Unlike Victor and Bruce, Ferronte had no outward signs of damage.
The four men came together over the spot where the mining cart had toppled onto its side. The cart was gone, but fragments of the wooden sides remained on the tracks, splinters too small for the camera to pick up. Marius stared up the incline to the wooden beams that had decapitated them. There were no stains on the boards. They'd been cleaned up. Ready to go for another take.
Ferronte slid a tiny digital camcorder out of a pocket. "Do you know what a camera really is? It's an eye. The lens, the shutter, all these things you can find on your own face, flesh and tissue instead of plastic and metal, but still. So what does it mean when we look through the viewfinder or at a movie screen? How many sets of eyes do we see the world through? What does it do to us, seeing the world like two mirrors facing each other, reflecting forever into nothingness?"
Cool air wafted down the tunnel.
"So many old movies, so many people on film that have come and gone, but still we can see and hear them. We give life to ghosts." Ferronte turned on the camera and began recording, focusing on each of them for a moment before moving to the next. "Not just that, we worship them, return to them time and time again. The movies begin to mean something personal to us. Do you ever wonder why? Have you thought that maybe it's not the viewers connecting with the movie but the films reaching out to us?"
Marius wiped his cheek, preventing a sticky trickle of gelatin from reaching his chin. His eye-patch tickled.
Bruce reacted first, cocking his head toward the dark tunnel. His eyes widened. The sound of metal scraping metal hit Marius' ears a second later and his reaction mirrored the sound man's. Still recording with the camcorder, Ferronte stepped away and said, "and. . .action."
The mining cart shrieked as it rolled down the track and into the light. Its remaining three wheels rattled against the rails of the track as its broken axle turned, reminding Marius of a worn down shopping cart straining to roll in a different direction. It slowed as it approached the drop, allowing them to stare up at it as it quivered on the edge.
They each stepped backward, off the tracks, leaving footprints where the childrens' bodies had spilled out, keeping their heads turned up at the tipping cart, holding their breath.
The cart rocked and began its descent. This time, however, it did not come off the track. It rocked back and forth and shook with the force of a violent epileptic attack, but it stayed on the rails and rolled down the drop, coming to rest between the men.
Marius ignored the waterfall of liquid eye rolling down his face.
Over the lip of the cart's top board a curl of black hair came into view. Then the top of a head. And by its side, a second, blonde. Rising, Alex and Nhu's faces came up, smiling, eyes full of play and mischief. They giggled.
There was no air to breathe. Either that, or Marius' lungs had forgotten how to function. He stepped toward the cart, astonished and bewildered, his thoughts clouding over in a dreamy trance.
"Test audiences prefer a happy ending," Ferronte whispered from somewhere in the darkness beyond the lights.
As his hands fell on the edge of the cart, his heart lurched in his chest and his throat seized as his eye flickered inside. The children knelt, still decapitated, each holding the other's head up like a hand puppet. Their impossibly alive mouths opened and broke into uncontrollable laughter.
It sounded like a laugh track.
Leaping back, Marius lost his balance and collapsed back on the heels of his hands. He screamed but it wasn't his voice that came out, instead the sound was replaced by a stronger set of vocal chords, trained for performance, more satisfying to an audience's ears.
Head reeling, he rolled onto his stomach and scampered on the floor into the shadows. He found Ferronte there, camera recording, and he reached up to the producer's hand. "—Give me the camera. I need the fucking camera—"
There was a clot of dried blood on his wrists, as dark and thick as mud. Strange that he hadn't seen it earlier. He ran his hands over them, fingernails digging down, uncovering the jagged lines buried underneath.
"How many razors were in that box, Mr. Director?" Ferronte asked.
The producer kicked his hands away.
The camera's lens stared down like a giant, consuming eye.
Victor and Bruce extended their hands to help him up. Behind them, in the blurry edge of his vision, the children climbed out of the mining car.
"Don't worry, in the end we're all just birds out of focus."
Lorne Dixon enters into a unique fraternity that currently exists of exactly one individual; the only author to have two stories appear in the same Cutting Block Press publication. For more on Dixon, we urge you to read his work and/or visit www.lornedixon.com.
—TESTAVILLE, OHIO
by M. Alan Ford
Roland gave two dollars and thirty-eight cents to the gas station attendant, who then asked where Roland was heading. "Testaville," Roland said.
The attendant seemed unable to decide between a laugh and a frown. "Testaville? Lots of weird people in Testaville. We get truck drivers all the time who don't want to go in, and they're happy when they get out."
Roland smiled. "I know. I grew up there."
"Never been there myself. How long you been gone?"
"Five years."
"Well, maybe it's worn off by now."
Roland didn't laugh. He looked the attendant over quickly before pulling out onto the highway. The attendant was young, in his mid-twenties, about the same age as Roland. His shirt was cleanly pressed, his hat spotless and sharp, his attitude relaxed and easy to talk with. This was different from what Roland was used to, and he wasn't thinking of the big city.
He turned on the radio and listened to music for a while, though this far out, reception was intermittent and static-filled. He was not paying attention, in any case. It was background noise, something to distract him from the way his hands tightly gripped the steering wheel. Traffic was sparse. He nearly missed the exit, which was nothing more than a small lane abruptly branching off from the highway. He followed it around in a loop that plunged behind a hill and under the highway, and found himself on the familiar two lane road rolling in lazy twists and turns through low hills and stands of trees.
He found the spot he had come to know as "the border" and pulled off to the shoulder. There was nothing special about the border. No boundary markings, no billboard, no "Welcome to Testaville" sign. It was simply an ordinary pattern of trees and hillsides he had come to recognize. He left the motor running. He got out and walked a few feet up the shoulder and stood for a moment looking at the road twisting off into the hills. Then he turned back.
He reached in through the open door, turned off the engine and removed the key, and went to the back of the car. He looked up and down the empty road, then opened the trunk. Inside was a large suitcase along with all the other things usually found in a car trunk. Spare tire, jack, socket wrench, a few tools, can of oil, spare gallon of gas. He pushed the suitcase aside and pulled back the blanket behind it. Hidden under the blanket was a small trinket box made of pale blond wood darkened by age. It was unlocked but held closed by a brass latch, and the lid was painted with the image of a winged woman in a robe setting foot on the prow of a boat, as if descending from the sky only a moment before. He tipped the box back and forth. Inside, something rolled about.
He covered it with the blanket again and pushed the suitcase up against it. Then he got back in the car and started the engine. He did not return to the road immediately, but only after a pause to take a deep breath, and then he moved the car at such a slow pace that a sauntering man could easily have walked past it.
The pattern of hills and trees slid by like a scrolling painted panorama. The border, as best he could judge it, came abreast of the car. Then it was behind him. Then he felt it, that first stab of unease. It came like a hand gripping his heart, a sudden pressure in the chest and a flush of heat to his face, and his finge
rnails dug painfully into the steering wheel while his breath caught in his throat. He nearly turned the car around. Instead, he came to a stop again and breathed shallowly until the fear subsided, never completely, but to a point where he could continue on despite himself.
It stayed with him when the road straightened as it came out from the hills and he saw Testaville just ahead. It was a small town, only about ten thousand people, one of many that had sprung up in the building boom just after the war. He drove past house after house, in tract after tract, looking at the neat small lots, each with a stretch of lawn and a driveway. At one point he passed a gas station. The attendant, staring at the sky as he leaned against one of the pumps, wore a dirty shirt pulled half out of his belt, and his hat was held twisted in his tight fists.
Roland found his own house among the others. He slowed as if to stop, then sped up and drove on past. He went around the block twice. Then he turned onto the main street and drove to the park. It was just as me remembered it, a field of grass and trees one block square, with benches and picnic tables, and a small playground with swings and a jungle gym about which children clambered. He parked, stepped to the sidewalk, and stared into the park for a long time.
A woman wearing a pink dress with a matching pillbox hat passed in front of him. She stumbled and fell. Roland helped her up. "Are you all right?"
She dusted off her dress. The heels of her hands were scraped where she had broken her fall. "I'm fine, sure." She gave him a faint smile. "Just accident prone, I guess."
Roland said nothing. The woman walked off. He crossed the street to a store where he pulled a soft drink from the refrigerated section. His hands shook so badly that they rattled the bottles.
So soon? he thought. It can't be happening so soon.
Keeping his hand steady, he took the bottle to the counter where a young girl, about sixteen years old, was arguing with the store manager.
"But I didn't touch it!" she said.
"This isn't the first time, Shelly. There was a twenty in here."
Roland looked at the cash register. The drawer was open, and a few ones, fives, and tens were neatly stacked in their respective bins, but the next bin was empty.
"I don't know!" she said. "The door was open. Someone must have come in."
"And they got into the till without you hearing it? Do you really expect me to believe that, Shelly?"
Chastised, she said nothing. They noticed Roland for the first time. He counted out the exact change for the drink, handed it to the girl, and popped the top with a bottle opener that was attached to the register with a tattered string. He went back outside, crossed the street again, and found an unoccupied bench to sit on. The day was cool, but he wiped the cold bottle across his forehead anyway before taking a long drink.
His hand was still shaking. He couldn't stop it. His heart beat so wildly he felt like it might explode. But it didn't, and nothing happened, and he took another long drink.
Then he walked around the park until he thought he could go home.
***
His mother answered the door. She looked startled to see him even though he had called ahead. She hugged him and welcomed him in, and he carried his suitcase into the living room where he found his father just standing up from the couch. They shook hands, and his father said, "Good to see you, Roland. Welcome home. Are you going to see Julia?"
"Not yet," Roland said. "Maybe tomorrow."
"You should see her," said his mother. "They don't know what's wrong with her. She could die tomorrow and then you'd have missed her."
She seemed offended. Roland smiled and said, "I'll go to see her. Maybe tomorrow."
"She's been in the hospital twice now. You're a doctor, maybe you can help."
"I'm not a doctor, Mom. I'm pre-med. I wouldn't know what to do for something like this."
She led him up to his room. It was pretty much as he had left it, with the bed neatly made and some old clothes in the closet. The air was stuffy, as if they hadn't opened it since he'd left. He slid the window open, letting in fresh air and sunlight, and unpacked his things. He lay on the bed for a while, staring at the ceiling while his parents moved about in the other room. They had distracted him. He had felt the crushing pressure build in his chest from the moment he had knocked on the door, and only now, forcing himself to relax, was he able to think clearly and hush the pounding of his heart.
It came back when they ate dinner that evening. They talked about how abruptly he had left town and whether Julia's family would let him see her. They had not liked his "crazy talk." People in town had not liked his crazy talk. Even his parents had not liked his crazy talk, and his father, always the blunt one, said without intending harm that things had been better since he had left. Quieter. Less stressful.
His mother, always the peacemaker, said, "Oh, leave him be. . ."
She looked tired. She always looked tired. She had darkened, deep-set eyes and a lock of hair that dangled out of place across her ear, and she rubbed her head as if it pained her. His father stared at his plate while he talked. Roland talked little, only nodding in agreement with whatever they said, because he no longer wanted to be accused of "crazy talk." And through it all, the fist tightened about his heart and sweat broke out on his forehead, and his fork rattled against the plate every time he tried to net a piece of food with it.
Finally he could take no more. He excused himself from the table, went to his room, and closed the door. He lay on top of the covers until darkness fell, then changed into pajamas and tried to sleep, but what he got was scarce. He woke often during the night, convinced that someone had been standing over the bed, looking down at him. But no one was ever there.
Exhausted by morning, he lay in bed for some time, listening to his father move about the house. Then came the slam of the door, followed by the sound of the car starting in the driveway, and moving off down the street. He got out of bed and looked in the bathroom mirror. His skin was pale and his eyes were as sunken as his mother's. Tense anxiety clutched at his throat, making his heart pound and his breath struggle coarsely through his lungs. Even wiping his face with a cold rag did not help.
He knew it would happen today. He was sure of it.
His mother fixed him breakfast. When she asked once again if he would please go visit Julia today, he said, "Probably." Instead, he returned to the park. By the time he got there, his hands were gripping the steering wheel so tightly that it hurt to let go.
It was a work day, so the park was empty except for a few children in the playground and a few housewives pushing strollers along the sidewalk. He sat on the same bench as the day before. The sun floated bright in the sky, the morning air was cool and clear, and the sounds of the children playing not too far away came sharp to his ears. He rubbed his eyes, then set his hands in his lap and twisted his fingers together. The sense that it was coming overwhelmed him. He felt ready to run or lash out. But there was no one to lash out at, and the only place to run was the road out of town, which he knew he would not do. So he waited, fighting against the urge to stand up, until it sat on the bench beside him and he recognized it as his own.
Long ago he had named it "Boris," after Boris Karloff. He did not look at it. He only twisted his fingers tighter and looked out across the park. He could see them all, now. One was following that woman, who strolled along and talked obliviously to her friend. Another sat at the bottom of the jungle gym, watching the children play as if waiting for one of them to fall. Another stood by a young boy on the swing. Every time the pendulum motion brought the boy swishing by, it reached out and shoved him aside, sending him into a crazy trajectory. The boy did nothing but right himself and swing higher.
That was what they did. The more you saw them, the more frightened you became. So Roland did not look at Boris.
Eventually, Boris spoke. It was a harsh voice, dripping, as if it spoke through a mouth full of phlegm. "Been a long time," it said.
Roland almost lurched from the bench. H
e swallowed hard to quell the panicked beating of his heart.
"Been five years," it said.
Roland swallowed again. Still looking away, he stuttered, "Hello, Boris."
"That's not my name. I don't have a name." Roland didn't reply. After a moment, Boris shifted its weight on the bench and said, "I went to your house as soon as I heard, but you weren't there. I figured you'd be in the park."
"That's why I came here."
"I'm surprised you didn't try to lose me."
"I wanted to get it over with."
"Is that why you didn't go to see her? You wanted to see us first?" Roland nodded slowly. Boris said, "I've been waiting for you. Five long years. Do you know how bad you made me look?"
Roland slowly shook his head. He had pushed himself down into the bench with his chin pressed almost to his chest. "I've had time to think," he said. "When I was four years old, I spent six months in a coma. You should remember that, you're the one who threw me off the roof."
"Good times, Roland. Good times."
Roland rubbed his eyes again. "I've been reading. That's just about the age that children are becoming aware of their surroundings. I think that had something to do with it. I think it affected whatever magic it is you work on us. I never learned to be quite scared enough. So it was your own fault."
"Well, what are you now, a fucking psychiatrist?"
"Just pre-med."
"Well, don't be too happy about it. I found someone to replace you. He's eight now, lives on the other side of town. He's thin, weak. Scared. Like you."
"Well, that's good. If he's like me, he'll probably get away, too."
Boris slugged him. It was a full-on roundhouse, a solid blow that caught Roland on the cheek and sent him off the bench. He hadn't been expecting it, even though he should have. Boris stood over him, blotting out the sunlight. "I got time for two," he said. "I'm glad you're back, Roland. We're going to have a great time together."
Horror Library, Volume 4 Page 28