The Devil's Cinema

by Steve Lillebuen

  She seemed interested in him. When he happened to mention the kind of vehicle he drove, Jen was intrigued. “A Mazda you say,” she wrote. “Zoom zoom!” Johnny told her about how he had the whole weekend off and an extra two days because of the Thanksgiving Day holiday.

  Their messages bounced back and forth, their flirting escalating, until she offered her place as the meeting point for their evening. But she was concerned about safety:

  Although this sounds exciting, I have to make sure you’re not some kind of weirdo and so far you seem fairly well put together, but anyone can lie online right? So I have an idea for how both of us can be made comfortable with the situation, and by both of us, of course, I mean me. lol.

  I bought this … well let’s call it a handyman special (I’m all about resale) and the back gate is a little screwed up so I locked it off and everyone’s just been entering through the garage so it works out okay. When you see it you’ll know what I mean. If you do this, I can direct you to the house from the alley without giving away the street address and see you before I let you in. Maybe this is paranoid on my part but I have to look after myself. My first instincts about people are never wrong and I know to trust them.

  I want to play very much but I have to be cautious as I’m sure you can understand. If you’re okay with this let me know. If not we’ll have to miss each other.

  On a lighter note though, if we really gel you said you had four days off. How long can I keep you for if I choose? Maybe you should pack for a few days. lol.

  Jen

  Johnny read the message closely, thought it over, and told her he was in. A few minutes later, Jen passed on driving directions. “Park in the only driveway that looks like a forest,” she wrote. “What did I say. Fixer upper.”

  She asked that he close the garage door when he entered – the button was by the back door to the house – and to be aware of how the garage may look inside. “I have a friend coming over to use part of it as a workshop this weekend, so he blanketed off where my car usually goes. Like I need red spray paint on my car, right? Don’t ask.”

  She planned to be home around 7:00 p.m.

  PURE HOLLYWOOD

  TWITCHELL THREW A ROLL of black hockey tape on the car seat and sped off toward the movie theatre. He was early, but Traci was already waiting for him at their meeting place in a bookstore. He spotted her near a stack of novels as he walked inside. And with one look into her green eyes, he knew the attraction between them was still strong. Their secret movie plans were like old times in college. Flirting was just the start of it.

  Bracing against a cold breeze, the pair hurried across the vast, nearly deserted parking lot to South Edmonton Common’s Cineplex Odeon. The theatre had a huge blue and silver front entrance with a boulevard of naked trees and red lava rocks. It was Friday afternoon and the matinee theatres all looked pretty empty. They would have their choice of what to see.

  Twitchell noticed one movie that looked interesting among the options on the display board. The film was called Quarantine – a psychological thriller just like his House of Cards project. And although it was fiction, it was shot like a documentary from the point of view of the cameraman, making the film appear like a recording of a real incident. The film’s creators had previously released The Poughkeepsie Tapes, a film about a theatrical, masked serial killer who documents his gruesome murders and dismemberments. Quarantine also starred Jennifer Carpenter, who Twitchell knew from her role as Dexter’s adoptive sister. He rarely picked movies solely because of an actor or filmmaker, but this one piqued his interest and was looking very promising indeed. Traci was fine with it too.

  Twitchell stood in line for popcorn, spending extra to have the big bag slathered in real butter, as Traci headed to the theatre to grab their seats. He walked down the hall a few minutes later and peeked his head around the corner to Theatre Eight. Traci was already sitting in the back row with nobody nearby. He usually liked to sit near the middle in the “audio sweet spot,” but he didn’t mind her choice at all. He sat down and the two of them made small talk.

  The tension was palpable.

  “I was an idiot in school,” Twitchell blurted as the conversation lurched into the topic of their on-again-off-again romance. “I know I’ve said that before, but I’ve been learning lately how vital it is to can the bullshit and face yourself with brutal honesty.”

  And he was right. Traci had heard this speech before and she would likely hear it again. She had trouble trusting him. But he had caught her in a weak moment, separated from her husband and her current relationship souring in recent days. She was listening intently.

  Twitchell was a magnet, and no matter how much Traci logically thought of the futility of a relationship with him, she found herself being drawn closer. Their relationship had always been intense and, at times, exciting. She tried to bring up the topic of his wife, but Twitchell didn’t want to talk about it. Traci was left with the distinct impression that he was basically separated. He kept going over past mistakes, telling Traci he was just a teenager when they dated and how he had lied because he wanted to impress her. He thought she was his soul mate.

  Their conversation was cut off as the theatre lights dimmed and the big screen came alive with sound and colour. Twitchell and Traci settled in and started watching.

  Jennifer Carpenter appeared on screen as a bubbly TV reporter assigned to shadow a firefighting crew with her cameraman. They enter an apartment building infected with a virus similar to rabies, and the authorities lock them all inside to prevent the threat from escaping. It’s not long before a police officer is bitten by a frenzied infected resident, her bite peeling off his skin. An old lady, foaming at the mouth, is shot multiple times. An infected rat rushes toward the cameraman and he stomps hard. The rat’s guts spill out of its anus and mouth as if he’s pressing down on a tube of toothpaste.

  Twitchell took his eyes off the screen and looked to his left at Traci, the woman he had once loved so deeply. She liked to cover her eyes during the scary parts in a way he thought was so adorable. Her hair draped the sides of her face, and it took a moment before she finally sensed that he was staring at her.

  She met his gaze. He felt a lump in his throat. She flirted back with a tiny smile. He took a chance and leaned in. She felt his hand on her arm and they began to kiss.

  The beam of the projector cut above and over their heads. The light struck the screen and reflected back on their faces in a throbbing contrast of light and dark. The contours of her hips pressed against the stadium seat, edging closer to him. Blood sprayed across the screen as she shifted her weight near. He could feel her hot breath. His lips, once split and healed years ago in a soft line of pink tissue, pressed hard against Traci’s.

  The killing onscreen had continued at a steady pace. The cameraman was now fighting off a crazed, infected woman by smashing his camera into her head, the shot giving his direct viewpoint of the assault. She falls to the floor, but he doesn’t stop, using a greater force with each strike. Blood pours down her face as she cowers from the attack. He delivers another blow, twisting her head, and a few more in quick succession. The cameraman finally calms down, his grunting easing, as he stares below at her lifeless body.

  Twitchell barely paid attention as the slaying played out in the darkened theatre. In the back row, his kissing Traci had progressed to making out. He felt it was “real passion” and he was “really letting go.” As the bodies piled up onscreen, their passion rose even higher. Whenever they heard a loud shrill or scream, they’d pause for a moment, smile, and then start kissing once more. He was on brink of falling in love all over again.

  They put their passion on pause only to catch the end of the film, watching Jennifer Carpenter as she is dragged to her death. The screen fades to black. Traci thought the movie was “horrible” and hated watching such violence. Twitchell had hoped the movie would inspire his own filmmaking but hadn’t seen enough to decide what he thought of it.

  Traci
wanted to leave. As they exited the theatre, Twitchell imagined she was torn up about her two relationships, being mistreated and needing reassurance that this time he was serious about her. She could have been thinking about all of this, but the real reason she was in such a rush was far closer to home: she had two little mouths to feed.

  Traci loved her two dogs. They had to be fed and given their medicine between 5:00 p.m. and 6:00 p.m. each day, and with a long drive back to her home, she had to leave now.

  As they reached their cars, Twitchell leaned in for a final kiss goodbye. There was no doubt in Traci’s mind they had crossed a line in that theatre. She was confused and excited about what it meant. It lingered on her mind all afternoon.

  Twitchell wasn’t worried about getting caught. He realized his marriage to Jess was nearing its end, but he didn’t want to face it just yet. He unlocked his car, swung the door open, and settled in, the old grey fabric hugging his body.

  Traci drove south while Twitchell headed north. But instead of driving home to St. Albert, he decided to stop by his film set.

  He had that big idea in his head again. Tonight, it was going to happen. He just needed a bite to eat first, then he could have some fun.

  GETTING READY

  AROUND 5:30 P.M., A message popped up on Johnny’s computer screen from his work friend Willy: “Any plans for the evening?” Both were signed into MSN Messenger chat service.

  Johnny boasted, telling him how he was getting lucky. He quickly sent Willy a link to his date’s plentyoffish.com profile page.

  Willy took a look and saw a photo of Jen in a bikini.

  “7:00 p.m. tonight to meet at her place,” Johnny typed in the chat screen. “But her instructions to her house were very weird.”

  Willy wanted to know what he meant.

  “She won’t give me her phone number and address, but I’ve got these directions to get to the house and I’m supposed to use the garage to enter.”

  Willy thought it all sounded strange. “When you get there, text-message me the address.”

  Johnny started getting ready for his date, leaving dirty dishes piled on the kitchen counter. In his hurry, he copied, then pasted Jen’s directions into an email and fired it off to Willy at 6:00 p.m. At least his friend would have that information on hand.

  Johnny gave his buddy Dale a quick call, telling him about his date and how he had to go through her garage to get to her house.

  Dale had never been a part of Johnny’s online dating scene and wasn’t too happy to hear about this. “Call me when you get there with the address,” he said.

  “I will.” Johnny hung up the phone.

  Leaving the house, Johnny took one last look in the mirror before he headed out the door. He locked up his condo and walked down the stairs to the building’s parkade. His Mazda 3 roared out of the underground as he shot across the city.

  TRIPLE THREAT

  IN JEANS AND HIS hoodie, a military blade secured to his hip, Twitchell checked his email while waiting in the garage. He was standing by the back door, his laptop placed on the little wooden table in front of him, as he anxiously flicked through his messages.

  He had completed repairing sections of plastic sheeting that had fallen down since the previous Friday. Now the kill room was perfectly prepped. His mask lay nearby. Two steel pipes were beside his laptop. Both had been wrapped in black hockey tape. His fake handgun rested near the edge of the table. Twitchell’s useless stun gun baton had been relegated to the back shelf. And a green bedsheet remained tacked to the ceiling, separating the plastic-wrapped section from the other side, where a bay door was opened slightly, inviting his visitor to enter.

  He was going over in his head all the things he was going to say but found himself easily distracted. A beam of sunlight caught his eye. It streamed in through a hole in one of the bay doors, piercing the clear plastic, scattering rainbows like a prism across the room.

  He heard traffic outside. His eyes darted under the partially opened door.

  A red Mazda 3 slowed as it passed the garage, then continued on.

  Twitchell gulped. He checked his watch. Things were moving forward nearly a half-hour earlier than anticipated. His adrenaline soared.

  He reached for the switch and flicked off the lights. Darkness fell. Twitchell lay waiting in silence. Blood rushed through his veins, his fingers quivering.

  A moment passed. He could hear the car come back and pull into the driveway. Headlights beamed through the hole he had just noticed. A shaft of twirling light cut through the darkness. The engine stopped and the light vanished.

  A man approached, ducking his head under the door, his clothes rustling from the movement. He took a few steps inside the darkened garage. Then, he stopped, seeming to notice the garage interior, the black plastic covering the windows. “Hello?” he called out.

  Twitchell froze. Vibrating in anticipation, hidden from view behind his hanging bedsheet, Twitchell cringed, not sure what to do with the man refusing to move farther inside.

  Seconds passed.

  Twitchell held his breath. But his visitor remained still. He realized the man must have spotted him when he initially drove by. Twitchell had to think fast. “Hello?” he called back, cringing again. “Oh, hold on just a sec.”

  The lights returned and a yellow glow filled the room. Twitchell peered around his sheet and there he stood: Johnny Altinger, wearing glasses, thin and tall, staring right back at him.

  Twitchell launched into an improvised routine. “Hey, I’m Mark,” he said cheerfully. “I’m a filmmaker. I’m dressing this to look like a set.” He motioned to the plastic sheeting covering his metal table, ceiling, floor, and walls.

  Johnny just looked at him, a bit confused by what he was seeing.

  Twitchell kept going, acting on the assumption that they both knew about the date. After all, Jen’s email had mentioned that a man may be in the garage, using it as a workshop. He kept his jolly mood elevated as he tried to draw out the unexpected conversation. “You see this here?” Twitchell pointed to the wooden table and reached for the prop firearm. He pulled out the magazine and showed Johnny how it was full of plastic pebbles, a pellet gun.

  Johnny took a closer look.

  “I was the guy who made that Star Wars fan film,” Twitchell blurted. He thought back to the television news coverage the project had received. “Have you heard of it?”

  “No, I haven’t,” said Johnny, cautiously.

  Seeing that the conversation was going nowhere, Twitchell tried to wrap it up. “Listen, Jen’s not back yet. She’s out on a short trip with her friends. She should be back in a bit, maybe ten minutes?”

  Johnny nodded. “I’ll come back,” he said. He jumped in his car and drove off.

  Twitchell took a deep breath, returning to his laptop as a distraction from his racing mind. He wasn’t sure how he was going to do this. But before he could think of a clear plan, Johnny was already pulling into the driveway again, parking in the same spot and ducking under the door.

  In a panic, Twitchell reached for his cell phone and pretended to be on a call. “Yeah? Okay. I’ll let him know. Bye.”

  Johnny was standing in the garage again, looking at Twitchell.

  “Oh, hey!” Twitchell smiled. “I just got off the phone with her. She said she’s stuck in traffic and won’t be back for at least a half-hour. Do you wanna stick around or come back or …”

  Johnny was already turning for the door. “Nah, I’ll leave.” He pulled his own phone out and started dialling as he opened his car door. Twitchell watched him drive off.

  He didn’t know what to do next.

  JOHNNY TALKED FAST INTO his cell phone, his other hand juggling the steering wheel and the gear shift as he cruised along the freeway back to his condo. Dale listened in on the other end.

  “Hey, I just left,” Johnny said. “She wasn’t there. But I met a guy in the garage.”

  “What?” Dale thought it sounded a little odd.

 
; “Yeah, the guy was making a movie and he showed me a replica gun.” Johnny wanted to keep it brief. He was using his pay-as-you-go cell phone, which had very little credit left on it. “I’ll give you a shout a little later when I get home.”

  Back at his condo, Johnny collapsed on his couch, frustrated by the experience. He flipped open his laptop and typed out a message to his date. About twenty minutes later, Jen wrote him back, apologizing for the delay and saying she was now at her house, but it was up to him whether he wanted to come back tonight or postpone their date for another night. Johnny read it over, thought a moment, and decided he didn’t want to waste any more of his evening, so he responded that he would head over soon.

  He knew Dale would want to know about this so he fired off an email. “She’s home now,” he typed. “I’m heading over again! HEHE!” He hit send, slipped on his jacket, and headed for the door, ecstatic that after all this trouble his Friday-night date was finally going to happen.

  FOR THE THIRD TIME that evening, the red Mazda crept slowly down the alley. A stillness drifted in the air. Rolling into the driveway, Johnny saw the garage door remained somewhat open for him to crawl under. He pulled a bag off the car seat, filled with things he’d need if he was spending the night, and stuck his keys in his pocket. A smile lit up across his face and he took a deep breath in, preparing to finally meet Jen.

  As he rose from under the garage door, however, he noticed Twitchell was still standing nearby with a strange expression on his face. Johnny gave the filmmaker a bit of a nod, acknowledging that they had met before as he searched for words to explain his third visit to the property that evening. “I guess I’m just a glutton for punishment.”