Tim now lives in the South West of England, where he likes to keep himself busy by writing short stories, creating artwork, and working on his novels, as well as holding down an unavoidable day-job in the health service. In early 2010, along with some friends, he founded the small press magazine The Dark Lane Quarterly.
http://www.timjeffreyswriter.webs.com
ADELLE'S NIGHT
by David K. Ginn
On Thursday night, Adelle met the strangest man. He introduced himself as Steve Hammond, and they drank together. On the outside, he seemed average: friendly face, short dark hair, button-down dress shirt and jeans.
But when she sat next to him at the bar, and he turned to start a conversation, there was a deeper, enlightened quality to him that she couldn't quite define. It certainly wasn't the topics, because they talked of nothing profound, still, the conviction in his voice breathed new life into even the most banal of subject matters. Adelle found herself strangely and uncontrollably attracted to him. They had known each other for just shy of an hour, and it had been a very pleasant experience for her.
That was why Adelle was so struck when he said the strangest thing anyone had ever said to her. "This is a movie, did you know that?"
Upon seeing her dumbfounded expression, he followed up with, "That's right, it's a movie, and you're the main star."
Adelle took an awkward, hunch-shouldered sip of gin. "I'm not sure what you mean," she said, wondering if she had misjudged the guy by thinking too highly of him.
"Just what I said. Blows your mind, doesn't it?"
"Is this your way of telling girls you're attracted to them?"
"I am attracted to you," he said, "but that has nothing to do with what I'm telling you. Right now, we are in a movie; a movie about you."
Adelle felt uncomfortable and more than a little confused. "Are there cameras in here or something? Is this one of those stupid game shows where they jump out at you and yell surprise?"
"No, not at all. We are part of what film students would call the diegesis. I had to look that one up. It means the fictional world of the movie. It's crazy, right?"
Adelle grabbed her purse. "Crazy is right. I'm leaving."
Steve put his hand on her wrist to stop her. "Big man, leather jacket and chains…'Excuse me ma'am, you dropped this'…little kid pointing, his dad pulls him away…old lady almost gets creamed by a pickup…flannel shirt, can't open the door to the cab." He let out an exhausted breath.
"What does that mean?"
"Extras."
"Let go of me." She shook his hand off her wrist and marched to the front door of the bar. As she stepped outside onto the sidewalk, a large, burly man in a leather jacket bumped against her shoulder. Dropping her keys, an elderly man appeared from nowhere, picked them off the ground, and handed them to her. "Excuse me ma'am, you dropped these."
Frightened now, she took the keys back and stared at the elderly man in wide-eyed shock. He turned away before she could thank him. Across the street, the old man's wife made her way toward him, yelling at a green pickup truck as it stopped short to avoid her. Next to Adelle, a drunken man struggled pathetically with the door handle to a taxi cab.
It made no sense. How could Steve have foreseen all of this? Was he psychic? Or was there really some sort of movie? Unable to stop herself, she walked back into the bar and set her purse down on the barstool that she had vacated just moments before. "What the hell's going on?" she asked loud enough that other patrons turned her way.
"In the movie, it cuts to you being back in here. How did it feel to walk all that way outside, when in reality it happens like that?" He snapped his fingers theatrically.
"Will you explain?"
And so he did. Two days ago, he told her, he was just another working stiff, his life as unremarkable as anyone else's. Late at night, as he was browsing the DVDs at a local video store, he had what he now refers to as a "Billy Pilgrim moment"—essentially, that he became unstuck. Being so overwhelmed by the millions and millions of movie titles for rent, he realized that if life were a movie, there would be a DVD of it somewhere.
He spent all that night searching until finally he found it. Proudly, he presented the movie and his membership card to the cashier, and took it home to watch. It was an hour and a half long but well-acted and very enjoyable. There were even scenes with him in it. Over the next day, he re-watched the movie enough to know where to go and what to say, and so here he was, humble in the presence of the star. Which, of course, was Adelle.
"I'd like to see this movie," Adelle told him. Up until now, she had seen what could have been practiced theater-tricks by very skilled illusionists who didn't know how to pick up girls the usual way. And what Steve was saying fascinated her enough so that she wasn't sure which she wanted more: to prove him wrong or to see first-hand that it was all true.
"Have another drink first," Steve said.
"Trying to get me drunk?"
Steve shook his head. "It's what I'm supposed to say."
"And if I oblige?"
"You will."
A half hour later, they left the bar and walked three blocks to the cement steps of Steve's apartment building. She didn't know why she was doing this. She didn't know why she was accompanying a stranger to his home. She sensed danger; the illogic of her submissiveness screamed red flags at her.
At foot of the stairs, she balked. "Why don't I wait here, and you just bring the movie down to me?"
"I could," Steve said, "but then where are we going to watch it? Out on the street?"
"I could just leave."
Steve smiled. "Yes, you could." He opened the door and walked into the lobby, then started up the stairs to the next floor without her.
Adelle stood outside for a moment and looked over her shoulder back the way they had come. A taxi pulled to the curb and an elderly woman stepped out. The cab's lights flashed on and she took a step toward it. But she hesitated. She didn't want to go into the apartment building, yet she was unable to stop herself from doing something so outside of her comfort zone. Turning away from the cab, she went back to the apartment lobby's open door.
When she reached the second floor, he called out from the stairwell above her. She felt irritated at his confidence that she would be there. She took the next set of stairs and caught her breath once she reached the top. She grabbed onto the rail.
"Had enough to drink?" he asked.
Adelle straightened herself out and held her chin up in mock defiance. Steve motioned toward the hallway. "In that case, come with me."
He led her into the apartment, which was clean and entirely uninteresting. There was a bathroom and two bedrooms connected to the living room. He opened the door to the nearest bedroom and beckoned her to follow. As she stepped under the door frame, he grabbed both her hands and leaned close. Adelle dodged his advance, but managed a smile.
"Movie," she said.
Steve nodded and released his grasp. "Yes, the movie. Come on in and I'll make us something to drink...unless you've had enough?"
This was more of a challenge than an inquiry, yet another light-hearted intimation that she couldn't hold her liquor. She accepted with the same mock defiance, although she suspected he knew that she had had more than enough.
He left for the kitchen, and she took a moment to survey the bedroom. Everything looked normal on the surface; but then again, Steve had appeared normal on the surface too. Studying the room, she admired his modest book collection, his cozy reading lamp, and the three or four DVD cases scattered about the carpet.
No, wait, there. There it was, on the floor. She stopped suddenly and crouched to pick up one of the cases, which had her face on the cover art and the title Adelle's Night. She felt a chill run through her body, as exhilarating as it was frightening. She opened the case, but there was no disc inside. She searched around for a remote, found it, and turned on the television. She sat on the floor, the carpet soft beneath her, and got ready.
Her movie had
already been loaded. She pressed 'play,' and then rapidly skipped through each chapter. With a feeling of increased dread, she saw the entirety of her day—from her phone conversation with her mother, to the stop at the supermarket, and so on, coming to a head as she entered the bar and saw Steve for the first time. Then she was outside the apartment, debating whether or not to hail the cab. The same elderly woman stepped out, and the close-up of her own face on screen perfectly captured her indecision.
Then they were upstairs, first on the stairwell, then flirting in the doorway. She watched herself crouch to the floor, and play the movie, and for a brief moment she was synched with her on-screen persona, and then it kept going. In the movie, Steve entered the room carrying two tumbler glasses. He smiled awkwardly when he noticed what she was doing. He crouched beside her, set the glasses down and shut the movie off.
In real life, Steve appeared behind her carrying two tumbler glasses. He smiled awkwardly when he noticed what she was doing. He crouched beside her and set the glasses down. He placed one cold hand on her waist, the other on the remote to turn off the movie. They stood up together, and she asked him how it ends.
Steve shook his head. "I really, really hate when critics spoil the ending."
"Oh, knock it off," she said in a huff.
"Don't get mad. It's all good; I just don't want to rush anything. You're too special to rush."
Pacified, she walked over to the bed and grazed her hand across the soft sheets. "So if I'm the main star, what are you? The love interest?"
He laughed. "No, not exactly."
"What exactly, then?" she said, realizing that she was indeed feeling very drunk. Why else could she be behaving like this? "Are you the one-night-stand I'm supposed to learn a valuable lesson from?"
There was a suggestive tone to the last question, a clear message that she didn't mind. She was surprised to learn that she was open to the idea.
"No, not that, either."
She felt rejected. "What, then?" She looked down, noticing the carpet was a dark brown.
Suddenly he was behind her, and she felt the palms of his hands on her stomach. So he wasn't rejecting her after all. She arched her head back as his hands traveled upward, pushing her shirt up, his fingers caressing the light goose bumps that had formed over her skin. "I came for the movie," she said, but made no attempt to break free.
"So did I."
"I don't usually do things like this."
"Ah, an 'I'm not usually this type of girl' statement."
"It's just, I'm not very spontaneous."
"And you didn't even see the film," he said. "If you had..." He paused. "Sometimes you can be perfectly ordinary your whole life, but suddenly you see yourself doing something in a movie, something you're just not capable of. But after a day or two, when everything else comes true, you have no choice but to accept it as reality. And when you do, you become capable. You become the person you saw on screen. And there's no turning back."
Adelle loosened his hold on her. "What?"
"I even saw my hesitation. I saw myself almost stop."
Adelle tried to wrestle free. "You're hurting me."
He clasped a hand tightly over her mouth and pulled back. "I hate it when people talk during movies. Now hold on; this is my favorite part."
From his back pocket he withdrew a long, silver kitchen knife, which he held comfortably by its black, silicon handle.
"You can't escape destiny," he said. "Not when it's on film."
He raised the blade, closed his eyes, and swung it down toward her chest. But there was no jolting impact, no thick spray of blood, and no Hollywood scream...because twisting from his grasp, Adelle dropped down to the floor, landing on the thick, brown carpet. He grabbed wildly at the air where she had just been a second before.
From the floor, Adelle kicked upwards with a hard thrust and made contact with Steve's kneecap. He made a whooshing sound and stumbled, and his knife fell to the floor beside her with a dull thud. She made a grab for it and suddenly there it was in her hand. She knew she would use the knife if she had to.
She took advantage of his momentary incapacitation, and jumping up from the floor, Adelle turned and ran out of the bedroom into the living room. She reached the front door. She made it!
She grabbed the door handle and grunted as she tried to pull it open. Why wouldn't it open? My god, she needed it to open! She looked up above the handle and saw three different types of locks on the doorframe. She hadn't noticed any of them on her way in.
Sweating, panting heavily, she fumbled at the locks, and undid them in succession. She heard him stumble out of the bedroom behind her.
"In every good movie, there is a chase scene," she heard him say behind her. He was getting closer. She had to get out now!
For a brief moment Adelle pictured the end of the movie: her own body slouched against the door, Steve staring blankly down at her.
But she had free will. Every decision she made was her own. It could end any way she wanted it to.
She unlatched the final lock and swung the door open, nearly hitting Steve in the face as he ran after her. She fled to the stairway and took all three flights without looking up once. He followed her down to the lobby, taking two steps at a time. She could hear him behind her, but didn't dare to look back.
By the door of the lobby was a steel candy vending machine, such a typical sight that she almost passed it without noticing. He was closing in on her fast, but on a bruised shin. She grabbed the vending machine and pushed. It didn't fall over completely, but it rocked and hit him in the face. Steve stumbled backward and fell onto his back, nursing a bloody nose in his palm.
"You want an ending?" she yelled at him. She pushed the vending machine harder this time and let it fall to the floor with a loud metallic crash. "Somebody call the cops!" She screamed to the ceiling of the apartment lobby. She turned and stumbled as she left the apartment building and descended down the cement steps.
Once outside, she looked around the dark street and saw that there was no one around, nothing but the cab—
It was still there. Whatever it was doing, it hadn't left yet. A wave of relief washed over her as she stumbled dizzily toward it, and through trembling lips she managed a smile. The driver seemed to notice her distress; the car jumped forward and pulled up beside her.
"Are you all right?" the driver asked.
"I need to get away from here."
"Where to?"
"Anywhere."
The driver motioned to the back seat. "Get in."
On the third floor of the apartment building, Steve stumbled into his open doorway, arm over his bruised ribs. He held his head high as he struggled to keep his blood from dripping onto the carpet. He entered the bedroom, collapsed on the floor and grabbed the DVD remote. He pressed "play" and drank from one of the tumblers he had brought in earlier. The glass next to it was empty.
The events unfolded on his television screen just as they had in reality. Steve felt lucky to be alive; his final fate was never shown on-screen. After everything that had happened, he still felt an immense desire for Adelle, even a pang of remorse as he watched her step into the cab and ride away.
Steve saw the cab driver ask Adelle a question on the television screen. "What's your name?"
"Adelle," he saw her stammer as she searched her purse for her cell phone. She found it and raised it above her head. "Can you take me somewhere that has good reception?"
"Adelle..." the driver mused. He narrowed his eyes and let his foot slip slowly off the gas pedal. "You know, that reminds me of a movie I saw recently."
Steve watched the realization creep into Adelle's face. Sometimes it was hard to see her in the darkness, but yes, now the cab was slowing until it was directly underneath a streetlight. Steve understood that lighting was always so important to a film's success.
The driver applied the brake. The streetlight's glow flooded the cab, and Steve could see clearly as Adelle lowered her phone and stared
ahead, face trembling.
The driver looked at her without turning—a pair of dark eyes in the rearview mirror. "Great movie," he said. "Want to know how it ends?"
About David K. Ginn
David K. Ginn has written three books and over thirty stories in the fantasy, horror and science fiction genres. When not writing, he does work in independent filmmaking, fine art and graphic design. He has run the science fiction media review site The Basestar for two years.
He received a bachelor of arts degree in Cinema and Cultural Studies from Stony Brook University and currently lives on Long Island, New York. http://www.davidkginn.com
BONES FOR A PILLOW
by Alexandra Seidel
The first time I was absolutely certain that something was wrong was when I found long black hairs slithering out of the vacuum bag. They looked withered and dusty; straight. Staring at them, I imagined that once they had been shiny, lustrous even, but creeping from the round hole of the bag, they were as lifeless as ancient spider webs in a forgotten tomb. I should mention that I was the only one living in the house and also that I have shoulder-length blond curls. These black hairs, they weren't mine and that said, I had no idea whose they were.
I mentioned the house. I moved into it in the spring, while flowers were blooming all over the front lawn. I remember when I first saw it and how the realtor was telling me that everything was brand new, even the lively yellow paint on the outside walls. I realized two things immediately when I saw the big rooms and how the sunlight hit the shiny wooden floor boards: first, I loved the place; second, it was probably too expensive for me, never mind that it was obviously too big.
And that was why I was so surprised when I actually heard the price from the realtor's lips. Not because it was higher than I had feared, but because it was so very low. As I asked her why, she just shrugged and said that the owner had given her this price. When I think back, I can't be sure, but I think that she would have liked to have said something else, something more. But that moment passed, and whatever it was, explanation or warning, it died in her throat and was washed away with a sideways glance. At the time, though, I did not care and I certainly didn't ask. The house was a gift horse after all, and I signed the papers almost immediately.
What Fears Become: An Anthology from The Horror Zine Page 31