Horror Show

by Greg Kihn

  Katherine sipped her coffee noisily. “She’d been coveting the thing for months, you know. I could tell she really wanted it bad. It was a real Oscar, not some kind of fake knock-off. Julia is a huge movie fan; she collects memorabilia.”

  “Julia?” Thora asked.

  “Julia Greenly is Devila’s real name; it was on the lease. It seems that nothing about her is what it appears to be, does it?”

  Thora nodded, interested in Katherine’s monologue, yet still polite and timid. She had never considered Devila being anything but honest and sincere. After all, the woman was a star, wasn’t she?

  Myrna stepped into the conversation, eager to keep it balanced and unbiased.

  “Julia wouldn’t ever let us into her apartment. She was very secretive, very private. The time I thought I saw the statuette was when she left the door ajar for a minute. Of course, neither one of us has ever set foot in there to know for certain. The point is, and I don’t want to worry you, but neither one of us likes that woman. She’s dishonest.”

  Katherine interrupted. The two ladies seemed to edit each other constantly as they spoke, one hardly waiting for the other to breathe before she jumped in to make a point or disagree. “And then there’s all the men!”

  Myrna jerked her hand up and wagged a finger at Katherine.

  “I don’t think Thora wants to hear about that, remember, her father was dating—”

  “Yes,” Thora said sharply. “Yes, I do want to know.”

  Katherine cleared her throat and sipped again at the coffee cup. Thora noticed that it was decorated with a design that said “Elvis Presley is the King.” She held her little finger straight out as she drank.

  “I always thought she was a little tramp, what with that costume she wears on television and those dreadful movies she shows. She has a regular harem of boyfriends, mostly deadbeats with beards and dungarees. Usually she doesn’t get home until after two in the morning, probably drunk. Men call on her at all hours. Sometimes she lets them stay all night.”

  Myrna smiled. “Well, you can see that she has no fans here, dearie. Between that and the missing statuette, we just don’t trust her.”

  “The brazen hussy took it,” Katherine snorted. “I should have called the police.”

  “Why didn’t you?” Thora wanted to know.

  “Oh, no! We never call the police,” Katherine said.

  “Why not?”

  The two old ladies looked at each other, a flash of guilt passed between them. Myrna sighed. “Sometimes we make our own spirits.”

  Thora looked confused. “Spirits?”

  “Spring tonic,” Myrna said. “My father’s recipe.”

  Albert Beaumond raced through the scrub brush on all fours, scrambling up and down the dark canyons. It didn’t take him long to become completely lost. The lights of LA were gone now, just a ruddy glow over the horizon from where he came. Lizards skittered through the dried shrubbery, making frantic dashes across his path.

  It seemed strange that just a few hundred yards from his home, from the orderly housing tract he lived in, was the wild.

  Being a city built in a desert, the limits of LA were constantly being pushed farther out into the untamed brush that surrounded it. Mountain lions and other wild animals were finding rows of suburban ranch homes where just last year they’d hunted for food.

  Out here over a few canyon walls, just a stone’s throw from the freeway, was another world. The animals, crowded out by man’s invasion, competed for food and territory in the shrinking unspoiled land.

  Albert was aware of these things as he escaped deeper and deeper into the hillsides.

  His brain writhed inside his skull, as afraid and panicked as those lizards. He kept moving, placing one foot in front of the other, trying not to think about the serpent.

  He had no way of knowing when it would return, and the thought terrified him. At least, if it happened now, he would be far away from Thora.

  Albert Beaumond believed in God, although he had never prayed to him. All his adult life, since he’d made the big rationalization that there was no good or evil, he’d wasted his time praying to the devil. Now, in his hour of need, he found his allegiance shifting. The blackness was closing in on him, staining his life beyond redemption.

  It’s been said that many an atheist prayed when their plane went down. He chuckled to himself softly, aware now of the truth of that statement.

  What a fool I’ve been, he thought. What a steaming pile of shit I’ve been to be so naive. Greed and lust for power must have corrupted my heart easier and deeper than I knew.

  I fucked my own self.

  And now I pay. I only hope that Thora doesn’t have to pay also. The sins of the father, will they also be those of the daughter?

  Albert knew it was only a matter of time before the serpent returned, and only a short time beyond that before Thora became affected.

  This he knew with terrible certainty.

  He also knew the only way out for him.

  He was desperate now, not afraid. The difference was that he knew, when the moment came for him to consummate the decision he’d made, that he would not hesitate. He had to do what he had to do without thinking, because thinking would only cause him to balk. That would be dangerous. In that moment of uncertainty, the serpent might return, take over his body, and force him back home to Thora. How much longer did he have?

  I’ve got to save my daughter, he thought. Nothing else matters.

  He kept that idea in the front of his mind, flashing like a neon sign, guiding him.

  The night passed like a freight train. Time clicked off like the tapping of the rails. Eventually, a few hours before dawn, the wind began to pick up. It blew hard now, out of the west. It felt warm and ominous, bringing the scent of the ocean to the alien desert landscape, swirling through the canyons.

  Dry bushes rattled in its wake. Albert knew that soon it would begin to rain. Rain was rare in LA and he couldn’t remember the last time it had fallen. Tonight the smell of it hung in the wind and raced across the dry soil with the promise of a deluge. The animals of the desert, the lizards and rodents, had noticed it long ago.

  Albert staggered up one hill and down the next, disoriented and aimless, with only one thought in mind. Get away, get as far away as possible.

  He felt himself growing weak from the night-long journey, but he dared not rest. As long as there was an ounce of strength in his legs, a sigh of air in his lungs, he would push on.

  Give me a sign, he asked the night. A sign.

  Albert huffed badly as he topped yet another canyon wall. It seemed like the hundredth one he’d scaled tonight. His legs felt rubbery. He stood, looking down as his lungs fought for oxygen. Below him spread a wide valley, part scrub, part unattended orchard. The waves of endless canyons had ended, giving way to this panorama of flatland.

  He squinted in the half-light and saw that a line of high-tension power lines bisected the valley neatly down the center. They marched like silent, unmoving alien robots, through the heart of the flatland and up into the next set of hills.

  Through the center of the valley, at the lowest point, ran a dry creek bed. Its lower half was rimmed with concrete, forming a conduit for the infrequent runoff. Flood control, thought Albert. It probably runs south into the Los Angeles River.

  The Los Angeles River seemed a grossly misleading bit of nomenclature. It was more like a big drainage ditch. The merest trickle of water ran through its cement course, not much more than a labyrinth of sewers and underground water pipe. The once-proud river had been, sadly, tamed by man. Its passage set, it now led a docile, schizophrenic life. Following its predestined route meekly, to flow like a piss stream of warm yellow water searching for the sea.

  Until the rains came. Then it became a monster.

  The power lines followed its meandering route through this particular valley, as yet unmarred by the urban sprawl.

  Albert blinked, rubbed his eyes, and began shambling
down the slope, toward the creek bed. The wind whipped up dust devils, and the abrasive sand assaulted his face. The sun made orange the eastern hillside.

  The first raindrops began to fall.

  15

  Chet Bronski arrived at Landis Woodley’s house at three-fifteen in the morning, demanding coffee and complaining that he’d been inconvenienced.

  Landis met him at the door and ushered him into the huge living room, where he was surprised to find Devila in full costume and makeup, sitting demurely on the sofa.

  “Thanks for comin’, Chet,” Landis said. “I really appreciate it. Have you met Devila?”

  Devila stood, and they approached each other. She extended a waxen hand, and he shook it gently. “Of course, Devila, the horror show host. I never miss you, unless I’m working,” Chet replied, smiling through his fatigue.

  Devila didn’t smile back, and Chet could see that she was very tense. His curiosity ran wild.

  “So,” he said. “What’s the big deal to get me out of bed in the middle of the night? I must say, I’m intrigued.” He looked at the two of them and caught the strange vibrations in the room. “Actually, I’m dying to know.”

  Landis stepped forward, his face emerging into the full light of the overhead chandelier. His expression seemed odd, as if Landis himself was unsure what would happen next.

  “Chet, Devila has something quite astounding that she wants us to film,” Landis explained. “It’s something … supernatural.”

  “What is this, a joke?” He looked Landis in the eye and shook his head. “You want me to film a ghost?”

  “Not exactly,” Landis replied. “It’s more like … like a demon.”

  Devila sliced into their conversation like a razor-sharp butcher knife. “The fact is, it is a demon, with the head of a snake.”

  Chet smiled. “What kinda dope are you guys on? You called me out of bed at this hour to film a demon with the head of a snake? You’re out of your minds.”

  Devila shook her long black hair, swinging it out from her face. It was a haughty gesture, one she used all the time.

  “Listen, I know this sounds nuts, but I can really conjure this thing. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. This will be the first time ever, in the history of filmmaking, that a real live demon has been photographed. It’s the opportunity of a lifetime. You’ll be famous as the man who shot the first bona fide supernatural phenomenon. If all goes well tonight, the footage that we get will change the world and make us all rich.”

  “And what if you’re wrong?” Chet sneered.

  “Then you can hate me,” Devila answered softly, her conviction plain for all to see and hear.

  Landis lit a cigar. “What do you care? You’re gettin’ paid, Chet.”

  “All right, it’s your money. When do we start?”

  Landis smiled. “Just as soon as José makes the coffee.”

  “José makes coffee?”

  “The best in the West,” Landis answered proudly. “Not bad for a gardener, huh?”

  Just then, José entered the room with a steaming, aromatic pot of coffee and three mugs. Without being told, he poured and distributed the steaming cups of brew. He disappeared back into the kitchen.

  “Pretty convenient having your gardener, who doubles as a cook, live on the premises,” Landis bragged. “He has a room above the garage and it only costs me a few bucks a month. The only problem is that he hardly speaks English.”

  “Shall we get started?” Chet asked, his eyes resting on Devila. It was evident that she was growing more nervous by the minute. She bit her fingernails and wrinkled her brow. “Okay,” she said. “I’ll need a fairly big area.”

  “The basement projection room is already lit. We’re using it first thing in the morning,” said Landis. “Let’s go down there.”

  They trooped down the stairs single file and made their way back to the projection room, which was all the way in the back of the building. The lights were already set up for the morning shoot. Chet made a few adjustments, and Devila unwrapped the tuning forks.

  “Do you need anything special?” Landis asked.

  “You know,” Devila responded, “this is gonna sound weird, but I think I need someone to stand in for me.”

  “Stand in?”

  “Yeah, to act as a … a host, sort of.”

  “You mean for the demon?” Chet asked.

  “That’s right. I think it might be necessary,” she answered.

  “You think? Don’t you know?” Landis asked incredulously.

  “I’ve only seen the ceremony once, and I’m pretty sure that it requires a host,” she said.

  Chet and Landis exchanged quick looks. Chet scratched his head and said, “You mean, you want somebody to play host to a demon while I film it?”

  She nodded.

  “You’re crazy. I’m goin’ home.”

  Landis grabbed Chet’s arm, “Hey, give it a chance, man. I’m payin’ cash, remember?”

  “Where are you going to get a host?” Chet asked, suppressing a yawn. “You and me certainly ain’t gonna do it, and Devila is—you know, the star, so—”

  Landis looked back toward the steps.

  “José!” he shouted, “José, could you come down here please?”

  Devila’s face was frozen in a mask of guilt. No one spoke as the slow, unsuspecting Mexican entered the room.

  The buzzing sound was louder than the wind. It was alive, crackling with intensity, and came from the hundred-foot-high tension tower. Albert’s eyes followed the Erector Set-style girders up until he saw a flash.

  A power line had been blown loose and had wrapped itself around the crisscrossed metal beams about two-thirds of the way up. The live end dangled in the stiff winds, occasionally knocking against another cable. Each time they touched it emitted a shower of sparks and a loud zapping sound. The buzzing hummed like a swarm of angry bees, punctuated by the intermittent and explosive-sounding zap. Albert stood at the foot of the tower and stared heavenward.

  The idea came to him with a clarity of thought he hadn’t enjoyed for days. He made an instant decision.

  A few raindrops fell in scattered flurries around him, lightly touching his face in a random pattern. The smell of the impending storm filled his nostrils with a musty bouquet, a smell that he knew and liked, but could never figure out where it came from. It was like the aroma of wet concrete, or maybe like moist dust, and it brought back pleasurable boyhood memories.

  Memories.

  They came flooding now, as if the door, unlocked by the scent of the storm, had now been kicked open forcefully.

  Instinctively, Albert began to think about his life. It seemed to be passing in review behind his sunken eyes now, and he relived the pleasures and pains in a daze for several minutes. A spectator in his own world, he wondered about events, and his reactions to them, long past. What a cruel twist of fate for him to end up here; life could be so strange.

  He had asked for a sign.

  Now that sign loomed above him with unmistakable, irrefutable gravity. The strobe flashing of the hot cable hypnotized him, canceling out all other thoughts. With a Zen-like single-mindedness, he put his hand on the cold, rusted first rung of the ladder that ran up the base of the giant structure, and began to climb. He never took his eyes off the sharp brightness of the intermittent blue arc high above.

  Landis insisted on writing a short script. “You can’t shoot film without a script. It just isn’t done,” he said.

  “Aw, who cares,” Chet replied. “It’s a waste of time. Let’s just shoot the damn film and go home, okay?”

  Landis made them both wait while he dashed up to his office and banged out the few pages he thought were necessary.

  Fifteen minutes later, Devila had learned her lines and stood poised for her appearance.

  Landis told José to sit in a high-backed wooden chair amid the brightest of the lights. He did what he was told, of course, uncomplaining and happy to be working.

  Land
is had allowed José to bring his wife up from Mexico, and even though they were both unregistered aliens, and therefore illegal, he found work for them. Maria did housework and laundry, José took care of the gardening and odd jobs. When it came to cooking, José would not let Maria near the kitchen. That should only be a man’s sacred domain, he told her.

  Landis had recently noticed that Maria was pregnant, and said nothing.

  José sat patiently while Chet aimed the lights and fussed with the camera. At last, Devila was ready, and Landis called for quiet on the set.

  “Devila, baby, I want to do this in one take, do you understand that? If you make a mistake, just keep going, we’ll fix it in editing,” Landis told her.

  “Landis,” she answered, “there’s only gonna be one take, just make sure everything’s running, ’cause what you’re gonna see, you won’t believe. We’re about to make history.”

  Landis relit his cigar, checked his watch, and waved his hand in the air. José began to rise from the chair, but Landis pushed him back down in it. He looked up inquisitively at the filmmaker, then shrugged and sat back, content to be on camera or not, whatever Landis wanted. José didn’t care. A smile crossed his lips when he realized that he would be on film, even though he hadn’t the slightest idea why.

  Devila took a fingertip of ashes from her cigarette and marked his forehead.

  “Okay,” Landis shouted. “Here we go! Camera! Sound! Slate—Devila, take one—produced, written, and directed by Landis Woodley, filmed by Chet Bronski.”

  “Speed!” shouted Chet back at him.

  “Annnnnnd, ACTION!”

  Devila took a deep breath, tried to calm her shaky nerves, and looked into the lens. She was a professional, and she knew how to conduct herself in front of the camera, but the thought of seeing the snake demon again made her heart pound wildly.

  Landis nodded and Devila began to speak. The mechanical whirring of the camera seemed loud at first, then, in a few seconds, faded from consciousness as if it didn’t exist. Funny how that is, she thought. There’s no limit to what a body can get used to.