“Well, I’ll be danged,” Cheryl murmured. She straightened up and blew a strand of twisty strawberry-blonde hair out of her eyes. “I have to admit, I am intrigued.”
“Intrigued enough to take the night off from our usual movie watching?” Tweed asked.
“A sacrifice to be sure, but one I feel we should make, under the circumstances,” Cheryl said in all seriousness.
“Oh, definitely.” Tweed nodded. “We are, after all, seekers of the unknown.”
“You got that right, partner. And it’s kinda, I dunno, refreshing to know that there are still unknowns to be known in a place like Wiggins.”
“The mysteries of the universe unfold before us.”
“Tomorrow first thing, we’ll get our sitter gear together and prepare to embark on this new adventure,” Cheryl said, stifling a yawn. “While-O-Wait!”
“W-O-W, indeed,” Tweed said with satisfaction. “That old Heck House won’t know what hit it!”
2 IT CAME FROM THE FOURTH DIMENSION!(PREVIOUSLY TITLED: IT CAME FROM THE THIRD DIMENSION 2)
Preparations for the House-Sitter Smackdown Extravaganza were necessarily delayed the next morning when the girls found a note on the refrigerator door from their grandfather. Pops had risen early and was out in the far Drive-In lot, busy repairing one of the movie projectors for the Starlight Paradise’s second screen. About a year earlier, a ferocious lightning storm had zapped the projection booth, causing the projector to blow a gasket, and Pops had been looking around for new parts to repair it. Because it was an older machine, his search wasn’t an easy one, but he’d finally tracked down all the doohickeys that he needed. In the note, Pops mentioned that he’d enlisted the help of the twins’ best friend, Pilot, who was handy with tools and fixing stuff. (Pilot’s dad had been the one flying the plane that had disappeared with Cheryl and Tweed’s families, and he’d inherited an old crop-duster that was forever in need of tinkering and tune-ups, so the twins knew he’d be more than happy to lend a hand.)
Pops asked if, in the meantime, the girls wouldn’t mind taking care of another Drive-In maintenance issue. Seemed that a patron had complained—on the second night of Cheryl and Tweed’s first-ever programming stint, a triple bill of creature movies—that his in-car speaker had been malfunctioning. Seeing as how the first night had been cancelled because everyone in town had gone to the carnival across the road, the girls were keen on optimizing all future movie-going experiences for their patrons, and so they hopped right to the task of hunting down exactly which speaker out of over a hundred in the lot was out of kilter.
Cheryl stood, fists on her hips, and gazed out over the vast sea of metal boxes perched on poles. “Huh. So. Which one d’you think it is?” she asked Tweed.
Tweed’s grey eyes narrowed as she contemplated the question. “Could be any one of ’em …” Not about to be daunted by the potentially day-devouring task set before them, she shrugged one shoulder and cocked her head. “Maybe we should spice up the job with a good old-fashioned round of ACTION!!”
Cheryl nodded enthusiastically. “Capital idea!” she said.
ACTION!! was a favourite game of make-believe the girls were fond of playing when faced with a tedious or difficult task. In ACTION!! mode, the twins were no longer small-town girls in a small-town world, but larger-than-life heroes living lives of high adventure. They could see it all—just like a movie storyboard! And hear it all—just like dialogue from a movie script!
With a bit of pre-chore preparation, along with a healthy dose of imagination (which the twins were in no short supply thereof) and a few “magic words,” the Great Speaker Hunt was on! The girls exchanged their C+T Secret Signal (patent pending), which consisted of one winky eye, a pointing index finger pressed against the side of the nose and a firm nod.
“Cameras rolling …”
“Aaaaand …”
“... ACTION!!”
EXT. TEMPLE RUINS IN A JUNGLE SETTING -- MORNING
CAMERA PUSHES IN SLOWLY toward a pair of FEMALE FIGURES, laden with gear, creeping cautiously toward an ELABORATELY CARVED STONE ARCHWAY, the entrance to a VINE-SHROUDED ANCIENT TEMPLE. The only sounds heard are nervous BIRDSONG and the eerie whispering of tropical LEAVES.
TREASURE HUNTER TEE
Looks like this could be the place ...
TREASURE HUNTER CEE
Gotta be. I don’t see any other cursed ceremonial Aztec temples in this here neck o’ the jungle.
CLOSE-UP ON: a TATTERED MAP held in a pair of steady hands. There is a dotted line leading to an ominous SKULL-MARKS-THE-SPOT.
CAMERA RISES up from map to a TWO-SHOT of our heroes: A PAIR OF WILY TREASURE HUNTERS, dressed in adventurer-practical ensembles.
TREASURE HUNTER TEE
The resting place of the Idol of Speak-El-Speak-Quel, Voice of the Vengeful Gods, Keeper of the Starlight Secrets, Protector of the Paradise –-
TREASURE HUNTER CEE
(impatiently)
Yeah, yeah. All that stuff. Let’s do this thing –- and remember –- no one has ever come out of there alive ...
They step through the archway. Camera pans FULL-CIRCLE to show the INTERIOR OF THE TEMPLE. The STONE PASSAGE is a MAZE, festooned with VINES that criss-cross the open space like spiderwebs. IN THE SHADOWS, the treasure hunters can see DOZENS OF IDOLS, ALL IDENTICAL, GLARING AT THEM.
They are EXTREMELY MENACING.
TREASURE HUNTER TEE
Decoys! Which one is it? Which one is the real idol?
TREASURE HUNTER CEE
(eyes scanning the sea of idols)
That one!
HUNTER CEE points at one particular idol, set somewhat apart from the rest. It has a jewel set in its forehead that seems to be faintly GLOWING.
She takes a confident step forward, steps on a VINE and triggers a BOOBY TRAP! A JET OF DEADLY ACID sprays just in front of her as HUNTER TEE grabs her jacket and yanks her back.
TREASURE HUNTER CEE
(shaken)
Thanks, partner. Uh ... Don’t step on the vines.
TREASURE HUNTER TEE
(also shaken, but better at hiding it)
Right. Good plan. Stay alert. No telling what else this place has in store for us.
MULTI-SHOT SEQUENCE of the HUNTERS acrobatically dodging and ducking the network of VINES.
As they approach the STONE ALTAR where the IDOL hangs from a hook on a carved post, HUNTER CEE accidentally snags her PICKAXE on a TRIP VINE ...
This TRIGGERS A VOLLEY OF POISON ARROWS!!
The HUNTERS make a RUN for it ...
Only to have a GAPING CHASM open in the stone floor between them and the ALTAR!
In desperation, THEY LEAP!! ...
GRASP the crumbling stone ledge ...
And SCRABBLE up the rock face to RELATIVE SAFETY ...
CAMERA ZOOMS IN on their wide-eyed reactions.
TREASURE HUNTER CEE
(panting)
Well ... okay then ... there’s my calisthenics for the day ...
TREASURE HUNTER TEE
(gasping)
Oh ... sure ... good exercise. All in a day’s treasure hunting ...
The HUNTERS clamber unsteadily to their feet and turn to face the IDOL. The little stone head of the SPEAKER GOD glares at them.
The HUNTERS circle around to opposite sides of the altar post.
HUNTER CEE pulls a PUTTER from a holster on her back and sights down its length. HUNTER TEE produces a CATCHER’S MITT and assumes a ready stance. HUNTER CEE squints, leans forward and lines up the golf club like a pool cue, aiming it at the IDOL ...
TREASURE HUNTER CEE
(tongue stuck out one side of her mouth)
Ooookay ... Idol in the corner pocket ...
She knocks the IDOL from its perch ...
Right into HUNTER TEE’s catcher’s mitt! PERFECT SHOT!!
There is a FROZEN MOMENT OF SILENCE. The two HUNTERS grin at each other ... and then ALL HECK BREAKS LOOSE!!!
The temple VINES start t
o SNAP and WHIP AROUND! DARTS and ARROWS zip through the air!
The HUNTERS cover their heads, leap back over the chasm and run recklessly for the exit in a ZIGZAG pattern ...
SUDDENLY, the HUNTERS hear a THUNDEROUS RUMBLING coming from RIGHT BEHIND THEM! They look back to see ...
They are being CHASED BY AN ENORMOUS ROCK, CARVED IN THE SHAPE OF A SACRED AZTEC MINI-DONUT!!
The HUNTERS barrel through the ARCHWAY and land in a heap.
Suddenly, the IDOL’s RUBY EYE GLOWS TO LIFE and a DISEMBODIED VOICE CRACKLES out of SPEAK-EL-SPEAK-QUEL!
SPEAK-EL-SPEAK-QUEL
(angry and staticky)
Great Houdini’s Hot Pants! What the –- who the –- unhand me, you urchin!!
TREASURE HUNTER CEE
(startled)
Gah!
TREASURE HUNTER TEE
(even more startled)
GAH!! Cut!! CUT!!!
“Cutting! Cutting!” Cheryl yelled frantically in answer to Tweed’s equally frantic direction. The ACTION!! sequence came screeching to a halt as the girls froze. After a moment, Cheryl’s pigtails— strawberry blonde and sprouting askew from both sides of her head—bounced furiously as she whipped her head around, searching for the source of the voice she and Tweed had just heard. Tweed on the other hand, didn’t move. She just stood there, staring with wide grey eyes at the battered rectangular-shaped metal box, cradled in the catcher’s mitt she held in both hands. Her arms were stretched so far out in front of her, she looked as if she was trying to back away from them. Or from the object that had just squawked at them in an outraged, slightly nasally English accent.
“What the …?” Cheryl stepped forward and peered closely at the Drive-In car speaker as if it were an alien life form. Intriguing, but not to be trusted. She glanced back up at Tweed. “Did that thing just say something?”
Tweed nodded silently, clearly more freaked out by that fact than she was comfortable with.
“Maybe Pops is testing the system,” Cheryl suggested. “Maybe—”
She snapped her jaw shut when the reason for Tweed’s freaked-out-ishness became apparent as she juggled the catcher’s mitt slightly so Cheryl could see the bottom of the speaker. The thing was—at least it should have been—totally defunct. Trailing from the metal housing were two wires with frayed, frazzled ends. It happened occasionally—the local squirrel population wasn’t that bright and were prone to chewing through things they had no business chewing through—but, because of that, there was no possible way that speaker was still hooked in to the Drive-In system. And that wasn’t the only thing. It also sported what, at first, seemed to be a round red indicator light bulb on top—the “jewel of Speak-El-Speak-Quel.” In their ACTION!! game, that hadn’t seemed so odd. Only, in real life … well … the Starlight Paradise Drive-In movie theatre in-car speakers didn’t have indicator light bulbs on top.
“Um …” Cheryl leaned forward—just a bit—and stared at the thing.
“You heard that,” Tweed said. “Right? You heard it talk?”
Cheryl nodded vigorously and went back to staring.
“Take a photograph!” the speaker suddenly exclaimed in an annoyed tone, the red light pulsing in time to the words. “It’ll last longer!”
“Gah!”
Both girls screamed and Tweed jumped, involuntarily launching the speaker into the air.
“GAH!!” the speaker screamed back as it flew in an arc. And then, “Ow! Ow! Ow!” as it bounced along the hard-packed ground. “Ow …” When the speaker came to rest against a raised clump of crabgrass, the light dimmed and the voice moaned softly to itself.
Tweed glanced around wildly to see if anyone was nearby. The coast was clear. With Cheryl standing by, muscles tensed and ready to provide any necessary backup, Tweed tiptoed toward the groaning, inert speaker. From a distance of three feet, she pounced and landed on the thing, trapping it beneath her catcher’s mitt.
The speaker squealed and hissed in tinny-sounding, electronic rage.
“Unhand me!” it cried, crackling loudly from beneath the worn leather mitt. “Where am I? What’s going on?”
Tweed leaped backward through the air like a startled grasshopper. Her gothy footwear—big black boots with lots of buckles—tangled in the skipping-rope vines and upended her. She landed nose-to-nose with the speaker, her big grey eyes wide.
“Did … um. Did you say something?” she asked, her usually solemn tones gone a bit squeaky from astonishment. “Mister … um … Speaker?”
There was a faint sound of static.
Tweed tentatively reached out and plucked up the end of the wire.
Cheryl crouched down and examined it closely. It looked as though it had suffered a miniature explosion. The hole in the speaker housing where the wire attached was blackened with scorch marks. Cheryl poked the thing with one finger.
“Hey! No poking!”
The twins exchanged a look. Then Cheryl glanced around the Drive-In lot to see if anyone was nearby. Maybe Pilot was joking around and trying to scare the girls. But no. Pilot was nowhere in sight. And so, clearly, not playing some kind of practical joke.
The lot was deserted.
“Dudley?” the speaker asked suddenly. “Is that you? Dudley!”
Cheryl and Tweed both jumped at the sound of that name and shared an alarmed glance. Dudley? The only Dudley the girls knew was the shady carnival owner, Colonel Winchester P.Q. Dudley, whom they’d had a hand in running out of Wiggins only a few days earlier. And, frankly, the girls were still in a bit of shock that they’d gotten away with such high-adventure monkey-shines without their beloved grandfather discovering their secret and grounding them for life. So, really, it wouldn’t do to have Pops’s own Drive-In equipment spouting the name of Cheryl and Tweed’s nefarious nemesis at the top of its lungs.
Not … that it actually had lungs.
Or a brain.
Or any capacity, really, to be speaking on its own in any way.
It had to be some kind of a trick.
But a trick that was going to land the girls in a heap of trouble if they had to explain it to Pops Pendleton. Cheryl and Tweed had made the decision not to tell Pops about the carnival/mummy princess shenanigans, and Pilot and Artie Bartleby had heartily agreed to keep the whole adventure under wraps.
Wiggins folk already regarded the “twins” with some skepticism. Long ago, in the days following “The Incident,” people in the town had been convinced that the Shumacher/Pendleton/Armbruster disappearance was due to some sort of unfortunate accident. The girls had developed ideas of their own—alien ideas—and, at first, the Wiggins folk had indulged them. After all, they’d been very young. But when the passage of time did little to lessen the twins’ growing certainty of paranormal meddling, and their developing obsessions with B movies began to colour their increasingly offbeat world views, well … that was a bit much for the inhabitants of the quiet little town.
The twins had been trying to keep low (relatively normal) profiles since the start of summer—largely for the sake of their sitter biz—and tales of ancient curses and a mummy run amok would have torpedoed those efforts handily. Likewise, a possessed speaker.
“Helloooo …” came the sound of the voice again, the plummy English accent muffled somewhat—as if it was the actual person speaking that was lying face down on the ground.
As silently as possible, and with a flurry of hand gestures and head nodding, Cheryl indicated to Tweed that she wished to converse in private, out of earshot of the Drive-In speaker. By the time they’d finished talking, Tweed had shrugged out of the jacket she’d been wearing—even on summer days, her gothy ensembles (and milk-pale skin) rarely allowed for bare arms—and was holding it out in front of her like a bullfighter’s cape. Slowly, carefully, the girls crept back to where the speaker lay on the ground.
“Now!” Cheryl exclaimed. “Get him!”
Tweed threw the jacket over the speaker and leaped upon it, wrestling furiously with the—i
nanimate and not exactly wrestling back, but never mind—speaker. As Tweed frantically wrapped the material around it, the speaker squawked like a chicken with a walkie-talkie. Cheryl held out her knapsack and Tweed stuffed the protesting piece of equipment inside, tugging the drawstring shut and effectively muffling its outrage.
3 THE THING FROM (REALLY) BEYOND
The girls ran for the big red barn at the far edge of the Drive-In lot, wherein the headquarters for C+T Enterprises was located. Once inside, with the bolt lock slammed shut on the door, Tweed fished the (inexplicably still yapping) jacket-bundle of what should have been inoperative electronics out of the knapsack and carried it over to the workbench. She set it down hesitantly and took a quick step back.
“Grab a sleeve?” she asked her cousin.
Cheryl reached out and grabbed one cuff as Tweed grabbed the other.
“On the count of three?” Cheryl suggested.
Tweed nodded solemnly.
“One … two … thr—”
“Wait!” Cheryl held up a hand, frowning.
“What?”
“Are we doing one … two … go-on-three?” she asked. “Or one … two … three-and-then-go?”
Tweed’s brow furrowed to match Cheryl’s as she contemplated. It was, in the light of, say, a movie-based action sequence, a matter to be given serious thought. “Good question,” she said. “I can see merit in either technique. The first option is probably, statistically speaking, the classic. But I can see how it would leave room for inaccuracy to creep in. The second option establishes the count rhythm more soundly.”
The Haunting of Heck House Page 2