The Black Chronicle

by Oldrich Stibor

  Across the room from Mr. Lugosi and Mr. Karloff hung the visage of the iconic Vincent Price. The elegant villain and one of the few American-born horror stars of the classic era. Even Lon Chaney Jr. dressed up as the Wolf Man was amongst this group. A long time ago someone had signed it: Love and kisses, Wolf Man. The joke around the office was that they actually hired a werewolf for the role who they’d taught to act like a human for interviews.

  Of course many readers of the magazine didn’t even know who these fine actors were. The rest of the offices were decorated with props and memorabilia the predominantly younger readership would have much less difficulty recognizing. There were stills from the set of movies featuring kung-fu fighting vampires, an encased goalie mask, a poster of Jack Nicholson jamming his face into the axed shaft of a hotel bathroom door. And near the front door was a mannequin of Edward Scissorhands sporting the actual hedge-trimming digits used in the movie.

  All this made the small offices seem as much like a museum as the headquarters of a moderately successful magazine. Mary was the curator of these ghoulish relics, as well as the editor-in-chief.

  Mary Stien’s image itself adorned the walls in various places; she’d been a ‘Scream Queen’ in the nineties before founding the publication. During her career she had starred in over seventy films. They were mostly all B-movies by horror standards, but would likely be graded as Cs or even Ds when compared with more mainstream Hollywood fare.

  She rushed into the small studio they used for photo shoots and interviews and found her afternoon appointment waiting patiently on a chair along the wall.

  “I’m so sorry,” Mary said, putting on a big warm smile and extending her black nail-polished fingers.

  The gentleman, Ryan, was a reviewer for Fangoria, the world’s largest horror publication and website. He was an interesting mixture, Mary mused, of part-armadillo part-forty-year-old college kid. He had a complexion that resembled raw chicken, which spoke of a strong intimacy with video games and all night Netflix marathons. Hanging loosely from his rotund body was an extra large Army of Darkness t-shirt which did little to conceal his fast food-induced plumpness.

  He shook her hand and kept his eyes eerily fixed on hers in such a way that it was amusingly clear he was trying to prevent himself from staring at her tits. She was used to it, more often than not, if there was an elephant in the room, it was in her bra.

  “No problem at all Mrs. Stien. I’m like a kid in a candy store here. I’ve been reading Rue Morgue religiously since…well since it came out really. I haven’t missed an issue.”

  “Oh that’s nice. But please, just call me Mary.”

  She turned to Erin.

  “Can you be a doll face and grab me a vanilla latte?” Then back to Ryan and asked, “Anything for you?”

  “I’ll just have a water, thank you.”

  Erin nodded and left for the Starbucks down the street.

  Mary took a seat and crossed her freakishly long legs, which were covered in black fishnet stockings, part of the usual “Mary Stien” look. A black miniskirt clung to the firm roundness of her stair-mastered thighs, her wine coloured blouse was opened one button past modesty. Normally she wouldn’t dress like this for the office but it was something she always did for interviews. Her on screen persona had somewhere along the line blended with her real self and the outfit was part of the character. She arched her eyebrows, pulled back her shoulders to slip into character and said:

  “Shall we begin, my little pet?”

  By time Erin came back with their drinks the interview was nearly done.

  “It has been nearly seven years since you have done a film. Do you ever miss it?”

  “Well, let's see,” Mary started, tapping her well manicured finger on her chin in mock recollection. “I have been shot, stabbed, buried alive, burnt at the stake, eaten by cannibals, mauled by werewolves, and in once instance raped then vaporized by a moon goblin. What's not to miss?”

  Ryan the interviewer laughed a little too hard and Erin broke the awkwardness by bringing them their drinks.

  “Thank you, doll face,” Mary said, enjoying her first sip of caffeine all morning so much so she had to close her eyes and sigh.

  “Well, that's a pretty impressive list of deaths,” Ryan continued, breaking her moment of bliss, “But you left out the second half of your career during which you did most of the killing. During that time—and most significantly in the films you wrote yourself—you created a kind monster-hero role and influenced a trend in the horror and thriller genre which is being referred to as “villain-cinema.” How do you feel about the fact that that trend is sort of taking off at a time when you have stepped away from the industry?”

  Okay this guy was coming in with a little less fanboy and a little more journalist, than she had expected.

  “Well, first of all,” she said, suddenly invigorated by the prospect of having a real conversation, “I don't feel like I'm away from the industry. I still love these stories, I'm just exploring them in a different way now. Through the magazine. But as far as this whole villain-cinema thing goes, I think it's great that people are calling it that. And I guess that does explain the kind of stories I was compelled to tell, but it wasn't some sort of conscious decision to create a kind of cinema. I was just writing what was inside of me. And in the end, that's all you can do, if you're an honest artist. An artist who isn't honest with what's inside isn't an artist at all.”

  Ryan seemed to chew that over for second before he retorted.

  “Horror has always been, well, filled with horrific, bleak, dark stories. With the introduction of villain-cinema, it seems to have... I don't want to say ‘sunken deeper’, because that sounds like a judgement somehow, but I guess I can see how some people would see it that way. I guess the difficulty with these kinds of stories is that there is no clear good guy. The good guy is bad. And even in some way there seems to be this notion that the monster is the true victim. Anybody that has seen the Blood-Witch series or Love Bytes, the movie were you play a sex-bot who grows to feel a sense of violation and anger towards the people that exploited her and then massacres them all in the most horrible ways imaginable, will know what I'm talking about. What do you think it is that compelled you to write stories in which there was no clear line between hero, villain, good-guy, bad-guy?”

  “Honestly, while I was writing them, there was no agenda to write things like that, or create this notion of a monster-hero. I just sat down to write and that's what came out. But now that everyone else has had something to say about it, it’s kind of forced me to look at it and ask myself why it's my natural inclination to write these kinds of stories. And I suppose I just see goodness and evil in all of us. It also is clear to me that people who are criminals or have done, quote un-quote, evil things, many times are victims themselves in the sense that they are suffering from a kind of deficiency of something somewhere in their own existence, making them in a way, victims themselves. I don't know. I don't want to get too philosophical about it. These movies are supposed to just silly fun after all. And like I said, I'm only coming to these kinds of thoughts after the fact.”

  She looked at Erin, her assistant editor whose eyebrows and lips were travelling in opposite directions across her mousy little face, an expression Mary interpreted as her being impressed.

  “I would like to read something from an article written about you once.”

  Mary knew of course what article he was referring to. It had proved to be the most important press she ever received.

  “With an illustrious bloody rampage through the annals of cinematic gore and horror, Mary Stien has undeniably cemented her legacy as one of the great beauties of the genre right up there with the likes of iconic figures such as Elvira and the great Vampirella. She has both captivated us as the doe-eyed, heaving-bosomed, victim/survivor, and tempted us as the sinister man eating seductress. With all respect due, it’s in this author’s opinion that neither her great predecessors nor the horde
of lesser minions whom she spawned and inspired with her sultry performances, can match her haunting screen presence. If her peers are considered to be the great scream queens of the past several decades, then she is surely the Scream Empress of them all. All hail Empress Mary.”

  “Yes. Which was and still is a huge compliment. Just to be compared with Elvira and Vamperalla, is a dream come true really.”

  “And that it's a monicker that has stuck. Empress Mary. Do you worry that staying away from film too long will cause you legacy to fade?”

  “Legacy?!” Mary laughed. “I think that may be a tad dramatic. Look, let's be honest. Most of the movies I've done won't exactly resonate through the ages. If I am remembered in any sort of way for my work it will be... I don't know really. There are maybe one or two films which hopefully will considered cult classics, but most of the film industry itself, aren't even aware of the dark corner of film which is low-budget horror and slashers. My motivation has never been fame or even money. I just love this genre, and I love working with creative, like-minded people. That's what the films were about for me and that's what the magazine is about now. In a lot of ways I'm just the same kid from Sweet River Utah who used to spend Sunday afternoon watching the monster double features on TV and spending all year looking forward to Halloween. I'm in this because I'm a fan. I'm not Empress anything, I'm just Mary.”

  Ryan giggled, pleased, and hit stop on his tape recorder.

  “That was great,” he said. “I think that's a great place to stop. Unless there is anything else you would like to add?”

  “No I think that just about sums it all up,” Mary said. She smiled brightly and shook his clammy hand.

  “That went really well!” Erin said, suddenly appearing at their side.

  “I thought so too,” Mary said, standing up and straightening out her skirt.

  “Yeah it was great. We got a lot of good quotes there,” he agreed.

  “When will it be in print?” Mary asked.

  “I would say in about two weeks. Everyone is really excited about the piece.”

  “Well it was my pleasure,” Mary said. “Anytime you want to do it again just let me know. If you have follow-up questions later, whatever you need.”

  “Thank you very much…I…uh. Sorry to do this, but do you mind signing a few things for me?”

  The slush pile on Mary's desk had become a slush mountain. Flipping through the submissions and query letters she told herself for the umpteenth time that she was going to hire another assistant soon.

  Erin knocked at the open door.

  “Did you see him out?”

  “Yeah he just left. Nice guy. He said he wanted to take you for dinner. I gave him your number.”

  “Excellent. Please be a dear and remind him to bring his Avatar Fleshlight and cosplay wardrobe.” Mary joked dryly and began to pack up her materials for the day. “Well, I am out of here. I have an appointment with the printer so I’m just going to work from home after that. Are you sticking around?”

  “You tell me. Anything else you need me to do?”

  “Well you could double-check this month’s direct DVD sales and send them out?”

  “Consider it done.”

  “Thanks Erin.”

  Mary, anxious to get home and unwind, scooped up a stack of papers and folders and began to stuff them into her duffel bag like a bank robber stuffing money in a sack. Among the stack was a black envelope with a single name scrawled across it in white-out: Mister.

  CHAPTER 6

  Jeremy was dressed head to toe in black. In the heat of the day, he would feel all the more smothering for it, but for the moment the central air of the funeral home kept him relatively comfortable.

  His son Charlie, also completely in black save for a crisp white tie, no doubt a touch from Katie, sat next to him. They were in the basement of the funeral home, which served as a kind of refreshment room. It was just the two of them, everyone else was upstairs or still arriving. In Jeremy’s hand was a Styrofoam cup of coffee that he had just gotten from an old machine in the corner. It was awful but he still hadn’t slept and so it served its purpose.

  “You sure you don't want anything?” Jeremy asked.

  “Yeah, I'm sure.”

  He knew there was something he was supposed to say to his kid here. Something fatherly or poignant about life or death, but he just didn't know how to spin this in such a way as to make it meaningful.

  “You can go upstairs and sit with your mom if that's what you want.”

  “No, it's okay Dad.”

  There was something in the way he said “Dad” that moved Jeremy. He hardly ever referred to him that way. It was only ever, “Yes this” or “No that,” never “Yes Dad,” “No Dad.” Perhaps this was the silver lining—that at the loss of Chris they may learn to appreciate each other. He wanted to say this to him, but looking at him sitting there, sitting with him and just quietly being there for him, Jeremy understood that his son was already one step ahead of him.

  “I love you Charlie,” Jeremy said, putting his hand on his son's shoulder. “I know I don't say it much, but I do.”

  “I love you too.”

  He hadn’t heard him say that in…how long had it been? Years? Charlie was a good kid but he was at that magical time in life when exerting independence was synonymous with a ‘fuck everyone, they’re stupid’ attitude. But Jeremy knew it could be worse. The boy was wicked smart and had a quick, insightful mind that was truly impressive. That’s if you could get past the impression he tended to give that it was his curse to be the only person with a full and functional brain in world full of idiots. But that’s as far as his teenage angst would take him. Charlie would never go off the rails. He would get into university somewhere, possibly even follow his old man's footsteps into psychology and go on to do something truly special... if that's what he wanted.

  In his first year of high school they’d wanted to put him into a special class for gifted students and he reacted as though they were trying to send him to a leper colony. He just wanted to fit in and Jeremy understood that. That's all he’d wanted too, when he was the boy’s age. But despite his fear of being seen as different or dorky or whatever, and without any more urging from him or Katie, Charlie had decided on his own to go into the advanced program the following year.

  Jeremy looked at his son, sitting there stoic and strong, and wondered how much all of this was affecting him. He wasn't particularly close with his uncle; Chris' condition made that difficult. But he wondered whether the fact that they’d shared the same face might be making it harder for Charlie. It was a small comfort that he and Chris now looked less similar than they once had. His diet and habits had made him very skinny and frail. Still, in a few minutes Charlie would have to see, essentially, the image of his father lying dead in a coffin.

  “You okay?” Jeremy asked, throwing the coffee in the garbage, unable to stomach it anymore.

  “Yeah, I'm okay. Are you okay?”

  “Yeah... I just wish... I don't know... I just think I could have done more for him.”

  “Dad, you did everything for him.”

  Was that true? He didn't know. When they were eight their father had died—suicide—their mother, stricken with grief, had left them in the care of their aunt and uncle who’d raised them or at least, provided them with the essentials of food, clothes, shelter, until they were eighteen and ejected from their care. Jeremy had to grow up quick for Chris' sake. Sometimes it felt like they were two incomplete people that together still didn't make up a full person. And now he was gone.

  “You couldn't fix him Dad,” Charlie said seeing the sullen look on his father's face. “Nobody could. It was just… one of those things.”

  “I know…I know. Come on, let's go get this over with,” he said leading Charlie upstairs.

  CHAPTER 7

  The Golden age of the nineteen-fifties didn't seem so glamorous in small town, corn town, cow town America. In fact to Jacob Codwell, who h
ad just celebrated his seventeenth birthday, it often felt like whatever the opposite of that would be.

  His childhood dream of killing Nazis would now never be realized as the goose stepping sons of bitches had been defeated before he’d barely had a chance to get out of grade school. To fight for his country would be his one sure escape. The one escape nobody could deny him, not even his father. And besides, girls are suckers for a guy in a uniform, or so his older brother Peter had said the last time he’d seen him. In any event, that was only an added benefit to the gig, and not what had led him to dream of fighting in the Great War. He would rather have risked dying a virgin, blown to bits by German mortar shells, than be stuck in this nowhere land of crops and tractors and illiterate drunken fathers.

  Not that he didn't have his own wars to fight already. He had lived his entire life behind enemy lines, it seemed. At least in the army he would have comrades. He had been alone on his little battlefield since his brother had left for the war, and though he didn't think it was possible, he’d felt even more alone after Pete died in combat.

  Pete had been a gunner in a B-17 Flying Fortress and been shot down over Schweinfurt, Germany on his way to drop a payload of bombs on a ball-bearing factory. Jacob would often have nightmares about it. He was always in the plane with his brother, sometimes as part of the crew and other times as a kind of a ghost, watching it all play out, unable to warn them of the coming disaster. Inevitably they would be hit; anti-aircraft rounds would rip through the metal of their so-called flying fortress like it was nothing more than tinfoil. Then the aircraft would sputter and spin, turning this way and that, at weird angles, trying uselessly to fly to safety like a dragonfly with one of its wings plucked off.

  Sometimes they would all scream to God, or to each other, or cry for their mothers. Other times they would just stare at each other with their young, barely-men faces and wide panicked eyes, too lost in their thoughts to utter last words, thoughts maybe of their families or their sweethearts back home. Jacob often wondered what his brother's thoughts were in those final moments as he plummeted towards certain death, caught in the horrible transition between one dimension and the next. Did he think of him and his short life back in Clementine, Tennessee, or was he thinking of the life to come?