Horror Show

by Greg Kihn

  “Here, read this for me,” he said loudly, slightly out of breath. “It’s the role of the coroner; I thought you might be perfect for it.”

  The coroner smiled. He scanned the pages while Landis and Buzzy lit cigarettes.

  Fifteen minutes later they had Dr. Meune out in the parking lot fighting off imaginary zombies. Landis pronounced him a great actor and promised him the role of the coroner in Cadaver after five minutes of “emoting” under the hot California sun.

  People really would do anything for a chance to act in a movie, even a Landis Woodley production.

  Landis and Buzzy drove away laughing, convinced that the location alone was going to make Cadaver a hit. Landis was having a cast meeting at his house, and it was his experience that Jonathon Luboff should be picked up several hours before and watched like a hawk to avoid any unpleasant drug situations. That job was Landis’s alone—he trusted no one.

  He drove to Luboff’s apartment, successfully surprising the old man before he’d had a chance to have his afternoon fix.

  Albert Beaumond’s mental condition continued to deteriorate, manifesting itself with worsening hallucinations. He woke up screaming hourly, giving Thora nightmares of her own.

  The demon talked to Albert in his dreams.

  “I’m coming,” it said. “I am coming to destroy your world.”

  “But why?” Albert pleaded. “I have worshiped you. I have glorified your name, Lucifer.”

  The snake hissed. The forked tongue flickered. “Because I can, you puny, idiotic fool.”

  Albert watched the reptile head twist and rotate unnaturally on its human body. The shocking metamorphosis of man to serpent jarred Albert’s fragile senses every time he focused on it. The only adjective that could possibly describe it was “unGodly.”

  The snake-headed abomination pointed at him. “Man is done,” it spit. “To destroy him is to destroy the work of God, which gives me great pleasure. I will use you, little man. I have waited for you all these centuries. Now, at last, you have released me to my destiny.”

  “God exists?” Albert asked.

  The snake head pivoted, its terrible, lidless eyes moving coldly in the oversize sockets. It took in the room constantly, always aware of change or movement. “You are more of a fool than I thought,” it said.

  Albert strained at the confines of his dreams like a man tied to a rack. Good and evil were abstract ideas that man had created to explain his own compulsions. Weren’t they?

  Wasn’t that the whole point?

  Do what thou wilt shall be the extent of the law.

  Was the black widow spider evil for devouring her mate? Albert’s whole world had been based on the answer to that question’s being “no.”

  “Evil is everywhere,” said the snake. “Nature is full of evil.”

  Thora entered the room. Even though Albert was deep in his drug-induced sleep, he was aware of her. So was the demon. It let a series of thoughts, too horrible for Albert to comprehend fully, pass into his mind.

  Albert shuddered, revulsion leaving a taste of bile in his mouth. He realized that since his possession, he was linked psychically with the demonic entity. The door between the two worlds somehow passed through him.

  He realized, with cold certainty, that the demon wanted Thora’s young female body. It was only a matter of time before it possessed her as it did him.

  The afternoon was fading into evening. Thora, about to leave for her night class, checked on her father, who seemed to be sleeping quietly.

  She slipped back out of the room and descended the stairs. The house was still. A clock ticked in the hall, creating a melancholy ambience. The door to her father’s studio was locked; she couldn’t seriously bring herself to call it a church.

  She knew he was the head of an esoteric cult that practiced odd and primitive rituals, but what he did wasn’t evil. His Satanic practices were merely an attempt to gain insight into non-Christian theologies.

  Thora was in the act of opening the front door when she was startled by a figure standing on her porch.

  “Oh! You scared me!” she said.

  “I came to see if your father was all right,” said Devila.

  Devila was not dressed in her costume. She wore a simple dark skirt and blouse. Even without her makeup, Devila’s distinctive face was easily recognizable by the college student.

  Thora looked down, her posture changed, and from the shift in her body language, it was clear that Albert Beaumond was far from all right.

  “He’s … sleeping,” Thora said, faltering.

  “Oh, I thought maybe I’d visit him.”

  “Well, I’m about to go to school, but I’m sure he’d love to see you when he wakes up. Would you like to come in and wait?”

  Devila smiled, appearing embarrassed at Thora’s childlike trust in a woman she barely knew. “I don’t know …”

  Thora took her arm and gently pulled her through the door. “Don’t be silly. Please, come in. I think you might be able to cheer him up or something. I’m really worried about him, I mean, really, really worried. I’ve never seen him like this. The doctor says he’s having a nervous breakdown, but that can’t be true, can it? My father is one of the strongest men in the world.”

  Devila glanced up the stairs in the direction of Albert’s room. “I don’t know,” she stammered again.

  “He’s a brilliant man. Nothing ever bothers him. This just doesn’t make any sense.”

  Thora’s tiny voice quivered as she went about her act of trying to convince herself that nothing was wrong. “You know what I think?”

  Devila shook her head.

  “I think he got something down there in South America. I think he contracted some virus or other, and it’s affecting his brain.”

  “That’s possible,” Devila replied.

  “Won’t you stay and wait for him to wake up? I hate to leave him alone, and I know he’d like to see you. It would mean a lot. Please?”

  “I don’t know; it’s not right to be here when you’re not and he’s sleeping.”

  Thora held up her books. “Look, it’s getting late, and I have to go. Please stay. There’s stuff to eat and drink in the refrigerator. I’ll be back in three hours. Dad’s up in his room. Why don’t you go on up?”

  Devila smiled. “If you insist, but I feel weird.”

  “Don’t. Stay a while, please. I know he would want that.”

  Thora checked her watch and sighed. “I gotta go.” She walked out the door before Devila could respond.

  Devila stood in the living room, her heart beating rapidly, listening to the house. She looked at the arch-topped, Medieval-style door to Albert’s “church,” standing like a heavy wooden barricade between this world and the next.

  As if in a dream, she was across the room and had her hand on the wrought-iron lever before she realized what she was doing. Whatever force was driving her tried to unlatch it.

  Of course, it had to be locked, she thought. The tuning forks were probably still in there. Standing at the threshold for another few, time-distorted moments, she thought about the man upstairs. What had happened to him? Was he truly insane now? It was easy for her to believe that, having seen Albert’s possession by the snake demon. An experience like that would be more than enough to drive any man permanently mad.

  Certainly Albert was suffering.

  Devila hadn’t actually planned on physically taking the tuning forks with her today. She’d wanted to just check out the situation. But now that the opportunity presented itself, it seemed like destiny. Even though she was terrified by the forks and didn’t even want to touch them, she knew the value of the cursed things. Greed motivated her.

  She looked around the room and wondered where the key to the door was. Probably right here, she thought. Her eyes scanned the ornate molding around the door. Above was a small shelf, ideal for hiding the key, and she ran her hand across it until it stopped at a small protrusion. She pulled it down and looked at it. It
was an old-style key, long and cylindrical.

  She weighed it in her sweaty hand, asking herself one last time if she had the stomach for what she planned, then she fitted the key in the large hole and turned it.

  The click was loud and disconcerting.

  The door was heavy but swung cleanly. She entered the room cautiously. It was colder than it should have been, noticeably cooler than the rest of the house.

  She switched on the lights.

  The place seethed with the memory of the demon, and she prayed silently as she approached the altar.

  Something jumped across her path and startled her. She cried out. The huge black cat, Mephistopheles, hopped onto the altar and hissed.

  She tried to shoo it away, but the cat stood its ground.

  “I don’t have time for this,” she said.

  The cat hissed again. Devila looked around at the ritual objects strewn about the room. She picked up a wooden staff and waved it. “Get the fuck off that altar, or I’ll knock you off, you stupid cat.”

  The cat jumped away, back into the shadows.

  “That’s a good kitty.”

  Her hands were tight and stiff as she pulled away the tapestry that concealed the hiding place.

  It was a small compartment, hardly bigger than a bread box, built into the wall, without a locking door handle. Without thinking, she opened it and felt inside. The forks were there, wrapped in a towel, lying on their sides like pieces of pipe.

  She lifted them out carefully, closed the small door, and, holding them away from her body, carried them out of the room.

  Her skin crawled and her heart pounded. The dryness in her mouth was affecting her breathing. She wheezed and tried to swallow, but only about half a lungful of musty air passed her constricted throat. She walked directly to the front door, then remembered that she had to reclose the door and return the lock to its original position. She turned back reluctantly.

  The forks were heavier than she’d imagined, substantial and hard beneath the white cotton towel. Even through the layers of cloth she could feel the power of evil in them as they shifted in her grip. They were so heavy that she had to resort to cradling them against her body like a baby. The thought of them touching her in that maternal way made her nauseous. They radiated an almost imperceptible tingle, as if they were vibrating among themselves. It made uncomfortable the flesh of her arms, like a low-level electrical shock.

  She walked as quickly as she could, closed the door, replaced the key, and—

  —a moan from above made her jump. It rose to a shriek and shocked a double shot of adrenaline through her veins. It pumped through her like amphetamine, instantly and without warning.

  She froze as the second shriek cut the air from the direction of the stairs. All the hair on her body bristled, and she felt a numbness in her legs. The adrenaline was now a metallic taste in her mouth.

  It’s Albert, she thought. It’s poor Albert up there losing his mind.

  And me with the tuning forks. Jesus Christ, what am I doing?

  It was the pain in Albert’s voice that made her change her mind about running. It sounded so pathetic, so tortured.

  She hesitantly approached the steps and listened for signs of consciousness from his room.

  Taking a few steps up, she realized there was another sound coming from up there, a ragged, tortured breathing that was audible even above the pounding of her heart.

  Leave. Get out now. Run. Don’t look back.

  No. Devila still had an ounce of humanity left inside her; that, and a jigger of curiosity.

  It sounded as if he was dying in there. She couldn’t leave him just yet.

  I’ll just peek in and call an ambulance, she thought, then get the hell out. It’s the least I can do for him, poor soul. He needs some kind of help.

  She mounted the stairs and walked carefully to his door, the tuning forks still in her arms.

  As her line of vision swept into room, she saw the outline of his legs, still and tightly defined against the white cotton sheets. Her eyes traveled up his torso and saw that he appeared to be sitting up.

  She considered putting the forks down but decided against it until she could ascertain whether he was asleep or not. It was hard enough picking those awful things up once. She might not be able to force her hands to do it a second time. If she needed to, she could always put them against the wall by the door, out of sight.

  Holding them back, away from him, she slid into the room sideways, her face first.

  “Albert?” she said softly. “Albert, are you awake?”

  Farther into the room, now, and very tense, she came. She saw an arm move. Was he awake?

  “Albert?” Her voice came up in volume slightly. “Albert? Are you awake, dear?”

  She stepped around the corner of the door and looked directly at him.

  Her scream rang out through the empty house like the sound of breaking glass. Albert’s head was gone. In its place was the snake’s sinuous gray neck, tapered head, and blunt snout, from which the ropish tongue flicked.

  The demon’s flat eyes followed her movement ominously. She stepped back, her mouth open, the sounds of shock coming from her throat. Her legs tangled up in themselves, and she stumbled backward.

  The neck snapped and the jaws opened. It happened so fast that Devila didn’t have time to react. A baseball-sized globule shot from the snake’s mouth and whizzed by Devila’s head.

  It landed with a splat on the wall behind her.

  What?

  There was a fleck of wetness on the back of her hand.

  It’s spitting at me. It’s spitting, and it would have hit me if I hadn’t stumbled just then.

  The thing was deadly accurate … a spitting viper.

  She fell into the hall and scrambled to her feet. Her hand was beginning to throb, and the thought occurred to her that the spittle was acid. A few seconds later it was burning like hell.

  She wiped it frantically on her shirt, but the tingling only worsened. She ran down the stairs, paying close attention to her feet so she wouldn’t fall, and found the kitchen sink. The cold water helped a little, but she began to feel a numbness around the fiery spot on her hand. Then she couldn’t feel the water. Ironically, she still cradled the tuning forks like a baby in her arms even though her hand was throbbing.

  Tears erupted from her eyes and streamed down her face. She began to tremble. Was it the fear or the poison?

  God help me, she thought, the thing spit at me, and it’s poison. If I hadn’t stumbled, I’d be dead. Get out of the house now, she told herself. Get out and don’t look back.

  13

  The rehearsals were excellent. Jonathon Luboff crawled out of his shell and delivered his usual professional character study. His eyes broadcast pain that was almost unbearable to watch. Landis knew that it was those eyes that would sell the role he was playing; so dark and strangely compelling.

  Tad Kingston gave Neil’s inspired script a one-dimensional reading. He looked good in his makeup, hit all his marks, and kept his hair from upstaging him—a serviceable performance by Tad’s standards.

  The interior shots, now being done at Landis’s house, were easy to block, and Buzzy worked as they went along. He’d enlisted the aid of two of his beatnik friends to play cadavers, promising them both a screen credit and a few reefers. They agreed readily. It was a kick to dress up and scare people, they told him. “Tell me something I don’t already know,” he had said in reply.

  The day flew by. Landis directed the action, and everything seemed orderly and dignified. No wild party today. When Landis worked, he was a man possessed. There was too much work to do for anyone to be falling behind the pace. Landis planned on completing twenty to thirty shots a day, an unheard-of pace, even among the B-movie miracle men. It allowed for precious few second takes, so Landis liked to have his actors well rehearsed and prepared to jump into any scene at any time.

  Landis let most mistakes go; he was too cheap to repair the
damage. Why fix something that most people would miss anyway? Luboff’s accent washed everything he said in a general European mishmash that most American teenagers just took as additional shtick. Horror movies didn’t have to make sense—they just had to scare you.

  Jonathon Luboff was beyond caring. The demons inside him were all too real, the pain in his soul far deeper than mere acting. Jonathon shrugged it all off. He was emoting with his essence, portraying pure pain that transcended the role he played.

  His own life was a horror show; what was role-playing to others was truth to him. He was the reflection of his own misery.

  When it came time to deliver, Luboff was flawless. Under the watchful eye of Landis, he kept his drug use controlled and memorized his lines. A lifetime of experience carried him through difficult times that would have destroyed lesser men. Jonathon Luboff was made of steel in some regards. Landis marveled at his tenacity to keep working, to keep surviving personal travails, and bend but never break under the massive weight of his sorrow.

  Landis always hired the same cameraman. Chet Bronski was another Woodley special, blackballed from the rest of the filmmaking community by his left-wing politics—he was a zealous socialist in an era where that sort of thing could ruin your career. Brought before the House Un-American Activities Committee, he told them all to go straight to hell. Consequently, he stopped being hired by every production unit in a Hollywood driven to extremes by paranoia. Landis Woodley liked Chet Bronski and hired him to shoot all his films, although lately he’d talked him into working under an assumed name, Chet Lens.

  Chet mapped out the camera angles and made notes on the lighting for each scene. Landis was over his shoulder every inch of the way, shouting and directing the movement of people and props.

  He smiled when, near the end of the afternoon, he realized that Cadaver was ready to shoot.

  What remained of Albert Beaumond stood on the stairs, looking down at the open door. Devila had been here, he knew. Even though possessed at the time, he still retained the image of her through the serpent’s eyes.

  He saw her screaming and watched her flee.