Scream All Night

by Derek Milman

  You actually wind up feeling sorry for the demon.

  So, yeah, I stopped watching Moldavia films after that one.

  I fall asleep thinking about Franklin and Hayley and Mistress Moonshadow and Oren, and all the rest of them, feeling strangled by the night, and I have this dream about a drowned world—a deluge that plunges everything underwater: Keenan House, Moldavia, my school, the whole world. But for some reason I can breathe underwater. I’m the only one who can. So I try to find Jude and Hayley and Oren, but they’ve already drowned, sinking into the cold depths, arms outstretched, hair waving like anemones. I cry out for them, but only a useless string of bubbles shoots out of my mouth.

  And then everything gets darker and heavier as I start to sink too.

  In the morning, before school, I wipe away the drying sweat on the back of my neck, call Oren back, and tell him what I want to do.

  Part II

  From the opening chapter of Guts, Cuts, & Gory: The Underground History of Moldavia Studios by Sheckleton Burke, Doubleday, 1996 (out of print):

  Legend has it that socialite and heiress to the Moldavia fortune Isabella Moldavia, just nineteen years old at the time, met her future husband while accompanying her father, Rudolph Moldavia, on a business trip to Braşov in the summer of 1977. Lucien Heyward’s real name has never officially been known (though various sources, unconfirmed, report his birth name as either Drahoslav Pîrvulescu or Iorghu Groza).

  Isabella, a tall, young woman with flowing dark hair and bright green eyes, was never entirely comfortable with her beauty or her family’s wealth, and was known to be mercurial and something of a rebel. She was charmed by Lucien’s overtures at a Transylvanian tochitură picnic, under the looming shadow of the landmark Liars Bridge. Lucien promised to write her, and after she returned to the United States, the two of them fell into a heated correspondence that continued for the remainder of that summer and into the following fall.

  Ten months later, Isabella’s mother, Rosemary, died of influenza, and only a few weeks after that, Rudolph was dead of a stroke. Isabella inherited the family fortune as well as the estate, already on the National Register of Historic Places. (Her twin sister, Serafina, was killed in a tragic carousel accident at a beachside playground when the girls were seven.)

  Isabella, lonely and restless, invited Lucien to visit the castle, and against the advice of her closest friends and relatives (of which she had few), a mere three months later they were married. The age difference sparked gossip in the society pages. Isabella was twenty years old. Lucien was fifty-three. A year later, Isabella gave birth to a son, Oren Jacob Heyward, who as a teenager would work his way up from kitchen lackey to grip to second A.D. on most of his father’s films made during the “golden years” of the studio’s output.

  Lucien Heyward was already an infamous lothario and raconteur in Braşov before he met Isabella. His family owned a struggling movie theater chain, Cosmescu Cinemas (allegedly, a fruitless trip to Cairo to spearhead efforts to expand the chain to the Middle East inspired Moldavia’s first feature, The Curse of the Mummy’s Tongue), and Heyward had been making low-budget exploitation films since the age of thirty. Using an old Cine-Kodak camera, a gift from his father, and a cast of rough-and-tumble Romanian nonprofessional actors, many of them his own cousins, Heyward filmed in the basements, balconies, and lobbies of his family’s empty cinema houses. These early films linked gratuitous sex and alien invasion in uneasy ways. This led to local notoriety that grew beyond the borders of Braşov once Heyward’s opportunistic father sniffed the upside of controversy and allowed his son’s peculiar, ribald films to play as featurettes before every movie shown at a Cosmescu Cinema house.

  In a bizarre turn of events, Heyward was hired by Romanian pharmaceutical company Terapia Ranbaxy to direct educational training films for the company’s employees, though Heyward always maintained grander ambitions. Many assumed he would take advantage of his sudden marriage to Isabella and his newfound U.S. citizenship to penetrate the gates of Hollywood at a time when exploitative horror films, many of which would go on to become classics of the genre, were on an upswing. Instead, Heyward did the opposite, shutting himself behind the gates of the Moldavia estate and building his own studio on its grounds. Heyward’s first feature under the Moldavia banner, Mummy’s Tongue, with its winking callback to an earlier era of Saturday-matinee serial films, put the studio on the map after Jamie Montana of Billington Pictures purchased the distribution rights. The film was a sleeper hit and gained Heyward a lucrative distribution deal with Columbia Pictures and a roaring reputation as an eccentric hermit auteur.

  Made on a shoestring budget with a cast and crew of visiting Romanian relatives (and one Hungarian fugitive wanted for bank robbery), and shot entirely within the walls of the castle, the film remains among the most beloved of Moldavia’s output. After the film’s success, Heyward was able to write his own ticket, and ads placed in the trades led to an influx of top production staff longing for a change of pace from the grind of Los Angeles (and a chance to work with a self-exiled Hollywood outsider and enfant terrible whose phony name was on everyone’s lips). Many of the actors and below-the-line talent that came through the Moldavia gates during this period formed the core family of Moldavia Studios, and it is a testament to either Heyward’s raffish charm or cultish ability to inspire fascist loyalty that many never left.

  Heyward quickly squandered the remainder of his wife’s fortune on the studio’s next dozen (and far less successful) features, including the disastrous, unwatchable, and overbudgeted Brain Breakfast, even though the camp value of some of these failures earned Rocky Horror–level cult followings. As Heyward began to embrace the underground, knowing he’d never achieve conventional mainstream success, his distribution deals with several Hollywood studios collapsed. But the director amassed a die-hard fan base and a loyal collective of mysterious Eastern European investors who would fund Moldavia’s features over the next several years. Heyward remained free to make what he wanted as he wanted at his own frenetic, ritualistic pace—for as long as he wanted to.

  The deteriorating mental state of Isabella was something few were privy to. Five years after her marriage to Lucien, she had not been seen in public in some time. Mental illness had been a frequent scourge upon her family. Her father had been hospitalized for a supposed nervous breakdown three years before his death, and her mother spent an extended period of time in a psychiatric institution after she disappeared and was found days later wandering the woods around the estate, filthy and raving, her pockets full of acorns.

  Despite the studio’s airtight privacy and policy of isolation, rumors still ran rampant through high society that Isabella was not well. In response, Heyward retreated even further behind Moldavia’s gates. He refused to grant interviews or speak with his own investors, and no outsiders were allowed on the grounds of the estate. The only connection Moldavia had with the outside world, in fact, was through its films (at an increased pace from two to four features a year) and the weekly food and supply trucks that would wind their way through the hills to the castle. They were required to stop and unload just inside the gates, while the rest of the estate was hidden behind an imposing blockade of fir trees.

  Increasingly, Hunter Yates, the studio’s marketing wunderkind, a former Hollywood publicist who had weathered a scandal or two of his own, and Franklin Fletcher, a high-priced Manhattan corporate lawyer who escaped the world of mergers and acquisitions for the ghosts and ghouls of Moldavia, handled all communications and business dealings for the studio. Lucien Heyward continued to pump out overly stylized B-movies, some of which took on a sadder tone, further alienating the studio’s core audience, yet gaining new fans who were attracted to Moldavia’s shift into a melancholic brand of what noted film critic K. J. Stimpell called “haunted horror films.”

  Heyward certainly seemed more and more like a haunted man. His breakneck pace, particularly when he churned out surprisingly sensitive and at times trul
y doleful horrors like Mama Has No Intestines Anymore and The Loneliness of a Long Distance Poltergeist, seemed infused more with loss and loneliness than the fun, pulpy monster mayhem the studio had built its reputation on. Heyward escaped his difficult life in Romania only to feel the need to escape his own breaking heart. . . .

  Chapter Six

  The Surface of Things

  MY MOM WAS FORTY-ONE YEARS OLD WHEN SHE HAD ME, AND SHE was already clearly mentally ill. I probably shouldn’t have happened. Was I an accident?

  I’ve pondered how consensual my conception might have been. But I can’t question it for long. It’s too loaded and mysterious, and it quickly gets relegated to shelf space in the back of my mind.

  Ever since I can remember, my mom was always a wavering presence around the castle. There were moments of soft-focus hugs and laughter: singing with her as she played the piano, listening to the stories she read to me, feeling her love, or at least aware of it. But those moments were few and far between.

  I’ll never forget that emptiness invading her eyes like something drinking her pupils away through a straw, replaced by a remote sharpening of her gaze that seemed to say: I figured it all out. I see more than any of you ever will.

  Whenever I saw that look, I knew she’d be disappearing again. I was a little kid; I thought I’d done something wrong. All I wanted to do was get her back again.

  Over time, I started seeing less and less of her, until any appearance at all became almost mythical. And when I did see her, it was awful: She hissed at me. Called me horrible names. I’d wake up and she’d be standing over my bed, scowling at me.

  After she abandoned me at that bus stop, they took her away for good.

  Then I was gone from this place too.

  And now I’m coming back.

  Oren sent me a wood-and-brass steamer trunk to pack my stuff up in. It looks like something left over from World War I. Jude and I stared at it for a full minute before we burst out laughing. A few days later, Jude received his own trunk.

  I told Oren I would only return to Moldavia if Jude could come with me. That way, we could watch over each other. Oren readily agreed, saying they could use him on the crew, since they’ve been short a guy after “the electrocution incident of last November.” I didn’t mention that to Jude, though Oren assured me that “the guy is fine, just resting back home in Peoria.”

  Two weeks ago, Jude and I graduated from high school.

  Both of us are about to turn eighteen, which means we’ll be booted from Keenan House. Jude, like some Neverland reject, seemed to assume he would never grow up, and made no real plans. I was legit worried about this. His only post-Keenan plans involved him “helping out” at his friend’s motorcycle shop, and couch surfing.

  The problem with “Ben’s Bike Shop” is that no one actually repairs or sells any bikes. The place is so clearly a front for a drug-running operation I have no idea how it hasn’t been raided by the DEA. Jude tends to fall into the wrong crowd too easily—with people he meets in the world of underground amateur boxing, or whatever. It’s a major flaw of his. Now I know he’ll have a place to crash too—at least for a while.

  Jude agreed to accompany me to Moldavia, but he made me promise I’d eventually go to Harvard. That was his condition. Although, honestly, with all his talk about me getting pulled back in, I’ve never seen him so excited about anything.

  Knowing I’ll have Jude with me is a huge comfort—he’s such a major part of my life; there’s no one I’m closer to. But I’m still filled with this nagging dread about returning to Moldavia and filling my dad’s shoes as studio chief. I have absolutely no idea what to expect.

  Leaving Keenan got super-emotional. Stupidly, I never realized there would be a literal last day. There were lots of tearful good-byes with the other kids (especially since I know many of them are doomed to live difficult lives). Walking out of our room one last time was wrenching. I gave Len a hug, and wished him luck with Pam and his doctorate. He urged me again to go to Harvard.

  Jude and I move to Moldavia at the end of May, right before what’s left of spring melts into the early swell of summer.

  Oren apparently wants to make an impression, so he sends the hunter-green Rolls-Royce to pick us up. The car was used as Balzac Best’s chauffeured ride in The Goblins That Only Ate Cake, Moldavia’s rough attempt at crossing gross-out gore with a tender look at class distinction, released in 1982. While it was meant as social satire, the movie failed on every level. Once again Rotten Tomatoes had to, like, rewire their algorithms in order to include it in their database, since the film scored so low their website wasn’t sure how to even process it.

  Whenever a fancy-ass car is needed in a Moldavia movie, the Rolls-Royce is used every single time. They don’t even bother to paint it a different color. But Jude doesn’t know that. He’s grinning, running his hands all over the leather interior. We roll through the gates, and Jude’s eyes go wide when he sees the immense castle and the sprawling grounds. The property stretches over hundreds of acres, licking the edge of Peabody Lake a mile and a half away, where beach scenes are filmed.

  Oren has the entire Moldavia staff standing outside in a ring, flanking the circular driveway like we’re in a Downton Abbey episode and we’ve just returned from war.

  I roll my eyes. “Jesus.”

  “Whoa,” says Jude, clamping a fist over his mouth.

  Oren steps forward to open the door. “Welcome, welcome! I’m Oren Heyward,” he says, making intense eye contact with Jude, shaking his hand firmly. “We’re so happy to have you. I’ve heard so many wonderful things.”

  “Thanks!” says Jude, a little starstruck. Oren is wearing a three-piece yellow-and-brown houndstooth suit. The brown porkpie hat would seem like overkill only if you’d never met Oren before, which Jude hasn’t, so he’s staring at him gleefully.

  “Ack! C’mere!” says Oren, opening his arms wide and giving me a tight, overly dramatic embrace that’s all for show, since we don’t really hug. “My baby brother. Home at last.”

  “All right, calm down.” I look around for Hayley but don’t see her anywhere. Hayley and I haven’t talked at all since I was here last, a month ago.

  Oren flicks his vest. “Do you like the suit?”

  “You look like . . . if Sherlock Holmes had a pimp,” I say.

  “It’s an old costume piece. But it fits me like a glove, right? They’re here, everyone!” Oren screams (which he always does when he’s excited).

  “Where’s Hayley?” I ask Oren as some guys lug our trunks inside.

  “Oh, she’ll be down. Come!” he screams. “Let’s get you boys settled.”

  That night there’s a thunderstorm. Through my windows I watch the grounds get pelted with windswept rain. Lightning bolts corkscrew out of the sky, leaving wisps of smoke in their wake. The thunder echoes and quakes, muffled by the stone castle.

  “Perfect,” says Jude, staring out, mesmerized.

  Jude insisted he room with me, so an additional bed and bureau were carried in by some of the larger crewmen. Jude is the toughest guy I know, but he has his own kryptonite just like everyone else—he doesn’t like to sleep alone. We both unpack as the storm rages outside, running to the window like little kids at every crack of thunder.

  Having taken note of Jude’s boxing gloves, two electricians come over to surprise Jude with a seventy-pound Everlast punching bag, which they attach to our ceiling with a customizable chain.

  Jude nearly falls over himself. “This is so awesome, man!”

  We eat an early dinner at a long, communal table in the basement commissary, while the wind howls through the walls, and the medieval wooden chandelier, gently swinging, flickers a bit. Everyone except Hayley makes a brief appearance to greet us, but then they all quickly retreat to their respective departments, spread throughout the castle, prepping scenes for tomorrow’s filming.

  It’s definitely busy around here, as always. You’d never know we were nearly bankrupt. And
no storm, however big, would ever slow things down. Moldavia is weatherproof—weeks of consecutive shooting could take place exclusively indoors. All the large rooms function as sound stages.

  After dinner, I give Jude a little tour. Gliding through the castle, I hear the usual Moldavia sounds: hammering, power drilling, sawing, the crew shouting.

  The various departments are all hunkered down in their own warmly lit circles of concentration. The production design team has the loft-like upper floors of the Romero Wing to themselves. Lightning strobes through the dormer windows as everyone works on matte backdrops of hellish, eclipsed, moon-raked skies. Paints and brushes and cans of pungent chemicals are scattered everywhere over heavy tarps.

  The makeup crew, one floor below, in a lab-like room of vanity mirrors and barber chairs, is testing out various deformities, dripping paraffin wax over dummy heads, using photos of actual acid victims as inspiration. The lighting department, next door, is shuffling through an autumnal spectrum of colored gels.

  Costumes and props are at the end of the Hitchcock Wing. The wardrobe department is comprised of narrow corridors filled with moth-protected garments dangling from hangers, each with their own ID numbers. In smaller rooms, people sew and drape costumes, presided over by their mad queen, Samantha Childress. Sketches are hung on the walls. The costume crew inhabits a world of fabrics and threads, classic rock, old tailor’s dummies, and slinky measuring tapes.

  The props department resembles the historical society of some lost city. Its ticking, gleaming collection of clocks and silverware, dolls, candlesticks, daggers, magnifying glasses, and tons of other random stuff, all exactingly filed and organized on rustproof Metro shelving, stretches into the rumbling darkness.

  Jude keeps cupping both hands over his mouth and doing a little hop-dance at every new thing he sees, trying to contain his excitement. I keep wondering where Hayley is. “Who you looking for?” says Jude.