It was a deepening thought.
But he was running out of cash. His business account had dropped to under $7,000. Nearly all of the investment money from Joss and his brother-in-law was gone. If he was going to make a short film, it would have to be on the cheap.
The next two days became a blur as he thought more about the potential short horror film. Cruising in his maroon car, Twitchell found himself drifting between St. Albert and Edmonton, stopping in at coffee shops and convenience stores along the way. When he finally came home at night, he found himself restless. A heat wave was beginning. The August sun burned hot for the next four days, a late-summer fever trapped under the canopy of lush elm trees and blankets of clouds. Chloe was put to bed and Jess tried to sleep. But Twitchell stayed up late as twilight turned to black.
The silence of the suburban home was broken only by the light tapping of his fingers on the keyboard. He was on the Internet again. He had written something that was sure to provoke a response. But when his friends read his comment in the coming days, they kept their questions to themselves. Some thought it a very odd joke to make. Others did not know what he was referring to.
Just after two in the morning, Twitchell had updated his status on Facebook. It was one sentence that would take on a far more sinister meaning as the months rolled by. He had written: “Mark has way too much in common with Dexter Morgan.”
SEARCHING
JOHNNY’S SCHEDULE FILLED QUICKLY, his weekends spent playing paintball with his close friend Dale, and many evenings busy with work, yet through the summer of 2008 romance never veered too far from his mind. He drove to a coffee shop to meet Debra, their friendship having grown closer these past few months. Pulling up a chair, he sat and stared across the table at her, sharing how he really wanted to find someone. In fact, he confessed, he was falling for her. “Would you give it a shot?” he asked with a smile.
Debra met his gaze. There was a lot to like about Johnny. He had interests that crossed the spectrum, whether motorbikes or camping, sitcoms or spiritualism. She thought he was a great person and she knew he had a big heart. But she had to be honest too. She felt no romantic chemistry between them. She wanted only to be friends.
But Johnny didn’t seem to get it and just kept asking, “Why won’t you just give it a try?”
Debra realized their discussion was going to end badly. She told him she didn’t think it would be appropriate for them to keep hanging out all the time if he had these intense feelings for her. “It would be too unhealthy for the friendship,” she said.
It wasn’t what Johnny had wanted to hear. They departed knowing they would be taking a break for a time, hopefully for the betterment of their friendship.
But as the summer continued, Debra had trouble keeping Johnny out of her life. Returning home from her long shifts as a nurse, she checked her home phone’s voicemail and often heard a familiar voice on the other end. “Can’t we just talk about this?” Johnny pleaded. She shook her head and rubbed her temples, knowing it was for the best if she just ignored these messages and made a determined effort never to respond.
CONSTRUCTION AND DESIGN
PLANNING AND PLOTTING, TWITCHELL’S mind raced as he sped through the city. He had to stay organized as he checked off his list. He needed a practical effects artist to pull off his idea for a short film and had no clue where to look. But at least he had secured a location for the film shoot. The property was renting for $175 a month. It wasn’t much, but when he saw it, he knew it was all he needed: a double-door garage surrounded by high fences and detached from the home. He liked how quiet it was, despite being in the middle of a suburb. The current renters of the house were from Mexico and spoke little English, which suited him fine. Twitchell knew they’d leave him alone. He signed the lease that morning.
Now sitting in front of his computer, pretending to be at work for another day, he read over an email he had written. He clicked through his address book, adding the names of his film crew – Mike, Jay, Scott, Joss, David – and a possible backup for camera duties. A woman who did makeup was included. He hit send:
What up bitches,
… I have a month to kill so I decided we should produce a short thriller. This one is about a serial killer who gets his kicks from taking out people who think they’re getting away with something. The shoot dates are Friday, Sept. 26th and Saturday, Sept. 27th.… The actual main portion of the short will be shot in a garage I have rented at 5712 40th Ave which has power but no heat so if the weather is being nice, great, if it’s a bitch, we’ll bring space heaters.
Look forward to having some fun.
Mark Twitchell
Xpress Entertainment
He was searching for an actor who could deliver the killer’s cold and intimidating tone without being too “corny” and overdoing it. The film’s victim, Roger, was meant to be a working man “who considers himself quite smooth at hiding things from his wife but loses all bravado when he’s tied to a chair in a dark room.”
His email to the crew included a description of his desired special effects:
I need a severed ear. And there’s one shot I’d like to get of the victim’s decapitation. The more realistic the better.… It’s a darkly lit scene so minor detail is not as important as overall weight and trajectory of the head falling from the body and the believability of the blood spurting afterward. The shot I have in mind is practically a silhouette of the victim.
He told his crew not to worry about props. He had already bought a few the previous day, some contained in a green plastic briefcase. Twitchell wanted a stun gun for the shoot but discovered they were only legal for purchase in some American states.
His crew proved eager to help. Mike, Jay, and Scott all replied within four hours. Having formed a business partnership after the Star Wars fan film, the trio thought it would be a good chance to show off their new company, Apocalypse Arts, and their set-building abilities.
But Twitchell didn’t need their input. He already knew exactly what he wanted.
He asked for a large rectangular table, longer than a grown man, and turned to Scott to build it. “It needs to be sturdy, strong as fuck,” he wrote the trio in another email. “This is not to be built for temporary use.… This has to be precision quality.” Twitchell wanted a thick wood top and six big table legs, all cross-braced. “The table must be surfaced and edged in stainless steel.”
Next, he demanded a custom-made chair. “Not just any chair though,” he explained. It had to be metal. Twitchell had drawn sketches of what he wanted and sent them on to some of the crew. Mike would help in this building effort. One of Twitchell’s drawings showed the “killer chair” and the “victim chair,” looking like it had been bolted to a concrete floor. “I’ll gladly pay for all materials used for this, as long as you shop wisely,” Twitchell wrote, finishing his email on a joke. “And then the hookers and beer on top of it.”
The film crew did as they were told. Mike and Jay would help build the set pieces, but couldn’t be there for the filming. Scott would be there for both, however.
Mike picked up a set of keys and drove to the newly rented garage to begin working. One of the first things he did was pick up a padlock. Twitchell had insisted that one be attached to the back door as soon as possible.
ON FRIDAY, AUGUST 29, Twitchell had taken until mid-afternoon to reach the U.S. border, a seven-hour drive straight south that ended at the mouth of a security checkpoint. Sitting in his car, Twitchell had been caught in a lie and refused entry. He wasn’t sure why he did that. Sometimes he lied for no reason at all.
He had planned on driving to Montana to buy props and supplies for his new movie project but had told Jess he had scored work on a music video shoot over the Labour Day long weekend. Keeping the ruse going, he had told the customs officer the same story. The officer then asked Twitchell if he had the required U.S. work visa for such a project. He did not.
The mission failed, Twitchell pointed his Grand Am back
north and hit the gas. By the time he reached Calgary a few hours later, he was tired and pulled in to a hotel. He needed a break from his life for a few days.
In his hotel room, just after 9:00 p.m., Twitchell flipped open his computer and surfed the web for solutions to his movie problems. After a few clicks, he found an option. A seller was offering to ship one of his desired props to Canada. He thought it would be perfect for a horror movie. Listed as a “Telescopic Stun Gun Baton,” the weapon could collapse into a black handle and even came with its own holster. “Just the sound of this unit should stop most people,” the seller boasted on the online advertisement. “It is loud, sparks bright and is very intimidating. If that doesn’t stop them, the 800,000 volts will.” Twitchell pulled out his credit card. Minutes later, he was back on Facebook and asking for help: “Mark needs a headless mannequin to complete the effect. Anyone know where I can borrow/rent one?”
His secret weekend in Calgary included many online purchases: a meat cleaver, a pair of handcuffs, software to prevent tracking of his Internet activity through his web address. But alone in his hotel room he found his mind drifting from movie plots to personal plights. He was thinking of his failing marriage; he was thinking of other women. His thoughts returned to his first love, Traci, who was never far from his heart. Twitchell flipped through another type of listing, one more discreet than those for knives and stun guns. It was something exotic, an unrushed service that attended his needs: the city escort or courtesan.
INVESTOR JOHN PINSENT, A chartered accountant by trade, thumbed the dozen pages in a business proposal Twitchell had finally sent over to his office. The sales pitch had changed considerably over the past six months. There was a Hollywood veteran attached to the project, who was identified as a co-producer behind the blockbusters Old School and Ocean’s Eleven. Twitchell had lined up big stars like cult movie director Kevin Smith, musician Justin Timberlake, and actors Jeff Goldblum and Alec Baldwin:
We have been in contact with the representation of each of these performers and the feedback has been the same in each case. They like the script, they love our offers, they appreciate the logistics and none of them can foresee anything getting in the way of getting them signed on to play supporting roles or themselves.
Twitchell stated he had gathered $500,000 in escrow and signed a $1 million production services contract with a company called Mandroid Inc. The remaining financing terms were now all cleared up. The filmmaker was asking John for a temporary loan. If Twitchell could get investors like him to buy ten units at $35,000 each, he could unlock a line of credit with a gap financier to cover the rest of the movie’s budget. Once that happened, each investor would get their money back, plus a slice of profits, estimated at $170,000 for each unit purchase. The initial investment would be held in trust for a few months. “With the production values, level of talent and low cost of our budget that we have,” Twitchell wrote, “the movie would have to bomb beyond all comprehension to present any real risk.”
LEANING INTO HIS DESK and staring at the computer screen, Twitchell talked into his phone in his home basement office. He had been back from his solo trip to Calgary for a few weeks and was once again busy searching the Internet.
Jess came in from the backyard and headed for the stairs. As she turned the corner in the basement, she spotted her husband at the computer. He didn’t see her as he blabbed into his phone. She glanced at the screen around the back of his head and, seeing what he was looking at, she suddenly felt sick. “Get off the fucking phone!” she exploded.
Twitchell jolted back in his chair and whipped around to meet her gaze.
“What are you doing!?” she screamed.
The computer monitor displayed a page from ashleymadison.com, a dating site tailored for extramarital affairs.
He flicked off his phone and gave her a quick answer. “I’m doing research for a freelance article about Internet dating.” He sounded calm. “I got the job by convincing the editor that I would sign up on some of the sites undercover to get first-hand material.”
Jess scowled. “What publication?”
“It’s an online company.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“I can prove it. My editor is going to be calling to discuss the article and my payment.”
Jess stared at him.
“You can listen in on the conference call if you’d like,” he added.
Raising a doubting eyebrow, Jess put her hand on her hip. “What’s his name?”
“Phil Porter.”
Two days later, sitting in the upstairs living room, Twitchell talked on the phone as Jess listened in. Her husband was discussing an article with a man whose voice she didn’t recognize, a man who identified himself as Phil Porter from an online magazine. Twitchell hung up after a few minutes.
“It still doesn’t make any sense to me,” Jess sighed, shaking her head. “I don’t believe it.”
Twitchell didn’t know what else to do. He shrugged. “The only other thing I can think of is when the money comes in, you’ll know they are using the article.”
It wasn’t enough for Jess. She was terribly confused. He had never written a piece of journalism before. And thinking back to the distance growing between them, she feared her husband was having an affair. He eventually handed over his passwords to his email account to ease her suspicions, but they both knew where their relationship was heading. With trust between them rapidly deteriorating, they would likely need marriage counselling. Jess was wondering if her husband needed his own personal therapy as well.
Sulking around the house, Twitchell told Jess about his little horror movie he was making. She was immediately worried about the cost, but he assured her it would be of no concern. In fact, a draft of the script was complete and he explained how it had been an outlet for him during their recent problems. He had been inspired by their marital difficulties and mixed it into his interest in psychological thrillers. It was only a few pages long but he had come up with a title: House of Cards.
His proposed ending for the short film, however, had Jess horrified. The thought of a man being decapitated was revolting to her. She demanded he change it. Twitchell resisted, having planned that specific ending for weeks. But Jess persisted and in a huff Twitchell eventually assured her that he would think of something else.
AMUSEMENT
STANDING IN HIS CONDO in a black T-shirt, Johnny showed off his huge flat-screen television and custom-built computer to his house guest, Marie Laugesen. He was nearly as pleased with his integrated home entertainment system as he was with having Marie finally visit.
She had called recently to say she was catching a ride from Vancouver to Edmonton for a late-August weekend and the time together could help repair their strained friendship. They had known each other for more than a decade, from their time on Vancouver’s online bulletin boards, but had later fought and stopped talking. Johnny had finally called to say sorry. While she accepted his apology, Marie was going to make him grovel a little.
Johnny was a gentleman and gave her his bed while he pulled out a mattress on the living room floor. She was in town for only a day, so he asked her what she wanted to do. Everyone had told her it was a lame idea, but Marie confessed in excitement to wanting to experience one of the city’s only attractions: West Edmonton Mall.
The pair jumped in Johnny’s red Mazda 3, a departure from his usual beloved German cars, but one he was willing to make as his age tipped closer to the big four-o. Marie started taking pictures as they pulled into the mall’s giant parking lot. Johnny couldn’t stop snickering as Marie snapped away.
The mall offered new discoveries for Marie along every vast corridor of marble and brass, mirrors and skylights scattering the daylight. They strolled past fountains, a lagoon once home to a fleet of submarines and an indoor water park, simulated waves rolling across a fake tropical beach. The pair stopped at the ice palace, watching skaters twirl on the rink surface. Stores were stacked in long rows around t
hese amusements.
During her trip, a lull in conversation prompted Johnny to make a confession to Marie. “You’ve inspired me, you know?”
“What?” she asked, puzzled. “How?”
“Because you chose never to have children.”
“I shouldn’t be an inspiration for that.” Marie tilted her head. “It’s from within that you make this decision.”
Johnny nodded. He told her about his journey of self-discovery by studying New Age philosophy. “It’s made me a happier person.”
The pair soon found their way wandering under the vivid colours and flashing lights of Galaxyland, the mall’s indoor park of roller coasters and fairgrounds. The main entrance opened to reveal a spinning carousel, children bumping along on hard plastic horses. From the purple flooring they saw a giant swing lit up with red twinkling lights. A funhouse and haunted castle loomed in the corner. They toured the grounds of painted-blue space rocks as nervous screams echoed from visitors thundering by on noisy rides overhead. Ahead lay a winding bed of red and yellow tracks. Marie’s gaze was lifted high as she saw the rails twirl into a triple-loop across the sky. The ride was aptly titled The Mindbender.
“Let’s go on it!” she smiled, tugging on Johnny’s arm. The pair climbed into one of the three cars, holding a total of a dozen souls aboard a steady climb to the top.
They clasped the safety harnesses around their shoulders as the track clicked higher and higher. Upon reaching the summit, the cars seemed to hover for a brief moment before suddenly plunging in a freefall and banking hard to the left. Racing at an incredible speed, the cars tore back up the track before plunging again and curving upwards, rolling upside-down as riders screamed through the ride’s triple loops.
The entire ride lasted about a minute but was forever burned into their memories. Screaming and hollering, stomachs in their chests, Johnny and Marie climbed out of the car and decided quite quickly: they would ride the roller coaster once again.
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