American Nightmare

by George Cotronis

  “What’s wrong? Second thoughts?”

  “I must’ve been so tired I forgot writing this part.”

  She bends down and kisses my forehead. “Poor Tom, you work too hard.”

  I’m still staring at the pages after she’s left, taken her cues, and the director yells “Action!”

  ~ ~ ~

  Hours later, they’re still shooting. Alicia, as Pamela, is comforting Bernie, her boyfriend. In the movie, she plays a carhop-waitress who has come to Hollywood from the Midwest. She meets Bernie who is writing B-movie horror films. It’s less high-concept-art-imitating-life and more saving on sets by shooting our soundstage as the set for our movie.

  In this scene, Bernie is exhausted after a day’s filming. Even as Pamela comforts him, Bernie’s muse, the dark messenger from his dreams, appears in the room with them. Bernie doesn’t want to let on that he sees something she doesn’t, and that his sanity is slipping away. It’s a tough scene to shoot. The camera can’t catch Alicia looking at the actor playing the dark messenger, and if Alicia looks too much like she’s intentionally not looking at him, the effect is similarly mood breaking.

  At the end of Act One the muse hasn’t become the Black Pharaoh yet. He leans in to whisper in Bernie’s ear and my eyelids droop.

  I’ve lost track of the number of takes and of the time on the clock. I’ve heard Fisher say “cut” so many times I don’t notice that shooting has stopped. They must’ve been shooting an entirely different scene, the one with the mummy. A PA is helping the mummy get the mask off so he can see. There’s a shrill scream.

  For a moment, I think I’m still asleep and they’re shooting one of Pamela’s scenes. Then I realize it’s Alicia screaming, not Alicia as Pam, and it can’t be a scene where she sees the monster, because the mummy is in front of me with his mask off. I charge off, joining the crew racing through the backdrops towards the source of the sound.

  Thoughts and scenarios race through my mind. Fearing the worst, finding her dead, attacked by some madman or mugger. Our studio, on an old Paramount backlot, is not in the best neighborhood. I try to convince myself she’s practicing. Rehearsing her scream. But in my heart I know this isn’t true. The scream rang too honest. Much better than anything she’s delivered while filming.

  A blonde girl, a PA whose name I’ve forgotten, gets to Alicia first. Alicia is upright, holding her chest, hyperventilating, taking in air in huge sobs.

  “What happened?” the girl asks.

  “Give her air.” I push the PA away from her.

  Alicia points with her left hand into the shadows. “I saw it,” she manages between ragged breaths. “A dark man, dressed in...” She stops, shaking her head so fast it’s like she hopes the memory will fall out. Something in her eyes is still fighting it, like the man is still there.

  The blonde PA stays with her while we search the area. I find no one in my patch of shadows, but as I’m giving up the search, a voice whispers, Chaos. I whirl around but I am alone at the back end of the studio. A hot wind twists around me, raising the hair on my arms and blasting me with hot sand, then abates as quickly as it started.

  ~ ~ ~

  It takes hours before I can get Alicia to eat. The drive down La Cienega to an all-night diner, and then taking my ‘48 Chevy Dent Collection on the long haul back to my place because she wants some privacy, takes long enough Bobby D’s “Mack the Knife” comes on the radio twice. My plan’s simple, if delayed. Get food in her and get her home. Chase five grams of Benzedrine with a cup of yesterday’s coffee, and I just might get the rewrites done in time to keep my job another day.

  She’s picking at her burger. She wasn’t too thrilled by the state of my apartment, there’s little space to sit between spilling piles of loose paper, and the cigarettes do little to cover the background dingy odor of overdue laundry.

  I look back at her because it’s all I can do not to look at my watch or tap my foot.

  “You don’t have to worry about me.” She looks back at me eyes full of sympathy. “I should be the one worried about you.” This is a far cry from where we began the night. Her insisting on staying over. I can’t blame her for not wanting to be alone after the scare she had, but my career is hanging by a thread and there are bills to pay. Still, she looked so sad when she pleaded, “Stay with me tonight,” that it kills me to send her home. She even does that thing, where she brushes that dangling bit of hair from her cheek back behind her ear. I like it better on her cheek, but there’s something about her pulling it back that’s just adorable.

  I steady myself and shrug. “I’m getting it together. I get through these rewrites, it’s all gravy from here. If I start screaming uncontrollably, then you get the go-ahead to worry.” Even as I say this I get the sense I’m tempting fate, and something catches the corner of my eye, but it’s gone when I turn my head to catch it. Lost in the shadows. A chill runs down my spine. Santa Ana winds have been blowing hot for days, but there’s a cold draft working its way through my dismal apartment. Then there’s a hiss, the start of a whisper. Sands. I shake my head and it stops. Starting to think yesterday’s coffee sounds really good.

  “I told you. I’m okay.” She still looks shaky, but staying awake later isn’t going to help.

  “Early shoot tomorrow.”

  “And you want me to get my beauty sleep.”

  “I’ll get your coat,” I say. As I stand I get lightheaded, and that whisper begins again, but it’s gone by the time I steady my feet.

  ~ ~ ~

  I’m at a phone booth on the corner of Colorado Boulevard and looking around I can’t get a sign for the cross street. I think I’m in Glendale, but I have no idea how I got here or what I’m doing. My car is parked a few feet away. I’m holding the phone receiver and staring at it like it has the answers. “Hello?” I say, in case someone else is on the line.

  The response is faint. So quiet I’m not sure if I’m imagining it. Beneath the shifting sands. The voice sounds like a mouse’s whisper.

  “What? Hello?”

  But there’s no response. Just one loud, long breath, that lasts so long it dawns on me that it’s no longer the voice on the phone I’m hearing, but the wind. I get out, close the phone booth door and head over to the car. Broadway. I’m in Glendale, and at least I know how to get home from here.

  I wait to turn the key, trying to remember how I got here. What I can remember comes in flashes. I remember dropping Alicia at her home. Her roommate’s boyfriend was just leaving when we got there. The next thing I remember, I’m struggling to regain control of the car. A stretch of road with no streetlights. The Everly Brothers had just been on the radio. The dial turned on its own to static, but I still heard through the white noise a whispery “Dream, dream, dream.” A face, black as empty space with dim stars for eyes, came into my rearview mirror. Awaken, it whispered in my ear. I woke up just in time to turn the wheel and keep the Chevy on the road.

  What happened between that and pulling over to make a phone call I have no idea.

  The clock strikes three when I stagger into my apartment. The shadows reassemble themselves as I shut the door behind me. It looks like there’s something moving in the darkness. I tell myself it’s just exhaustion.

  Whispers come from the shadows, not loud enough to make out. They’re speaking faster, like they’re unsure of something, excitedly asking one another. I don’t know what, but I’m certain it’s about me. The further I step into the apartment, the further the sounds recede into the shadow.

  Realizing I have to be imagining this, I stop when I reach the dining room table and take a seat in front of my typewriter. I reach over and switch on my desk lamp, and he’s sitting there at the other end of the table. The face of the dark man that warned me in the car. My own dark messenger.

  My breath catches and my heart beats faster and skips. I force myself to breath normally. “I’m dreaming,” I say aloud.

  “We are all dreaming.” His voice is just louder than a whisper, b
ut deep. I see now that he’s wearing a black mask that covers his full face under a black-cloth hood. The mask is plain black iron with holes cut for the eyes and mouth. Through the holes I see nothing. Empty space. The night sky devoid of stars. Whispers come from all around, excited by what he’s said.

  “What do you want?”

  The whispers all go quiet in anticipation.

  “I desire to help you.”

  “And in return?”

  “You will help me to awaken. And help many more to dream.” He holds his palms up, like I might see his vision unfold in the cup of his black gloved hands. “In Egypt, the Pharaoh’s edicts reached hundreds of thousands. With your motion pictures, I can bring my dream to hundreds of millions.”

  Before I can ponder what the Black Pharaoh’s dream might be, I realize the tapping sound I’ve been hearing in the background is the typewriter. Opening my eyes, I’m at the bottom of a page. I look for the dark messenger, but I’m alone in the apartment.

  ~ ~ ~

  Fisher is so glad to see new pages he doesn’t bother chewing me out for being late. Instead of his usual mumble, he says “Yes. Yes!” He points at the page hard enough to thud the table beneath. “Bernie has goals now. Three sacrifices. There’s something at stake for the audience to worry about.”

  I stagger back to my desk while he sends someone to make copies. Slouched back into my chair, staring at the ceiling, swirling shapes spin, before dissipating. Whispers filter through the darkness. Make the second sacrifice.

  I’m about to ask empty space what it means, when there’s a wet kiss on my cheek. I turn to face her. “Morning, Pamela.”

  She stares back at me. “Did you sleep at all last night?”

  “Maybe a bit.”

  “Last night my name was still Alicia. I only play Pamela in your movie.”

  “I...I’m just helping you keep in character.”

  “Don’t. This job’s already giving me nightmares. I don’t need you to flip.” She heads to the stage before I can think of anything comforting to say.

  A PA delivers copies of the pages I just turned in. I lay them out on the table in front of me, but I’m too bleary-eyed to focus on the words. The actors start rehearsing the scene. Bernie has awakened in front of his typewriter, and cannot remember the night before. The dark messenger stands behind him, his hands on Bernie’s shoulders. He leans in and whispers Make the second sacrifice.

  I start leafing through the pages trying to find the scene they’re rehearsing. What is the second sacrifice? What was the first? Reading through it, the first sacrifice is sleep. How does Bernie sacrifice his sleep? The second is almost as odd: service. I’m pondering this when the PA returns carrying a package. “Mr. Chapman?”

  It’s addressed to me, but has no return address or sender information. Inside I find fifty pages handwritten on parchment paper. I recognize DeMille’s handwriting. I don’t know how long I’ve been reading, but the cast has stopped for lunch by the time I’ve figured out that I’ve been sent pages, original notes, from DeMille’s autobiography. All of the pages I have pertain to the filming of the original, silent, Ten Commandments. The writing, particularly in the crossed-out notes, is hard to read, but there’s a section on the singing of a dirge by visitors that DeMille had brought in, that disturbed the crew. DeMille has crossed out something, changed the story. In the crossed out section I clearly make out “Trying to take form in our world...” followed by a section that is too marked over to read, then “Necronomicon”, more scribbles, and finally “...struggling to return from the realm of dreams.” This is followed by more inked out scribbles. Squinting, holding the paper close under the light, I make out two words in the midst of the scribbles: “Black Pharaoh.”

  ~ ~ ~

  I’m still going through old scripts trying to find the first mention of the Black Pharaoh, when shooting stops for dinner.

  Alicia charges off set towards me. “What was that about?”

  “What was what about?”

  “That last scene.” She looks around, and the crew stop staring at us and go about their business. Her voice quiets but doesn’t lose any of the anger. She’s hissing a whisper at me now. “I ask you to spend the night because I was scared, and the next day that’s in the movie?”

  I swallow. Not wanting to tell her the truth, that I don’t remember writing it, because it will just scare her that much more. “They always say, write what you know.”

  Her hands drop to her waist. She looks about to cry. “What will everyone think?”

  “Is that what you’re worried about? No one will know where I got that scene from.” I reach to take her hand, but she pulls away. “What do you want me to do?”

  It takes her a second, but she steps back towards me and takes my hand. “I want to know that I’m important to you. At least as important as writing some horror movie.”

  “You are important. Look, when this is over, let’s go away together, just you and me, for the weekend.”

  Before she can answer, Fisher clears his throat. He’s standing right behind her. “Excuse me, my dear, but I need a word with our dear boy.” He smiles for the duration it takes her to get out of earshot. “Thomas, we need to talk.”

  I rub my eyes. “Yes?”

  “I think I’ve sorted how the service sacrifice works. If Bernie is too willing to serve the Pharaoh, the audience will find him unlikable. You need to make it clear that when Bernie is asleep he is in the Pharaoh’s thrall. Can you do this?”

  “I think so.”

  “Very well. We’ll need the pages tomorrow.”

  I pop a bennie and refill my coffee, prepping for a long night ahead.

  ~ ~ ~

  The contract is in front of me. Multi-film deal. Security for life and a house in the hills with a pool and a fast car. Anything I might desire. He whispers in my ear. My dark messenger. Words signifying more money. Fame. Power. Just a small price left to pay...He speaks to me, my muse, and my art will allow him to speak to all.

  “Chapman! Tom Chapman!”

  I pull my head off my dining-room table. A sheet of typing paper is stuck to my cheek with drool. Someone pounds on the door. I get up too fast from my seat and my left calf cramps up, and I have to hop to the door, the shooting pain in my leg contending with the ache in my back and the crick in my neck.

  I open the door to find one of LA’s finest standing outside. “Yes?”

  “Tom Chapman?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “You’re Alicia Martin’s boyfriend, is that right?”

  “Yes.” Something’s wrong. It takes me a moment to process what it means that there’s a cop asking me about her. My brain leaps straight to the attacker she saw back at the studio...“Oh God. Is Alicia okay? Has she been in an accident or something?”

  “Calm down. We don’t know anything yet. Just that her roommate called. She didn’t come home last night. When did you last see her?”

  I stop to think, but I can’t even come up with the last thing I remember before waking up this morning. Or afternoon, judging by the light behind the policeman. “I don’t know. I’ve been working late, officer. I think the last I saw her was when we finished filming last night. I came home to get back into the rewrites for today.”

  “And what time was that?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “You’re not sure what time you stopped filming? Do you have a guess? Eight? Ten? Before midnight?”

  “It must have been before midnight. But really, I’ve been all wrapped up in the writing.”

  “Do you mind if I have a look inside?”

  I worry about whatever bennies I have squirreled away, but then I figure they’re hidden enough. “Please. Whatever I can do to help.”

  He looks around through the mess scattered through my living and dining room, my typewriter and writing filth covering the dining room table. The kitchen is equally messy, though I haven’t cooked in weeks, it’s all coffee cups and the coffee pot full of mu
d. The bedroom is last, but there’s just the bed, buried in a sea of dirty clothes. He comes back into the dining room, and stops at the table eyeing the pile of pages next to the typewriter. “You wrote all this last night?”

  “Rewrote. But yeah, I had to go through it all.”

  He lets out a slow, impressed whistle and heads to the door. “If you think of anywhere she might be, friends of hers or anything, call us.”

  I nod. “I just hope she shows up alright,” I say in place of what I’m really thinking. They’d put a straightjacket on me if I said that.

  After he leaves I collect the rewrites to take them to the studio. Pulling the last page out of the typewriter, I pause, then flip through the last few pages leading to this one. The film ends with Bernie sacrificing Pamela to his muse, and the reign of the Black Pharaoh.

  ~ ~ ~

  My main reason for going to work is Alicia might have turned up there. The other reason is to drop off the pages before I go looking for her. If she shows up later, I don’t want the film to fail because I didn’t deliver the script.

  I’m not surprised to find everyone gone but a security guard, but I am surprised when he hands me a large envelope. It looks the same as the package that the autobiography came in.

  I open the package in the car. Two objects slide out followed by a map. The first is a necklace with a gold medallion. There are Egyptian hieroglyphics carved into the gold. The usual collection of small birds, the eye staring back at me, an ankh, and something else...a dark figure in a pharaoh’s headdress. It’s smooth to the touch, obsidian maybe. The larger object is a one-foot broken piece of plaster. More hieroglyphics detail the plaster, though it looks decayed, worn. I set this down on the passenger seat. The map is of the Nipomo dunes. A spot on the map is marked in red.

  I start the car and make the turns to get it pointed north. If I drive fast I might get there by nightfall.

  ~ ~ ~