There's Blood on the Moon Tonight

by Bryn Roar

  Tubby was reminded of Rod Serling, the way Bill Brown’s voice both soothed and startled at the same time. The man was a natural born storyteller. Ralph turned to the open grave again and was so shocked to see someone staring back at him that he didn’t at first realize Mr. Brown had stopped speaking. The grave robber had ceased his excavation and was watching Tubby watching him!

  The top half of his head was now visible over the edge of the hole. It moved slowly from side to side. A ratty hunter’s cap topped off his small skull, into which a pair of beady eyes rolled loosely in their sunken sockets.

  He kinda looked like that Ernest T. Bass character from the Andy Griffith Show. Squirrelly and nut like.

  Tubby half expected the little fella to wave at him—instead the ghoul returned to the task at hand. The shoveling sounds resumed and so did Bill Brown’s spiel.

  The ride pushed through the fog-enshrouded cemetery and into a series of room-sized tableaus where Bill Brown’s realistic creations played out one infamous crime after another. The set pieces looked like the real thing, too. Each one seamlessly connecting with the next, despite the different time-periods. It didn’t take Tubby long to realize that the murderers featured in the Browns’ wax museum were all on the cartoonish side of madness. More myth than men. They had also long since moldered in their graves. So far there were no wax effigies of Ted Bundy, Jeffery Dahmer or John Wayne Gacy. Nor for that matter any living madman currently residing on Death Row.

  Tubby wondered if the exclusion of the more recent psycho killers was intentional. He also thought it strange that a family so horribly victimized should want to immortalize this breed at all! No matter how entertaining it might be to the general public at large.

  As the ride pushed through a set of prison bars and into the next series of exhibits, the answers to some of these questions were about to be revealed. In the previous section, crimes committed by Albert Fish, Charles Starkweather, and the inevitable Jack the Ripper were all fairly gore free. InThe Chamber of Retributionpart of the ride, however, the Fates of these killers took Center Stage. Some quite graphically. As if the artist took great pleasure in watching these sinners get their karmic comeuppance. Starkweather, who looked a little like James Dean, jitterbugged on the electric chair. Smoke flew from his nose, mouth and ears, as if he was a teakettle on the boil. Tough guy Al Capone gibbered incoherently from his cell on Alcatraz, while fellow prisoners pointed and laughed at the once powerful man, brought to his knees by the gutter disease syphilis. Albert Desalvo, the notorious Boston Strangler, meeting his Fate at the ignominious end of a toothbrush shank. And even though they hadn’t made it intoMurderer’s Row, the gruesome ends of Ted Bundy and John Wayne Gacy. Bundy dragged to ol’ Sparky, screaming, somewhat ironically, like a little girl (ironic, because Bundy’s last victim, according to Mr. Brown, had been a little girl), begging for a mercy that he himself never lent his innumerable victims. Gacy strapped to a steel chair in the gas chamber. His eyes rolling maniacally in their sockets, as the cyanide pellets dropped behind him. The chamber filling with noxious fumes, Gacy convulsing in the chair, foaming at the mouth, like the rabid dog he was.

  Too real. All too real.

  But the scariest part of any exhibit was the part they all shared in common. In the background of eachRetribution set—though hidden deep in the shadows where no stage lighting existed—lurked a visage of demon eyes, barely visible in the dark—yet there all the same.

  Oh, yes, most certainly there. Waiting, watching, biding their time, when they could collect their due.

  The first time they appeared, beneath the feet of this country’s first celebrity serial killer, H.H. Holmes, standing on the trapdoor just moments before the Hangman released the lever, Tubby heard Josie gasp aloud, as if noticing them for the very first time. They were obvious in some exhibits, while in others you had to look real hard to find them—kind’a like a Where’s Waldo of the Underworld.

  The reason for their inclusion seemed patently obvious to Tubby: these evil men weren’t paying for their crimes in whatever form of execution that State was currently providing. No, sir. Their deaths were a mercy compared to those they’d inflicted on their poor victims! What awaited them after death was where True Justice prevailed. The demon eyes were there to escort them to Hell. Where they would pay for their acts of evil in a timeless void. The idea was so horrifying that it almost made you feel sorry for the poor bastards—though Tubby felt no such empathy from the man sitting beside him.

  He was relieved when theChamber of Retribution exit finally loomed ahead. The good humor that had preceded this part of the tour vanished like the misty fog in the graveyard. Tubby stole a glance at Mr. Brown and noted the grim look on his handsome features. He realized that the museum was probably an outlet for the Brown family. First, by making light of these deranged individuals, and then by showing the just deserts they’d received at the end of their murderous careers—summed up by the epigraph carved over the Retribution exit:

  Hell’s infinite fury awaits humanity’s traitors

  The prison bars banged open and the cars made an abrupt left turn. Out in the open again, they passed a wooden sign on the side of a mountain road.

  DANGER! TURN BACK NOW!

  HERE, THERE BE MONSTERS…

  Like the skull and crossbones marker in the harbor, it warned of perils ahead. A mechanical buzzard, so lifelike Tubby thought it was real, like the owl in the cemetery, roosted on top of the weathered sign. It turned its scabrous head to watch them pass by. Tubby could see his reflection in the buzzard’s oil drop eyes blinking back at him.

  Lightning stitched across the faux night sky, followed by distant thunder, rumbling digitally throughout the vast network of hidden speakers. The cars teetered on the edge of what looked like a high mountain pass, the surround sound of rocks clattering to the jagged boulders far below, causing everyone but Bill and Bud to cry out in fear. Uneasy laughter followed as the cars righted themselves and resumed their uneven journey.

  “Dang!” Rusty swore, laughing. “I know it’s coming, and it still gets me every time!”

  Up ahead in the purple gloom a pair of dark castles stained the far horizon. Irregular forks of lightning further illuminated them. What followed was the world of horror as seen through the lens of Hollywood. After the depressingChamber of Retribution it was a relief to get back to the simple escapist side of their beloved Genre.

  The castles all featured fantastic set pieces, starring those hallowed monsters of Universal Studios. While a certain mad scientist held his arms aloft and screamed his blasphemy at the heavens: ‘It’s alive! It’s alive! Now I know how God feels! IT’S ALIVE!!’ the monster sat up straight on the table and stared malevolently (Or was it beseechingly?) at the passing caravan.

  Before Tubby could see what happened next in Castle Frankenstein, the ride had carried him past, and into the even more forbidding realm of Count Dracula.

  A cobwebby hall, which seemed to go on and on, to an unseen ceiling far above them, spilled out cold unearthly air on the curious visitors. A long, sinuous staircase took up the better part of this stony hall.

  The ride stopped and Bill Brown put a finger to his lips, gesturing for silence. Goosebumps came out in record numbers on Tubby’s arms. The suspense was delicious—the payoff so much better…

  Portentous footsteps echoed grittily from far away. They seemed to be coming from the upper reaches of the staircase. With no railing on either side, the flight plunged to the cold, granite floor below. A long shadow fell down these precipitous stairs, announcing the arrival of the infamous Count. Bill had stayed true to the Universal concept, even if Bela Lugosi’s interpretation was almost embarrassingly tame by today’s sophisticated standards.

  For a time, anyway…

  Despite the echoes of his footfalls, Dracula floated down the stairs, making his entrance far more thrilling than the 1931 film version. More in tune to Coppola’s rendition. In this case, the set piece was more interesting
than the monster inhabiting it. Still, Bill had given Bela his due.

  And as wolves howled outside the castle walls, the Count uttered his most famous line, just as his audience once again took up their journey: ‘Listen to the children of the night! What beautiful music they make!’

  In succession came the Werewolf, the Mummy, and the Creature from the Black Lagoon. They reminded Tubby of his Aurora models, only on a much grander scale. They were for the most part exactly what he imagined when he studied his glow-in-the-dark kits in the privacy of his bedroom. He wondered again at this bizarre twist of Fate that had placed him on this odd little island off the coast of South Carolina; where there existed this group of people who recognized him as one of their own.

  Who thought as he thought! He pinched himself to make sure it wasn’t some cruel dream.

  They left the Universal Monsters behind them and traveled on, making regular pit-stops at other freeze frames of the celluloid fantastic, reminding Tubby of The Wizard of Oz. When Dorothy stepped out of her house after its tornadic journey into the Land of Oz. From the dull sepia tones of Kansas, to a surreal Technicolor world of color and dreams. Tubby thrilled to the next sets honoring the imagination of Harryhausen and other stop-motion geniuses; a lost art in this age of CGI proliferation. But they were nothing compared to what followed…

  The sci-fi flicks of the fifties were obviously Bill Brown’s preferred playground. While weird, futuristic music warbled overhead—Tubby recognized it as the score from Forbidden Planet—the ride took them through an alien ravaged landscape. Sets from The War of the Worlds, Invasion of the Body Snatchers, The Thing, and, of course, Forbidden Planet—minus its Robby—trolled on by in all their Post-War, paranoid glory. The care and detail put into these designs were meticulous and awe inspiring.

  Definitely by an artist who adored his subject matter.

  “I’ve got Robby down in my workshop,” Bill explained to Tubby with a conspiratorial wink. “Tim Garfield came by this week and I didn’t want the two bumping in to each other. I sold him that robot in his window. It’s just a shell, really. Not like our working Robby. No sense rubbing it in, right Ralph?”

  Tubby smiled and shook his head.

  They left the brick tunnel and entered a metallic hollow tube, the ebony coffins now gliding silently through the shadowy bowels of an apparently empty space ship. Tubby recognized it right away as the Nostromo. The strident echoes of an alarm, announcing the ship’s imminent destruction, blared through the speakers overhead. Just as in the movie, the countdown ratcheted up the tension. What had once been a vast ceiling had turned into a claustrophobic experience, inserting the museum’s visitors into Ridley Scott’s extraterrestrial world of the Alien. Only on this occasion, despite its monstrous bug-like shadow looming over them at every turn, the drooling Alien would go unseen. It was a stroke of genius, for it dropkicked the imagination into hyper-drive. Tubby considered it the scariest part of the tour thus far.

  That was before they stopped in front of a certain address in Georgetown. Outside the ivy-covered townhouse, a sickly yellow light fell from a two-story window. Otherwise, the house was dark and fog encapsulated. Tubby kept his eyes on the lit window—

  Something unspeakable passed by the glass…

  “This is the last stop on this part of the tour,” Bill Brown whispered to him. The cars pulled further ahead, until they had settled in front of the ill-fated bedroom.

  Tubby’s throat constricted into a familiar knot of dread. In his opinion this was the scariest movie ever made. Maybe the only scary movie ever made. He’d never been able to watch the film without that feeling of dread stealing over him, making him feel as if he’d somehow garnered the devil’s attention, simply by watching the movie. He’d known kids who claimed The Exorcist wasn’t so scary. Not like the Saw movies, or even that dumb franchise featuring the Chucky doll. Ralph felt sorry for those insipid souls. Somewhere along the way, their constant diet of violent video games and torture porn movies had robbed them of their imaginations. The one thing that sets us apart from the hapless adults—that helps us see what cannot be seen.

  What was that insightful line from The Usual Suspects? The one Keyser Soze says to the detective?

  The devil’s greatest trick was getting us to believe he doesn’t exist... Yeah. True that, Soze.

  That feeling of dread stole over him once again, and Tubby wondered if the devil was watching him, watching him. He needn’t have worried. If he’d learned one thing this night, it was that Evil never won out in the Dark Side of the Moon Wax Museum. No…not even the devil.

  Tubby leaned forward and watched the brave priests make their final stand. At stake was the soul of the torn and tortured, thirteen-year-old girl, tied to her bedposts. The padded bed rose slowly, silently off the floor. The demon child grinned through tattered lips, her eyes a leering window into a frightening netherworld. Her head began its twisted journey upon her torqued neck. Muscles stretching, tendons tearing. The room as cold as Satan’s black heart—the priests’ breaths whisping out in smoky tendrils of condensed air, creating a nearly flawless illusion of horror.

  All that was missing was the pea-green vomit.

  After the scene concluded, and Good had once again vanquished its timeless foe, the subdued spectators moved on to what Tubby assumed was the end of the ride. One last set of oaken doors before them. Only it wasn’t the Exit he’d been expecting. It was another section altogether. One Tubby hadn’t known existed. The blood dripping sign over the oak door read:The King of Horror.

  The ebony coffins pushed through the doors into another series of tableaus—the first, an ordinary New England country road leading into a quaint little town.

  They passed a green highway sign, pockmarked with old bullet holes and ringed with rust…

  Welcome to Jerusalem’s Lot!

  A satisfied smile crept across Tubby’ face. He’d been somewhat disappointed that the Browns had made no mention of his idol’s considerable contributions to the Horror genre. But like all good showmen they’d saved the best for last! A separate homage toThe King of Horror.

  For the next thirty minutes, the ride traversed the vast landscape of Stephen King’s storied imagination…

  Danny Glick hovering at the second story bedroom window of his childhood chum, Mark Petrie (Tubby knew there had to be wires holding the wax figure aloft, but doggone if he could spot them!). Danny’s long fingernails scratching against the glass, beckoning Mark to come closer…closer. A school bus parked along the curb. Pale, wraithlike visages peering out hungrily at the passing visitors. Ruby red lips writhing on top of long incisors…

  The old Marsten House looming large over the town. Its gables and doorways as dark as the parasitic creature lurking within its cancerous depths.

  Then all too soon they were leaving ‘Salem’s Lot and entering the town limits of Castle Rock. A long, Nosferatu-like shadow bleeding out of the doorway of Needful Things. A shuddering multitude of sparrows covering the power and phone lines into either distance. Silent and watchful. Like the ones in Hitchcock’s film. Then they were passing an overgrown field with a lonely elm tree standing tall in the middle. Cradled in its sturdy branches was an ordinary looking treehouse. The carefree laughter of callow youths carried out to them.

  Nope, nothing wrong here.

  If there was a running dialogue that went along withThe King of Horror,Mr. Brown had let it slide, as he had ever since they’d departedMurderers’ Row. He sat beside Tubby and pointed up at the tree house. “Like the sparrows, most people at first miss the significance of the treehouse; even those who describe themselves as fans of Stephen King. But since you’re aCreep, I expect—”

  “It’s from the novella The Body, from Stephen King’s book Different Seasons. They made a movie about it called Stand by Me. One of the better adaptations of King’s work. Rob Reiner was the director; he also directed Misery, another excellent adaptation. Those kids inside the tree house are Vern Tessio, better known as
Penny. Gordie—”