Scott Nicholson Library Vol 3 Page 23

  On the TV screen, the trash-bag monster had gobbled another juicy girl in a bathing suit. Dempsey turned the sound up a little and a brass section punctuated the scene with abrasive and atonal glissando.

  That was the trouble with the entire horror genre: no subtlety. It was so cheesy it couldn’t smell its own stink.

  For about the tenth time since he’d entered this feels-so-good-to-be-bad phase of his life, Dempsey wished he’d applied for film school instead of necromancy, divination, and direct-to-video Armageddon.

  But, he supposed, one spiritual path was as good as the next, as long as your heart was in the right place.

  Plus, he had an agent.

  “So when do we shoot?” Snake said. “I’m ready for a little action, not a bunch of sitting around and plotting.”

  “If world domination were easy, everybody would be doing it,” Dempsey said.

  “When do we get to sacrifice some small animals?” Snake asked, blinking rapidly.

  “Remember what I said about unwanted attention,” Dempsey said. “Why go for the cheap thrills now when you can have carte blanche later? I’m talking a free pass to Sin City.”

  “Cart what?” Lacey said, standing up and strutting for attention.

  “Sit down, you’re blocking the picture,” Willard said, slurping the dregs of his Dr. Pepper.

  “Right, kids, pay attention,” Dempsey said. “Here comes the cue.”

  He grinned, wishing he’d sharpened his incisors, but none of the acolytes were looking at him anyway. He’d brainwashed them so effectively that they all stared wide-eyed at the screen, their jaws slack. Even Snake was alert, sitting up in the ragged Barcalounger and moving his right hand to his mouth as if munching invisible popcorn.

  Here it comes, here it comes...

  On the screen, the brick-chinned hero, packed into tight white trunks, waded into the lake with an air tank on his back. The shot had no mise en scene, the lighting was bad, and Dempsey had allowed no look space for the actor. The dubbed audio track, which included whistling birds and lapping water, also carried the incongruous whapping of a helicopter’s rotors.

  But the pitiful production values didn’t matter. This wasn’t about Dempsey’s vision, a screenwriter’s pursuit of an Oscar, or an actor’s desperate aversion to getting a real job. No, the point of the work lay in a single frame.

  Royce.

  The word flashed in red against a white background, and Dempsey, who’d edited the frame into the movie, was the only one in the room to notice it, but the effect was instantaneous. Willard dropped his Dr. Pepper can, Lacey quit fiddling with her blond curls, and Snake emitted a barking fart.

  The scene was already continuing, the actor wading into the water, the story scrolling toward the inevitable end where the Forces of Good kicked the butt of Unspeakable Evil. But the audience members no longer followed the action, because they were suffering their own plot twists.

  “Royce,” they said in monotonal unison.

  “Royce,” Dempsey echoed, and they looked at him.

  “In the name of Royce, we open our hearts,” Dempsey said.

  “In the name of Royce,” the members of the coven repeated.

  “In the name of Royce, we open our eyes.”

  “In the name of Royce.”

  “In the name of Royce, we open the Orifice,” Dempsey said. He wasn’t so sure of the meaning of that line, but the agent had insisted, and the agent tended to get what he wanted. Dempsey suspected it had to do with those dark, squishy holes that had appeared in the video store and the coffee shop.

  “In the name of Royce,” came the collective response.

  Dempsey glanced at the screen, where the hunky, squirrel-eyed actor was emerging from the water, carrying the shivering, scantily clad form of the unconscious lady.

  He lifted his voice in triumph. “In the name of Royce, we–”

  Bang bang bang.

  Dempsey glanced up. A little old lady on a pension lived upstairs, and despite her age, her hearing apparently had not diminished one little bit. She’d introduced herself as Mrs. Vickers. Hair wild as Einstein’s and white as snow, she owned six cats and kept close track on Dempsey’s comings and goings, as well as those of his guests.

  Anytime the proceedings got a little too rowdy, or it sounded like somebody might be having a little fun, she tapped on the floor with the tip of her cane.

  “In the name of Royce,” the followers echoed.

  “I’m not finished yet.”

  “I’m not finished yet,” they said.

  “Quit acting like a bunch of zombies,” Dempsey said, keeping his voice down. He wanted to shout, but he wasn’t willing to risk the wrath of Mrs. Vickers. He told himself it was because he didn’t want to draw attention at this most important and sacred time, but in truth he feared she’d beat him over the head with one of those hard old-lady shoes.

  Snake sniffed, bubbling mucus. “Bunch of zombies,” he droned belatedly, not quite processing Dempsey’s request for them to shut up.

  “In the name of Royce, shut your freaking cakehole,” Dempsey said.

  “In the name of—”

  “Quiet on the set.” Dempsey slashed his open hand like the blade of an ax.

  He was messing up the lines the agent had taught him. The whole film deal was dependent on breaking out this new actor, Royce, whom the agent kept raving about. Royce had been an extra in a few of Dempsey’s movies, but apparently Royce’s schedule was tight, because he could never spend more than an hour on set at a time.

  Royce certainly couldn’t be any worse than the bartenders, truck drivers, and beauty-school dropouts Dempsey had used in his earlier films. And the agent had explained that having Royce attached made the Hollywood deal a slam dunk.

  “It’s so set, it’s set set,” the agent had said over the phone. “It’s so golden, it’s yellow and orange.”

  Which was the weirdest part of the whole thing. The agent had called him. For the past three years, Dempsey had sent clips and tapes and YouTube links to every agent in Hollywood and hadn’t received so much as a letter from the legal department. Then, out of the blue, the agent called and greenlighted an original horror production.

  Dempsey finished the call-and-response chant. “In the name of Royce, we open our souls.”

  “In the name of Royce,” they echoed.

  Zombies. He’d always wanted a captive audience. One way or another.

  The movie was ending, the creepy but monotonous synthesizer score heralding the credits. The names scrolled over a still frame of the water, on which floated the vanquished evil creature. It looked like a trash bag on a lake. But it wasn’t the image that mattered, it was the substance.

  In the movie business, credits were candy. Even caterers and hairdressers got their names listed. But not many people got their names in big letters.

  The world will know Dempsey Van Heusen, and all will shudder in my shadow. Shyamalan, Cameron, Howard, and Spielberg, prepare to eat my shorts.

  When it came to hobbies, the mindless pursuit of fame, fortune, and power beat the hell out of stamp collecting.

  “In the name of Royce, we now return you to your regularly scheduled programming,” Dempsey said, the line that broke the spell and returned his acolytes to their normal state of consciousness—such as it was.

  “Whoa,” Snake said, still blinking. “Where am I?”

  “Paradise,” Dempsey said. “Now come grab copies of my movies to give to all your friends. Then I have to call my agent. Did I tell you I had an agent?”

  “Only six times,” Lacey said.

  “Seven. I’ve got an agent.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Crystal wrinkled her nose.

  She wasn’t sure if Momma’s latest concoction would grow hair on the ghost of Winston Churchill, but it sure would keep nostril hairs in check. Maybe Dempsey could use some of this. It smelled of ammonia, vinegar, rat poison, and one of Fatback Bob’s scrambled-egg farts.

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nbsp; The shower curtain fluttered, nearly causing her to drop the glass beaker.

  “Darn you, Bone,” Crystal said.

  “You love it when I spy on you,” came Bone’s voice from the tub. “Hey, there’s some nice reverb in here.”

  Bone broke into song, a twangy version of Taylor Swift’s “You Belong to Me.”

  When she wailed the chorus, Crystal cut in. “That song’s a lot creepier coming from a ghost.”

  Bone went solid, parting the translucent shower curtain. She was naked behind it.

  “Uh, you forgot something,” Crystal said.

  “Give me a break. You’ve seen it all before.”

  “Yeah, but we’re older now.”

  “You’re just jealous because I got a better rack than you.”

  “At least mine’s getting used.”

  “Ouch. Anyway, there are no malls in Darkmeet. It’s either hooded robes or cobwebs.”

  Crystal tossed her a towel. Bone caught it, releasing the curtain, and Crystal tried not to compare.

  She’s dead. No contest.

  Growing up, they’d examined their bodies in innocent exuberance and scientific curiosity, pinching the odd lumps and new growth. It had become awkward when the first pubic hairs sprouted, and then they’d learned about lesbians, and everything got weird. Church people said it was wrong. So they learned shame and stopped.

  Now Crystal was ashamed of being ashamed.

  “So, how are things over here?” Bone said, wrapping the towel around her body.

  “I’m doing all right, but Mom’s up to something.”

  “Your mom’s always up to something.”

  Crystal held the beaker and its skanky contents aloft. “But usually you can see right through it. And her.”

  “Channeling Marlon Brandon again?”

  “Worse than that. She’s got this idea that the end of the world is coming.”

  “The end of the world is always coming.”

  “Yeah, but, like, Thursday?”

  “We need to talk about that,” Bone said.

  “Don’t tell me you lost faith. I thought you were getting along great over there. Making new friends, going to all the right parties—”

  “What if God is listening right now?”

  “The benefit of agnosticism.” Crystal swirled the beaker’s contents, hoping for a chemical reaction, but it only emitted more stink. She set it on the counter.

  “Agnosti-what?” Bone picked up a hair brush and ran it through her red locks, preening in the steamy mirror. She cast no reflection.

  “Abstaining from belief. The GED’s, remember? Try studying a dictionary and see where it gets you.”

  “Hey, I did a lot of abstaining, and not all of it by choice. I mean, who wants to save it for marriage these days?”

  “Don’t go there.”

  “You’re the one who broke the pact.” Bone padded over to the counter in her bare feet and examined the array of oils, unguents, lotions, powders, sauces, and random mummified remains of animals.

  “So I lost my virginity first,” Crystal said. “It was only a little bit and only lasted eight seconds. So technically it shouldn’t count.”

  “Blood is blood, sister. And there’s no going back.”

  “They also say that about dying. But here you are.” Crystal patted her friend’s shoulder. Her fingers went through the apparent flesh and instantly ached from a deep chill.

  “Only partly,” Bone said, as if she hated to be reminded. “How’s Pettigrew?”

  “Fine. But tell me about the end of the world.”

  “First the important stuff. Like whether Dempsey is putting the moves on you.”

  “I’m not ready to get too serious with anybody.”

  “Don’t wait too long. Tomorrow might never come.”

  Crystal rolled her eyes. “Melodrama doesn’t suit you, Bone.”

  Bone opened the mirror and scanned the medicine chest. “Valium, Vicodin, No-Doz, Ex-Lax. Zoloft, huh? Still on antidepressants?”

  “You looking for something?”

  “Satan.”

  “I think he’s in the Ex-Lax.”

  “Watch the sacrilege.” Bone glanced into the shower and down the sink drain. She set the toilet seat down. “God and Satan might be listening. Fighting over which one gets stuck with the both of us.”

  Crystal pushed the cabinet door shut with a clang. “You’ve been jumpy ever since you got here. What’s the deal?”

  “I’m not supposed to tell you.”

  “That means I need to know.”

  Bone sighed and fumbled with a ceramic urn that had Greek designs painted on it.

  “Careful with that,” Crystal said. “It’s Aristotle’s ashes.”

  “Okay, it’s like this. The Judge—that hooded little Hitler I was telling you about—let me cross over. And they know about Dempsey. Whatever they have planned, it’s happening right here in Parson’s Ford.”

  The toilet lid thumped. Moments later, it lifted a few inches and a black, slimy tentacle probed the air beyond the porcelain. Bone leaned over and flushed. The tentacle hovered for a moment, quivering for a grip, then was lost to gravity and slithered backward, the lid closing as it disappeared.

  “They followed you,” Crystal said.

  “That’s what I’m saying. You, me, Dempsey, somehow it’s all connected.”

  “Dempsey’s making a movie. He wants me to push his product.”

  “He’s using you. But if you’re going to be used, you may as well be used by a hottie.”

  “I told you, I’m sticking with Pettigrew. Unlike you, I know the meaning of loyalty.”

  “You and your dorky dictionary.”

  “All right, now that we’ve confirmed your lack of morals, let’s figure out this ‘end of the world’ business. Because if all hell breaks loose, I’ll never graduate from community college.”

  “Your momma said the third Orifice was the key.”

  “Yeah, magic always works in threes, and it always has a price.”

  “And you have to guard the hole, cast a few spells, blah blah blah.”

  “Yeah, but you know the price. If I become the guardian, I’m stuck in trailer-trash hell for the rest of my life.”

  “Beats the real hell. If there is one.”

  “Darkmeet’s feeding you all this ‘Tweener’ business, like the afterlife is one long ride on a sideways elevator. But maybe that’s as good as it gets.”

  “No wonder they want to take over the world. I mean, candy. The Judge has a serious Jones for a sugar buzz. And this guy I’ve sort of been seeing—”

  The concoction in the beaker began to fizz, oozing an odor like rancid bacon. “Jeez, Momma must have rigged a time-delayed spell,” Crystal said. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “Last one’s a rotten egg,” Bone said, fading into thin air and leaving the rumpled towel on the floor.

  Crystal paused at the door, giving one last glance to make sure the beaker was in its original position. Momma had warned about Crystal’s meddling, and there was an unspoken understanding that Crystal was welcome to learn the family craft when she was ready. It was no different than the daughter of a musician who always had fiddles and pianos lying about, except in this case, it was bat wings, owl feathers, and navel jelly, and the craft was that of the witch.

  Still, you didn’t mess with someone else’s spell without permission.

  Crystal entered the hallway and came face to face with a blue-eyed young man with a gelled sweep of tawny hair and bags under his eyes. He leaned against the wall with one hand on his hip, smirking around a cigarette.

  She squealed in shock and he laughed.

  “How did you get in here?” she said, eyeing him warily.

  “The door that swings both ways, sweetheart,” he said.

  “Did Pettigrew put you up to this?”

  “I don’t know no Pettigrew.” He glanced up and down the hall.

  Crystal followed his eyes, looking for
Bone, who was nowhere in sight. The man wore a plain cotton T-shirt, blue jeans, and black leather boots. And he was muscular, his face rounded and with high flat cheekbones. He looked dangerous, but not in the “rapist” kind of way. More like “I’ll kiss you, raid your refrigerator, and leave your heart in crumbs.”

  “Who do you think you are?” she asked, angry that he’d walked into the trailer without knocking.

  Or crossed over.

  “Where’s your friend?”

  “I asked first.”

  “Yeah, and I ignored you. Where is she?” His piercing eyes settled on hers and they were like miniature suns with dark solar flares, but they quickly flitted elsewhere. Across her body.

  “You’re trespassing in my home,” Crystal said. “Get out before I call the cops.”

  “I’m not leaving until I get what I want.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I’ll know it when I see it.” He smelled of cologne, sweat, and leather, a heady mixture, but despite his rugged looks and bad-boy aura there was vulnerability about him. And a certain familiarity.

  “Did I know you in high school?” she asked.

  “Never been to no school,” he said, with an insouciant toss of his mane, though the thick gel prevented all but the mildest movement. He brought out a switchblade, which Crystal thought had gone out of fashion after the “Grease” revival. He flicked open the blade and began cleaning his nails.

  “I’m going to call the cops,” she said.

  “I’ll cut the phone wire.”

  Even from 10 feet away, she could see the knife was plastic. No instrument of terror was this.

  She decided it was his old-school, swooped-up hairstyle that made him boyish and absurd, like a demonic teddy bear. “I’ve got a cell.”

  “Cell?” He glanced around. “Like, you in the hoosegow or something?”

  “I’m in Parson’s Ford.”

  “Good. You don’t look like the law-breaking type. Too goody-goody. Nothing personal.”

  “You’ve broken into my house, you won’t tell me your name, and it’s nothing personal?”

  He yawned and flipped the toy switchblade closed, worming it into the back pocket of his skin-tight jeans. “Where’s your friend?”