All Too Surreal

by Tim Waggoner

  Actually, it wasn’t that bad. True, scraps of litter were scattered about, and the grass could use a good mowing and weeding, and the brick building where the restrooms were located was covered with incomprehensible graffiti, but it was spring, and the green smell of new growth hung in the air and —

  A figure exited the men’s room and began walking toward Simon: a thin, almost emaciated man dressed in tattered black rags, with wild, raven hair and extended claw-like fingers.

  Simon’s first thought was that one of the fans from the comic shop had somehow followed him here. His second thought was to question how the fan was able to get here before him and secret himself in the restroom. His third thought, which was really more of a subliminal perception than a thought per se, was that there was something odd about the way the Shrike clone carried himself, a too fluid way of moving, as if he flowed forward instead of walking. And his elbows and knees didn’t seem to bend quite right; they appeared to bend a few inches beyond what the joints should allow, and Simon had the impression that they could bend all the way backward, as if the man’s bones were made out of rubber.

  He felt a cold watery ripple in his gut as the fan approached. The man had a leer on his face — on his far-too-familiar face — that made Simon want to run, run, run and not stop until his heart burst. But he was too old to try, knew that the fan would be able to catch him easily, so he instead resorted to the only option left him. Like a chameleon being eyed by a hungry bird, he would change color, he would act.

  Simon drew himself up to his full height and fixed the man with a haughty stare. “It’s not a bad likeness, but I’m afraid it won’t win you any points for originality.”

  The fan came within five feet, then stopped. Simon was going to utter another sarcastic comment, but the words died in his throat as he got his first truly good look at the man’s face. It wasn’t merely the make-up which made it seem familiar, nor the trademarked Shrike leer. This just wasn’t any face; it was his — Simon Karkull’s, as he had been twenty some years ago when he had first played Shrike.

  “Surprised?” Shrike said. The voice was the same, too. Younger, more vibrant than his, full of sinister intent and dark amusement.

  Simon could think of nothing else to say other than the truth. “Actually, yes. Quite a bit.”

  He looked at those fingers, watched the way the multi-jointed digits moved, as if they were some manner of strange crustaceans growing forth from the man’s wrists. They couldn’t be artificial, not the way the skin stretched, the muscles flexed, the knuckles hinged. They were real.

  He should have been incredulous, should have questioned his sanity, worried he was having a stroke or experiencing the first signs of senile dementia. But he didn’t. Shrike — the Shrike, the movie monster that Simon had played in seven films — had somehow acquired physical, independent existence and now stood before him. In a way, it felt almost as if Simon had been expecting his doppelganger, as if he had come to this park for the sole purpose of meeting his other self.

  “I suppose my next line is to ask how this is possible,” Simon said. “How you’re possible.”

  Shrike grinned. “It’s an actor’s job to bring a character to life, isn’t it? You did your job well, Simon. Very well.”

  “You mean I created you? Literally?”

  “In conjunction with various scriptwriters and directors. And the fans, of course.” Shrike grinned, displaying white shark teeth. “I wouldn’t be where I am today without them. But you are my primary creator, yes.”

  “Why have you appeared now? It’s been over twenty years since the first Shrike movie, thirteen since the last.”

  “I needed to reach a certain critical mass in terms of psychic energy before I could become corporeal. The Internet helped a great deal — all those fans setting up Web sites, posting on message boards, obsessing over trivia … And of course, there’s you, Simon. You’ve become more angry and bitter in recent years. Those emotions fed me, gave me strength until …” Shrike spread his arms wide. “Here I am; happy birthday to me. Although, technically, yesterday was my natal day, when you left your little memento room.”

  Simon remembered hearing dark laughter as he closed the door, but he had put it down to being drunk.

  “You were sooooo angry at Peter Winston for casting you aside, for not even giving you a chance to read the script for the new film. Angry enough to wish him dead.”

  The spring breeze suddenly grew chilly, and did the trees in the park seem grayer, their edges less distinct, as if they weren’t physical objects any longer, but rather sketches done in charcoal? Perhaps.

  “I didn’t kill Winston.”

  “Of course you didn’t,” Shrike said soothingly. “I did. Because you wished it.”

  Simon wanted to deny it, to tell Shrike that he was crazy, but how did one seriously accuse a fictional character come to life of insanity? No, he knew it was true. Last night, Peter Winston had become the lightning rod for all the disappointment and self-loathing that had built up in Simon Karkull over the years, and this morning he hadn’t been sorry at all that the man was dead, not one bit.

  “I suppose you’re here to kill me now,” Simon said. He was surprised at how steady his voice was, even more surprised at how little the prospect of dying bothered him.

  Shrike shrugged. “If that’s what you’d like. Don’t have any illusions that your death would mean mine, though. I exist independently of you now, and the new film will only strengthen my reality. Besides, your death at the hands of a ‘Shrike impersonator’ would fuel fan obsession for decades, making me even more powerful.” For a moment, Shrike seemed to consider the possibilities, but then he shook his head. “But I’ve come before you with a different agenda, Simon.”

  Shrike clacked his talons together — were there flakes of dried blood clinging to the nails? — in what Simon thought was a nervous gesture.

  “It’s actually somewhat embarrassing to admit,” Shrike continued, “but now that I find myself imbued with existence, I lack … purpose. I’m used to having a script, a director —” he gestured at Simon — “an actor to interpret me. Left to my own devices, I’m not really sure what to do with myself. I was … I was hoping you might have some ideas.” He smiled hopefully. “Like you did last night.”

  Slowly, Simon Karkull grinned, and though his teeth were normal blunt human teeth yellowed by age and didn’t resemble at all the ivory incisors which filled Shrike’s mouth, the grin wasn’t all that different than his other self’s. Not so different at all.

  “The script needs another rewrite, Cecile. Yes, I know it’s already been through seventeen, but it’s still crap. Hire another writer — someone who can actually put together a sentence this time — and tell him to fix the damn thing, okay?”

  Simon didn’t wait for his assistant producer to respond. He disconnected and set the phone down on the glass table next to his beach chair. He picked up his glass of sinfully expensive wine, took a sip, and gazed out contentedly across the beach and over the waves. Three million dollars, that’s what his oceanfront home in Malibu had cost, and as far as he was concerned, it had been worth every last drachma.

  His skin was a deep, rich bronze thanks to years of California sun, and his face looked like it belonged to a man twenty years younger, thanks to a highly skilled and very popular surgeon in Van Nuys. His body was a bit on the bony side for the navy blue Speedos he wore, but he was too rich to give a damn.

  “Can I get you anything else, Simon?”

  Simon looked up, saw Paolo — sweet, young Paolo who looked just fine in his Speedos, or out of them, for that matter — haloed by the afternoon sun.

  Simon was about to tell Paolo exactly what he could get him, when he felt a familiar tingle at the base of his skull.

  “I’m fine. I’ve got to make a business call, and it might drag on for a while. Why don’t you take the rest of the day off? Provided, as Scrooge said, that you’re here all the earlier tomorrow.”


  Paolo flashed a grin, showing perfectly white, perfectly straight teeth that had cost Simon more than a bit of money. “Thank you, sir.” Paolo turned and trotted back up the beach toward the house.

  Simon watched him go, enjoying the way the boy’s muscles worked beneath his tanned skin. At Simon’s age, the servant was primarily eye candy, but that was okay with him; it beat all hell out of being surrounded by pale, geeky fanboys in horror film T-shirts.

  A few moments after Paolo had gone, there was a shimmer in the air, and Shrike appeared.

  “Is it done?” Simon asked.

  Shrike nodded. “I sliced and diced the brake lines on her Porsche last night, and she took an unscheduled flight into a ravine early this morning. She’ll live, but she’ll never tap-dance again.”

  Simon took another sip of wine. “Serves the bitch right. That’s the last time she’ll ever be late to the set of one of my films. It means we’ll have to recast her part, of course, but that’s a minor hassle. With any luck, we’ll find someone cheaper and a hell of lot easier to work with.”

  Thanks to his association with Shrike — and the publicity surrounding the mutilation deaths of various actors who had appeared in the original seven Shrike films — Simon had not only been able to resume his acting career in the new Shrike movie, but with a few more strategically planned murders here and there, along with some intimidating late-night visits by his alter ego to the right people, he had been able to work his way up to director and now producer. Life, as the poet said, was good. Damn good.

  “I’ve got another job for you. There’s this accountant over at Paramount —”

  “Not this time, Simon,” Shrike interrupted. “I’m tired of being your supernatural hit-man.”

  Simon sat up and worked to control a rush of panic. Without Shrike …

  He smiled, playing it cool. “Let me guess; you want a raise. Or you’ve decided that what you really want to do is direct.”

  Shrike ignored the joke. His elongated fingers flexed and curled, looking more than ever like crustacean legs this close to the ocean. “Do you remember when I first made my grand entrance a few years ago? How I said I didn’t know what to do with my new life, and how I needed you to give me ideas?”

  Simon could only nod.

  Shrike smiled his shark’s teeth smile. “I lied. I already had an idea — and it was a doozy. But I needed you to help me make it a reality.” Shrike looked out over the ocean. “Do you know what it’s like to be a monster, Simon? Not a real monster, like you; I mean a movie monster. Stuck forever in the same stupid stories, always hunted by the heroes, always losing in the end. Oh sure, you get to off a few people, and there’s a chance you’ll come back in a sequel. But the sequels aren’t any better than the originals, worse, really, because they usually suck so much. And you’re forced to do it all over again every time some idiot grabs a tape off the horror shelves at his local video store, takes it home, and shoves it in his VCR. And cable television —” Shrike shuddered. “A hundred channels, on twenty-four a days, seven days a week. How many of those hours are filled by horror movies? Too many.”

  “But that’s not your problem anymore, right?” Simon said. “You’ve been free for years.”

  Shrike raised a single eyebrow. “Free? To coin a cliché, how can I be free if even one of my people is still enslaved? We monsters realized a long time ago if only one of us could break through to your reality, could become strong enough, he might be able to open a doorway for the others.”

  Simon couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “A … doorway?”

  Shrike’s lips curled back from his teeth in a half-smile, half-snarl. He pushed Simon back onto the beach chair and sat down on his legs, pinning him in place.

  “Thanks to you, I’ve become very strong. More Shrike films, more mysterious deaths … people talk, you know. At conventions, on the Internet. Some even go so far as to suggest that maybe Shrike isn’t a fictional character, he’s real. And last night’s murder finally put me over the top power-wise.” Shrike leaned forward, licked his lips with a black lizard tongue. “Time to play horror movie host one last time, Simon.”

  Shrike extended an oversize index finger and pressed the tip of its ebony talon to the base of Simon’s neck. He pressed down and there was a sound like paper being punctured. Simon felt no pain, could only watch as Shrike slowly drew a bloodless line down his chest and across his abdomen, the edges of the wound peeling back like drawing paper.

  “It took time to find the right host,” Shrike said as he worked. “We needed a human who could bridge the gap between worlds, someone who portrayed a monstrous archetype so effectively that he was looked upon by his fellow men and women as if he actually were the creature he pretended to be. But it had to be someone full of bitterness and anger, whose soul was ripe ground in which our evil could take root and grow. Someone who could not only help one of us attain physical existence, but who would be foolish enough to help that one continue to grow stronger so that one day he might do this!”

  With a final flourish, Shrike finished his incision, stood and stepped back.

  For a moment, Simon felt nothing. And then he sensed Them inside, stirring as they began to claw their way toward reality — fanged, furred, scaled, stitched, wrapped in ancient cerements, encased in chitin, nightmarish malformed things which stalked and lurched and loped through endless hours of schlock cinema, all lusting to finally be free!

  As the first clawed hand thrust its way into the light, Shrike’s grin widened until it threatened to split his face in two. “Cheer up, Simon. Your last role is going to be your greatest. Simon Karkull, starring in The End of the World as We Know It — along with a cast of thousands.”

  As he watched them come forth one by one in all their dark majesty, Simon had the strangest urge to applaud. He might have, too — if only he could have moved his charcoal-sketch hands.

  Mirroring

  Greg knew that the man in the mirror wasn’t his reflection; the problem was how to prove it.

  He stood at the bathroom sink, hands gripping the counter, glaring into the eyes of the man behind the glassy surface of the medicine-chest mirror. The man glared right back.

  Greg cocked his head slowly to the left, then the right. As usual, the man in the mirror matched each motion precisely. Greg never ceased to be amazed at the man’s skill at duplicating his movements so exactly. Then with a swift motion, Greg drew back his lips, baring his yellowed teeth and red-pink gums. The man beneath the glass was not caught off guard. His lips pulled back, his teeth and gums were exposed in unison with Greg’s. Greg thought he detected the slightest twinkle in his double’s eyes, as if he were saying, You ought to know better by now.

  True. How many times since becoming aware that his reflection had vanished — or been stolen — and replaced by this … person had Greg stood like this, making faces, wiggling his fingers, turning his head and body this way and that, going through all manner of contortions in an attempt to trick his duplicate? But no matter how he moved, the man in the mirror kept right up with him. In fact, sometimes Greg had the sense that his double was actually a fraction of a second ahead of him.

  Greg had tried everything he could think of to expose his duplicate’s charade. He had gone into his bedroom, changed clothes, then returned to the bathroom, only to find the man in the mirror wearing exactly the same outfit. Greg had even tried mixing and matching his clothes in order to make the most outlandish combinations, wearing his pants on his arms, his underwear on his head, a sweater over his legs. But regardless of how strangely Greg had garbed himself, his duplicate was always dressed the same.

  Then Greg had gone downstairs, taken a felt-tip marker out of the junk drawer, and drawn a smiley face on his stomach, using his belly button for the right eye. But when he stood before the medicine-chest mirror and lifted his shirt — the man in the mirror matching this procedure precisely, of course — Greg saw that the man had drawn a smiley face on his stomach, too. Though
his belly button formed the face’s left eye. Clever.

  Greg had wondered if perhaps the medicine chest itself had something to do with it. He opened it, but there was nothing inside other than what could be expected, various medicines and toiletries. He closed the door. He considered for a time, his duplicate appearing to think right along with him. Perhaps it wasn’t the medicine chest itself so much as its location. Greg hurried to the garage, got a screwdriver from his toolbox, returned to the bathroom, and removed the mirror.

  He carried the mirror all around the house, even took it outside. He held it before him at different angles as he walked, but it didn’t matter. The man was still there, still copying him movement by movement. Since the mirror’s location obviously didn’t matter, Greg put it back in the bathroom where it belonged.

  He then tried to trip up his nemesis by reciting song lyrics, watching the other’s lips closely for a slip, but his duplicate made none. Greg then babbled nonsense syllables, but still the man was able to copy him.

  Now, here before the mirror once again, Greg realized he had no choice. He went into the garage, retrieved a hammer, and came back to the mirror. He was not a violent man by nature, would rather catch a spider or fly and take it outside than kill it, but the man in the mirror had driven him to desperate measures.

  As he lifted the hammer to strike, an expression of triumph crossed his double’s face, an expression Greg knew was mirrored on his own face. And then he brought the hammer against the glass with all his strength, and the sound of shattering sliced the air.

  Greg’s world fell away and he found himself falling, tumbling, spinning, and then crashing to the floor in a thousand jagged shards.