My mind vanished in that moment. With Jonathan’s peeled skin and meat on my bloodied forearms, I could think of nothing. I was assaulted with the imagery of his corpse, of my gore-stained arms, of the glowing of a blue light from the big telescope’s lens. Had my mind not been shaken loose from its already addled tracks, I may have had the willpower to resist the light’s allure, to flip off the switch of the device that had been made in my kitchen and attached to the solar filter. Instead, I bent my head down and looked directly into the viewer.
The sun filled the lens. Jonathan must have set the following timer so the telescope would keep its target centered. Shaded by the filter, I could see the arcs of flares around the sun’s disc. Wrapped around its mass were dozens of twisted tendrils, grotesque things that pulsed and sucked. In the grip of these horrors, the sun seemed to shudder and lose a touch of its luminosity. Other shapes teased the edge of the image. I rolled the focus over a wider field lens. More ravenous things waited to feed, too many to count.
I ripped the illuminating device from the telescope and flung it across the room. It shattered, and nothing I have ever done has given me more pleasure.
Jonathan didn’t leave a note. Why would he bother? He left the device activated; that was all the note I would need.
The tower beside the volcano was easily toppled. The newspapers reported the strange construction when it was discovered a few weeks later, but I had removed some of the elements so that its purpose would always remain hidden.
I am an old man now. Nights have been colder. Summer months seem not so long, even in Arizona. Climatologists speak of a global cooling that could precipitate the coming of another ice age. It’s not a terrible theory; we are overdue for one.
What more could I do? No one would ever believe a man with insanity in his family. Better to hold this secret than allow it to be released upon an easily panicked world.
I have slept better. My skin still itches. When it does, all I do is scratch it and hope it’s a bug, though I know it probably isn’t.
What became of the backpack device? I took it home. Following the interview with the police sergeant, I washed in the observatory restroom and went outside. Jonathan’s car was there, with the device in the back. The very first task I performed after wrestling it into my home was to flip the actuator.
The creature was huge. It dominated the living room, parts of it passing through the walls and ceiling. In only a moment it moved silently away. I feel fortunate to have seen it at all so that I might understand Jonathan’s choices.
Jonathan not only never slept; he never sat still for more than a few minutes, even at mealtimes. When he lay on my couch, the thing must have fed on him for hours. No wonder his mind snapped.
I held the device for decades but finally destroyed it. I will take this knowledge to my grave and hopefully spare the human race the ugliness of the truth. To all the world, I apologize for my actions and my inactions.
Especially, I apologize to you, Jonathan, you who were my friend before I drove you to your final deed. Some of our colleagues called you a coward for taking your own life; I find it the bravest thing you’ve ever done. Judging what I now know about the universe that we cannot see, what lies beyond? I am not looking forward to finding out.
FILM MAUDIT
Christopher Slatsky
“The art of film can only really exist
through a highly organized betrayal of reality.”
François Truffaut
Leslie had memorized the entirety of Human Wreckage’s stock, from the piles of dusty bootlegs and stacks of Eurosleaze exploitation, to the cinéma vérité haphazardly shelved. The store’s walls were papered with posters of rare or lost films. He was particularly fond of a ghastly yellow print depicting a smiling young woman holding a trephine drill poised just above her shaved scalp.
“You’re a horror guy right?” Paula looked up from counting her till. She only engaged in conversation with Leslie due to their mutual interest in film. His incessant loitering around her business and refusal to purchase anything made her reluctant to open the store every morning.
Leslie nodded, continued reading the description on a Japanese VHS import of An Orgy of Entrails.
“Someone dropped these off this morning.” Paula held up a handful of black and white photocopies. They depicted a movie screen, a jumble of women’s heads and naked torsos stacked on the stage below. The film titles were printed in tiny cramped letters, difficult to read on the cheap reproduction. Leslie was only able to make out Lust of the Vampiress, Slit Slut, and something that may have been Doll Humiliation. The date and show times were listed just above the event’s name: ABATTOIRFEST.
“Film festival?”
“Looks like it. Mostly Euroschlock, giallo shit, buncha horror directors I haven’t even heard of. You know Aquino, McBride—” Paula snorted in amusement. “Van Riesen?”
Leslie had to reluctantly admit he didn’t. His gaze moved down the page, snagged on one title.
Film Maudit.
He knew as much as there was to be known about Film Maudit. Its writer, director, and producer were anonymous—rumor was it may have been a collective of filmmakers. Shot in Germany, or at least the unidentified actors spoke oddly accented German, and released in the summer of ‘74 for one weekend in just a handful of showings where it was swiftly condemned for its disturbing violence and sexual content. All known prints had long been misplaced or destroyed. Little else was known about the film’s production. The holy grail of lost films.
The mysterious producers had even gone so far as to hire extras to protest outside of showings, waving signs and chanting slogans condemning the film’s alleged use of actual snuff footage. This attempt to manipulate the viewing public had the desired effect; an obscure foreign horror flick became a newsworthy sensation for several days until Nixon’s resignation pushed the story aside.
“Lookit.” Paula tapped the page in Leslie’s hand. “They even dug up one of those Tingler machines.”
Leslie looked at the ad again. An asterisk hovered next to Film Maudit like a tiny puckered black star. His gaze lowered to the other dim star fallen to the bottom of the page. The precise, calligraphic print read: FeatuRing A RestoRed OSCILLATOR!
“It’s not the Tingler.” His heart raced.
“Really? Swore I read ‘Tingler’.”
Human Wreckage was muggy inside, sweat dotted Leslie’s face. He ran a slick palm across his dreads.
“Kinda like the Tingler. Oscillator was more like, uh, like ‘Sensurround’. Sound system used for the disaster flick Earthquake. So loud it rattled the whole place.”
Paula raised a pierced eyebrow. “Films were something else back then. Who needs character development, mise-en-scène, narrative, camera placement.” She held her forefingers together, thumbs straight out to form a square, framing Leslie’s head in a shot.
He didn’t acknowledge Paula’s sarcasm. “Gimmicks ended around the time of Water’s Polyester. With those scratch ‘n’ sniff cards. Actually, now that I think about it, Gaspar Noe used something like the Oscillator. In Irreversible. Played a really low 28Hz frequency background sound that was supposed to disorient the audience. You know, make them sick to the stomach. Dizzy and shit. Oscillator did something like that too, but more psychedelic, like those CIA programs blasting the public with high frequency sound waves. Incapacitate the central nervous system, make the enemy hallucinate, wig out.” Leslie wiggled his fingers in the air to emphasize his point.
Paula folded her arms across her chest. “Not my idea of a good movie night.”
“Film Maudit wasn’t supposed to be entertainment, it was supposed to be an ordeal. The Oscillator was gonna change the way people watched film, like actually physically fuck them up. Everyone was gonna be altered. Not just because of the sound, but the environment, the experience itself.”
Paula leaned back against the counter. “You ever see Through a Glass Darkly? Great use of sound. The scene with th
e roar of the helicopter’s engine triggering Harriet Andersson’s breakdown. Damn. What a performance. Film has its own language. Like how we know what it sounds like when someone gets punched in the face, but it’s a completely different sound when it happens in a movie. It’s own way of communicating the five senses, different than real life.”
“What’s the gore like?”
“What? It’s Bergman. You do know there’s more to films than tits and blood, right?”
Leslie stroked his chin in faux contemplation. “Maybe. Anyway, so few people saw Film Maudit there’s not much to go on. The handful of critics that went to a screening refused to describe the plot. Just wrote shit about it, tore it to shreds. Even accused the theater employees of slipping acid into their RCs.”
Paula laughed. “LSD. Now that’s a gimmick Castle never tried.” She gestured towards the sheet. “Festival is at the Old Klein Theater on Boroughs Street. No idea that place was still around.”
Leslie was just ten years old when he’d seen his first film unattended at the Klein. Sorority Bloodbath. The gruesome makeup effects, gratuitous nudity and vestigial plot led to his love of underground films, the filthier the better. Last he’d heard the theater had closed down and became a refuge for the city’s booming junkie population. He hadn’t heard they’d renovated and reopened.
“Supposed to spend time with my daughter that weekend, but I think I can talk her mom into watching her. I deserve some me time, right?”
“Askin’ the wrong person.”
“You going?”
“No can do. Burman is coming to the store that night with the lead to do a signing for Craniofacial Holocaust. Don’t expect a big turnout, but there are some hardcore gorehounds that’ll waste some time talking to the director. Who knows, one of the little leeches might actually buy something.”
Leslie should have been excited he was on the way to Abattoirfest, but he was still fuming over his daughter’s inability to do even the most basic chores around the apartment. He was tempted to just stay on the bus until it took him away from this ugly city, away from Samantha and a girlfriend who constantly made excuses for their kid’s problems. Away from an existence that drained him that much more each day and replaced the void with the realization the best life had to offer had long passed. Sure he’d overreacted—but it wasn’t his fault. For Christ’s sake, Samantha was fourteen now. He didn’t care if her delayed development was a challenge; she’d enough brains to know not to piss herself again.
The bus passed through dilapidated neighborhoods. He hated to waste fare on a ride to the Klein but he couldn’t afford another DUI. The graffiti streaked windows presented a haggard man. Gray dreadlocks, red furrows of razor irritation, four-day old stubble on his cheeks like smears of ash. His reflection looked like a battered thaumatrope, face intermittently broken by the dim streetlights.
The driver pulled into a part of town where starlight slid off pale concrete and bounced from cracked glass at just the right angle to paint the buildings a tarnished lead hue. What little color remained oozed from malfunctioning traffic lights throbbing red.
The bus groaned to a stop.
Leslie walked a block until he saw the Klein Theater’s sign. Pieces had fallen away, the paint had long faded. It now spelled LEIN EATER but still mimicked an old fashioned clapboard. He was giddy with anticipation. All the stress over his disabled daughter was pushed aside even if only briefly.
Some of Leslie’s fondest childhood memories had been spent at the Klein. His father’s drinking problem had been a mixed blessing as it initiated the weekend ritual of getting dropped off at the old movie theater, but also meant a ride home would only return after running tabs at every bar in town. But it was all worth it; the physical abuse and any lingering emotional misery had long been dulled by the wide array of weird films he’d been lucky enough to experience. The Klein used to be a place where he could dream, a refuge from the reality of a shattered home.
He wondered why there were so few cars in the parking lot.
The hand written message in the box office window read ABATTOIRFEST Friday, Nov. 13th. The ticket booth was vacant. He cupped his hands over the glass. What little could be seen inside was due to the wan glow of the heat bulb in a vacant popcorn machine.
Three of the four theaters had film titles posted but Leslie couldn’t make them out. The theater door with no title above was larger than the others. An employee must be sweeping in the lobby—why else would anything be shuffling around in the darkened interior?
He was startled to see an arm splayed on the floor palm up, the rest of the puffy limb obscured by shadow.
He pressed his face against the window. It was just a crimson velvet rope strung to a floor stanchion that had toppled over. He wiped his sour breath from the glass, hit his knuckles gently against the window.
“Anybody home?”
A greasy palm print and the glass quivering from his tapping created the illusion of something thin falling to the floor. It crawled behind the concessions. But there was nothing alive in there; only shadows moving about like wisps of water-thinned blood swirling into drains. The place was empty.
Maybe there was another entrance or an employee outside. He walked around the corner of the building into the long alley that ran between the theater and a boarded up warehouse. The flickering EXIT sign lit up the grimy brick walls of the dead end. Something was piled several feet high just outside the door.
It looked like a stack of discarded mannequin parts. Leslie thought it was probably a promotional display staff had dumped out back for the trash truck. Several pieces were battered and missing bits. It was only the stuttering light that made it seem as if one of the hands was swaying back and forth in greeting. He walked out of the alley as fast as he could anyway.
He was about to return to the bus stop when a dim light turned on inside the theater lobby. An old woman was standing at attention in the ticket booth. The illumination stained her skin the color of pewter.
“I was worried the festival had been cancelled,” Leslie said good naturedly.
The old woman didn’t respond.
“One for Abattoirfest.” Binge drinking over the last few hours made Leslie’s inflection come across as more demanding than intended.
The woman didn’t acknowledge his presence.
“So they actually got an Oscillator up and runnin’?”
The geriatric’s hands shot through the gap, closed on Leslie’s wrist with a jaw-trap grip, pulled his hand through the partition’s small opening. Fingers scraped against glass. She stamped the back of his hand with an image of the theater’s clapboard logo.
“Shit, thanks a lot.”
The money sat untouched.
As Leslie walked into the lobby he glanced back at the booth but quickly looked away; the ticket seller’s posture suggested something lumpy and dusty had occupied her theater uniform.
He sucked at his bloodied knuckle. The concession stand was closed. Judging by the black grease stains on the counters and rotting patches of carpeted floor it didn’t look like food or beverages had been sold here in quite some time. He was ok with that though; his stomach roiled from the nauseous combination of blood and alcohol.
Movie posters curled from the walls, stiff like dried skin. He wondered how bad this place must’ve looked before the renovation.
Theater #1 was showing The Raped Void, #2 Screaming Throat. Leslie wasn’t familiar with either film. The third displayed Lust of the Vampiress—he recognized this one from the flier. He was curious about the larger unmarked theater. Probably a storage warehouse. He heard activity within, the clank of machinery. Maybe they were setting up the Oscillator. He walked into the Lust of the Vampiress theater.
The seats were a plush burgundy and surprisingly elegant. Dust wafted from the fabric. He stifled a sneeze so as not to annoy the handful of patrons, though they seemed captivated by the blank screen and made no move to acknowledge his presence. He wasn’t too surprised at th
e small audience as even he was unfamiliar with many of the movies advertised tonight. But he was here for Film Maudit. Everything else was filler.
Movement caught his eye. He glanced up at the ceiling. Several panels were missing, their vacant squares dark and ominous as the entrance to an abandoned house’s attic. He turned his whole body around to look to the projection room, hoping to catch a glimpse of the Oscillator being prepared, or even any evidence such a device existed and wasn’t simply an invention to draw ticket sales. There was nothing but the dark window.
He realized he didn’t have any idea what an Oscillator even looked like. He had an image of something robotic and menacing squatting next to the projector. Or maybe several small units placed in each dark corner of the theater.
The lights lowered, the projector’s beam shot across the room like a lighthouse beacon. Lust of the Vampiress started.
Thirty minutes in Leslie chalked it up as yet another soft core Euro-thriller full of buxom undead girls in diaphanous nightgowns. The superior cinematography would appeal to the art film crowd, but he saw little else of worth. He’d seen it all before and done much better by the likes of Jean Rollins.
Then the lesbian vampires started doing something to each other he didn’t find particularly erotic. Their gestures were overwrought, there was far too much chocolate sauce colored blood on the voluptuous actress’ thighs. Something lying just beneath the soundtrack’s surface suggested breaking glass or rust forming. Leslie found himself looking away twice. On the third occasion he confronted the screen with his gaze, but something in his peripheral vision needled him for attention.
He was frustrated with his childishness. He wasn’t some kid peeking between his fingers at an actor in a rubber suit stalking some damsel in distress. He’d managed to sit through crush films and even a snuff flick he thought might be legitimately illegal. This was nothing.
One of the viewers in the front row began wriggling in their seat, tilted his head back and moaned loudly. Leslie tried to ignore the pervert and concentrate on the rest of the movie.
Resonator: New Lovecraftian Tales From Beyond Page 6