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 the 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. Its 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 and 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 reco
gnized 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 the 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.
Had the staff activated the Oscillator? He hadn’t seen anyone working here other than the old woman in the ticket booth. But he was sweating profusely, a nervous knot clenched in his gut. He had no idea why anyone would have started the device during this film though—he’d assumed it was for Film Maudit only. Maybe someone had accidentally thrown the switch?
Something slithered low near the bottom row. It moved with a muscular grace, like a python wrapping itself around a branch, reflecting a gray moist hide. Leslie pushed himself up in his chair, peered into the gloom. Just a glistening stain and erratic light worming across the floor.
The next feature started immediately.
Filmed in FANTASCOPE flashed on the screen. Music swelled as MDCCCCLXXXVII was followed by a crude hand drawn intertitle:
THE LATEST IN BLOOD AND GUTS
The soundtrack erupted with a chorus of unfamiliar animal cries spiraling into screams. A menagerie of species Leslie didn’t recognize paraded across the screen.
He’d once read an essay on Edison’s Electrocuting An Elephant, but this was far more horrific. How the filmmaker managed to incite the creatures to do such things to each other was baffling; even a starved beast wouldn’t inflict such hideous acts in such an imaginative manner. He couldn’t believe that what he was watching wasn’t some elaborate visual effect. But the film was far too old to deceive with sophisticated digital tricks.
The Latest In Blood and Guts ended with no credits. Leslie assumed there’d be a break now so he stood up with the intention of using the bathroom. If it wasn’t the Oscillator churning his guts it must’ve been the alcohol. But the next film began right away. He sat back down, crossed his legs to alleviate the pressure on his bladder and bowels.
Several more films were screened. Alcohol must have dulled his memory; he was hard pressed to remember the names of any he’d just seen much less plot details. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could remain seated.
Finally, Film Maudit began.
Leslie clapped but stopped when someone a few seats down turned to glare at him. He thought it was cool that some horror fans were so devoted they’d dress up in grotesque masks even for a small festival like this.
He tensed. Listened for any auditory cues, a blinking light in the dark, a change in the air. Nothing. But they must have activated the Oscillator— why else would the aisle seats seem to be undulating like waves?
Film Maudit opened with a medium shot of a dirt floor surrounded by three concrete walls, the fourth removed for the camera crew. An uncomfortably young looking girl sat in the center of the room. She was naked and kneeling, face covered by a mauve paper butterfly mask. Her arms and stomach were wet with fake blood that looked like the melted-crayon waxy gore in Profondo Rosso.
The girl’s skin, her mouth, the way she moved—all seemed hauntingly familiar.
She slowly stood.
Her waist was impossibly narrow, tapered to a wasp-thin shape. The soundtrack was just the swish of limbs against wet skin. Cries spilled from the speakers. The tension was nearly unbearable.
She walked towards the camera.
The girl’s breathing didn’t match her sobs. The screen filled with her face and plump crayon-red lips. She broke into a smile that threatened to become beatific. Her lush mouth dominated the theater. The soundtrack’s crumbling stone sound vibrated the room.
Her knees were bent the wrong way.
The film must have been missing a reel; she suddenly appeared in another room with several other actors, all sitting cross-legged on a dirt floor. Everyone wore butterfly masks but nothing else. An intertitle read:
Sex-Welle!
Sex-Welle!
Sex-Welle!
Leslie found the makeup effects disturbing but not particularly convincing (especially that hyper-saturated blood). He thought the mutilation of the actor’s genitalia was amateurish prosthetic work, but their horrified reactions made him queasy. Not bad for such a low budget sleazefest.
The audience sat completely motionless, slumped at awkward angles in their plush seats. The masturbator was mewling in what Leslie thought was prelude to orgasm. On listening further it sounded more like the panicked cry of someone too deeply submerged in nightmare to wake up.
If the Oscillator hadn’t been on before it must be operational now. A growl reverberated, rattled Leslie’s chest, spread through his muscles.
The theater walls felt as if they were closing in. Film Maudit was off somehow, the frame rate wrong. Leslie still had to use the bathroom. He needed to talk to management, request they turn off the Oscillator. That should clear things up.
He stumbled up the aisle. Couldn’t believe he was taking a break from a film he’d always dreamt of seeing. But his head was filled with a strange soundtrack, the chattering susurrus of an unseen ensemble. It felt as if his brain was pulsing against his skull.
He had to get some fresh air. Had to get away from the radius of that Oscillator fucking with his head. He couldn’t have been the only one to complain about the machine.
The lobby was empty. The old woman in the ticket booth was gone.
A loud knocking emanated from inside the unmarked theater. The gibbering music in Leslie’s head made him retch.
The theater door shook. Something within made the sound of oily plastic sliding against rusty metal, the clank of gears and a moaning like blowing into a bottle.
Someone frantically pummeled against th
e other side of the door.
Leslie took a step away but not quick enough to avoid the door striking him in the face. Metal hinges tore, a stray screw sailed across the room, pinged off the ticket booth’s glass. He collapsed, cheek and chin pressed so forcefully against the filthy carpet he no longer looked like himself.
An impossibly thin figure stood just inside the theater. Its form subtly distorted, not bilaterally symmetrical, like a poorly constructed clay model, one side drooping lower than the other. The screen behind it glowed with an otherworldly haze. Atavistic images caroused up there. Odd animals frolicked. Clucked and chittered and brachiated and crawled in a sinuous manner with difficult to define limbs.
A little girl stepped into frame from the right. Her face was shiny. Leslie couldn’t explain why he knew she was slathered in lard much less why he was certain he’d seen those cheekbones and eyes before.
Something released itself from a phlegm-colored edge fog at frame left. It lovingly coiled itself onto the girl’s face, in a precise shape, like a carefully applied swirl of feces. She was silent as several other weird predators joined in to rend her features anonymous.
Leslie was screaming so loudly he tasted blood from his raw throat.
The person towering over him was far too tall to be anything but a distorted shadow. He’d suffered a concussion. The contours of the man’s face were wrong; Leslie couldn’t fully comprehend what he was looking at. A concussion.
It hunched to pass through the doorway.
Head of amber, a gelatinous sculpture, special effects prop used for exploding headshots in gory film scenes. Far too many narrow limbs propelled it in one long stride until its make-up effect face was touching Leslie’s face.
Alectryomancer and Other Weird Tales Page 12