cut to another holiday. Mr. Hamlet crept around in a Dracula costume (no St. Fiacre, patron of gardeners?). Surprised hands clapped. Cut to another special occasion. Mrs. Hamlet twirled around in a beautiful dress. Soft “Ohhhhs.” It had only been ten or fifteen seconds, and the screen went black. The sound cut off. “Is that it?” came Mr. Hamlet’s voice. One second. Two.

  An ear-piercing chord zinged like a giant, menacing insect, and the blackness cleared to Mrs. Hamlet’s office in Century City, the one Dana and I had visited the day before. The picture started off in low-def digital, then sharpened to a hard, high-contrast nightmare. Soft screams echoed as a woman in a tight-fitting black dress and a towering hairdo walked into frame. She poured a milky liquid into a transparent pedestal cup, then crushed a big, powdery green pill into it. Her nails were perfect red ovals. She smiled coldly while the screams sharpened. The flecks of powder melted into skinny green fingers that reached through the milky liquid in the cup, and flames leapt off the surface.

  Cut to elsewhere in the office. A woman with loose blonde hair and a white dress that flowed to her knees kissed a man in a business suit. They smiled at each other and drew apart, sliding away from each other’s touch, arms, hands, fingertips. They separated, and the man walked away. The woman watched him go. Down the hall, the woman in black was walking deliberately towards the woman in white, leading with the poisoned cup. She held it out in both hands. A thick vapor poured off the top. She placed it in the hands of the woman in white, who trustingly drank. The woman in white dropped the cup, lifted her hands to her head, and crumpled to her knees. The woman in black caught her, led her staggering to a couch, and laid her out unconscious. The woman in black lifted the sleeper’s arm: limp. She lifted her own arm in an exaggerated curve to her briar of hair, and pulled out a syringe and needle. Holding the needle before herself dramatically, she leaned over the sleeper with an evil leer. Slowly, deliberately, she moved the needle to the sleeper’s exposed, spotless breast.

  The needle—

  The breast—

  Needle—

  Breast—

  The needle plunged in. The sleeper convulsed—her teeth clenched, fists clenched, her head lashing from side to side—and then she went stiff and still, her limbs tangled. The killer watched through burning eyes. Finally she circled her hands balletically around her hair and walked to a desk. She opened her arms over it ecstatically. A breeze arose, and the panels of her tight dress flew up around her like insect parts.

  The man returned. The woman tugged at her dress and it tore away, leaving her nude except for her spiked heels. She smiled. The man stepped to the couch, lifted the corpse’s hand, and slowly drew a ring off. Then he moved to the killer, lifted her hand, and placed the ring on her finger. He slid his hand behind her and leaned over her face. His open lips. Her open lips. His lips. Hers. They melted into a long, lingering kiss. The horr
ible noises that had threatened in the background roared to a peak, then ended as the scene cut to black.

  I wasn’t sure how much everyone else got to see. Dr. Claudia’s inarticulate shrieks had started about three-fourths of the way through, and her wild crash out of her seat, straight down to the next row and into the food table, had pulled the small crowd to their feet exclaiming in alarm well before the final frame. During the first half I had watched her grow attentive, then indignant, then disturbed, then alarmed, while no one except Mr. Hamlet noticed. He took her hand a few times and tried to settle her back, but she kept bolting forward. By the time heads were turning to the back of the room instead of the front, Mr. Hamlet was calling for lights and Marcellus was rushing to turn the player off, and suddenly everyone else was descending on Dr. Claudia, who fought off a forest of arms as she continued her crazed, desperate march down through the rows of chairs, clawing outward as if to stop with her bare hands the contrivance of images and sounds on the screen. Phil, Rosie, Gale, Marcellus, Perla, Miguel, and Mr. Hamlet piled on her while Yanghak’s Fin froze unregarded on the other side of the room.

  Dana and I were the only two not up at the table with her. I stayed with my back to the wall, and Dana stood in front of the screen gaping up at the scene. “You did it,” she said softly. Then louder. “You did it.” She shouted. “It’s just a movie!” Everyone turned, and she stared at Dr. Claudia through flaming eyes. Not a soul was speaking now. Dr. Claudia had been set on her feet, and she fought her weaving frame and doped eyelids. “Neither of us has poisoned anyone!” Dana yelled sharply. “You and I can watch a silly story in peace of mind, can’t we? Doctor Black? A dagger made of pixels can’t pierce your heart!”