Michael West
Copyright © 2011 by Michael West
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be copied or transmitted in any form, electronic or otherwise, without express written consent of the publisher or author.
Cover art and illustrations: Matthew Perry
Cover art and illustrations in this book
Copyright © 2011 Matthew Perry & Seventh Star Press, LLC.
Editor: Amanda DeBord
Published by Seventh Star Press, LLC.
ISBN Number: 9780983740216
Library of Congress Control Number: 2011932784
Seventh Star Press
www.seventhstarpress.com
[email protected] Publisher’s Note:
Cinema of Shadows is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are the product of the author’s imagination, used in fictitious manner. Any resemblances to actual persons, places,
locales, events, etc. is purely coincidental.
Printed in the United States of America
First Edition
Dedication
For Don D’Auria, who got me started.
For Sara Larson, who kept me going.
And for the late, great Jerry Goldsmith,
whose music haunts me still.
~
Haunt:
(‘hont, ‘hänt) verb haunt-ed, haunt-ing, haunts.
1. To inhabit, visit, or appear in the form of an apparition
2. To recur or visit often, esp. as a ghost or other supernatural being.
3.To recur continually to the mind of: OBSESS
~
PREVIEW OF COMING ATTRACTIONS
Greencastle, Indiana
August 1989
There was something wrong with Amy Saunders’ baby girl, Kim, something that gave her the chills.
Her pediatrician, Dr. Weller, assured her there was nothing out of the ordinary, but he didn’t see the way the infant looked into empty corners, the way her eyes would lock on something when nothing was there. He didn’t walk into her nursery to catch her smiling through the bars of her crib, focused on the vacant rocking chair on the opposite wall. And he hadn’t witnessed the way she looked at pictures of Amy’s mother with sunny recognition, the mother that died from complications of diabetes fifteen years before her granddaughter had even been conceived.
“I don’t believe she’s autistic,” Dr. Weller told her. “Autism is the only psychological disorder diagnosed exclusively on behavior. Some children tend to have a kind of disaffected stare. They will look away rather than make eye contact, or they seem to look through you instead of at you. Kim, on the other hand, responds quite well to her surroundings. You saw how her eyes were on me as I spoke to her, how they moved to follow my finger?”
Amy nodded.
“Kim doesn’t shy away from your touch, and she doesn’t perform any of the stereotypical repetitive movements we tend to associate with autism. The problem is, this disorder doesn’t always show in infants. It isn’t fully present until around age three. There are other signs we can watch for as she grows. If she were to exhibit more than eight of them, the diagnosis might be applied, but at this stage in her development, I don’t even think it’s likely. Certainly not something you should worry about.”
Amy continued to dress her daughter, the white paper on the exam table rustling. “Then what is it?”
“I don’t think it’s anything.” He finished his notations and looked her squarely in the eye. “I know you’re concerned-”
That was a laugh. Weller couldn’t possibly know. Had he spent nine months waiting to hold his little girl, only to have her cut out of him and shoved into a glass box? Did he have a daughter turn blue at his breast the first time he tried to feed her?
“— but Kim has made remarkable progress. The circumference of her head, her size and weight, are on the small side to be sure, but they still fall well within the normal percentiles. She had a rocky start, but she’s a healthy six-month-old baby girl.”
“But why is she always staring at nothing?”
This brought a smile to Weller’s face. “Nothing to you. Remember, you’ve got twenty-eight years of learned and accumulated experiences. Where you see nothing, Kim might see a mark on the wall, a fold in the curtain, a fly.”
“But the picture of my mother —”
“Do you and your mother have similar features? Is there even a slight resemblance?”
She looked at the tiled floor of the exam room. Her father always said she had her mother’s eyes, her nose and her smile.
Weller saw the realization play out on her face and nodded. “My son used to see Wonder Woman on TV and call her Mommy. Linda Carter had the same dark hair as my wife.”
Amy grinned nervously. “You wouldn’t believe the things I was thinking.”
“You thought Kim was seeing ghosts?”
She winced at the words, her voice wilting to a whisper. “Well ... yes.”
He offered a polite chuckle. “I’m not a psychic, mind you, but I don’t think that’s the case.”
“You must really think I’m silly.”
“Not at all.” He capped his pen, shoved it into the breast pocket of his shirt. “The first child gets watched like a hawk, parents always on the lookout for problems. I’ve got one mother who takes her son to the emergency room every time he coughs.” Amy and Dr. Weller shared a smile. “You’ll be letting your next one juggle flaming torches. You’ll see.”
Amy smiled, and when she took Kim home, she told her husband, Stan, that everything was fine.
That night, Amy awoke to the sound of heavy rain droplets pelting her window. She looked at the alarm clock, saw the time glow red in the dimness. 2:33. Her brow furrowed and she rolled over toward the baby monitor, trying to hear her daughter. Kim normally cried to be fed long before now.
Fear washed over Amy like a bucket of cold water. She threw on her robe and moved quickly down the hall to the nursery. When she opened the door, her racing heart screeched to a halt in her chest.
Kim lay in her crib, tucked beneath her light blanket, giggling. Hunched over her was the silhouette of a stranger. The figure turned its shadowy head toward the open door, its bright eyes burning in the darkness like the failing embers of a bonfire.
“Stan!” Amy rushed into the room, ready to tackle the intruder, but found nothing but air between her and the wooden railing of the crib.
Whoever it was had gone.
She snatched up her daughter and held her tightly to her breast, tears soaking the peach fuzz that covered the baby’s soft scalp. Light filled the nursery, and Amy whirled to see Stan at the switch.
He scratched his paisley boxers, his voice hoarse as he spoke, “What happened?”
“Someone’s in the house.”
“What?”
“They were here, by the crib.”
He looked around. “Nobody ran past me.”
She kissed Kim’s forehead, rocked the child frantically in her arms. “They were right here and now they’re gone.”
Stan nodded and held out his hand. “Wait here. I’ll go check the doors, make sure they’re all locked.”
Amy was still trembling. “Call the police.”
He shuffled his bare feet into the hall. “Let me check the locks before we get 911 involved.”
Amy felt a draft. She shuddered and went to the window, made certain it was still latched. It was.
A few minutes later, Stan reappeared. He walked up to her, stroked her back. His gaze was loving, free of alarm, and when he spoke, his voice was calm and comforting, “Everything’s locked and latched. There’s nobody in here.”
They were silent
for a few moments as Amy looked around the room and wrestled with her fears. She’d been so certain someone was here, and yet ... it was pouring outside. Anyone who broke into the house would leave a trail of water and mud. The carpeted floor of the nursery was spotless.
Finally she said, “Kim’s sleeping in our bed for now.”
Stan brushed the hair from her forehead. “Sure, hon. Sure.”
As they walked from the room, Kim looked over her mother’s shoulder. Her tiny hand reached out for the empty rocking chair in the corner.
It swayed slightly ... back and forth ... back and forth ... back and forth.
December 12, 1992
Harmony, Indiana
The world outside the old cinema’s ticket booth was dead, frozen beneath a shroud of glistening snow. Shelly Wells watched the flakes blow and drift across the parking lot, her breath fogging the cold, curved glass. When the movie let out, the patrons would have to dig for their cars before they could leave.
Time in the cold might be just what these perverts need.
For the past year, the once grand Woodfield Movie Palace had been a porno house.
A national theater chain built a huge new multiplex just down the road. Twelve auditoriums, the largest one wired with digital sound. Of course, all the Hollywood studios now wanted their films to open in this state-of-the-art showplace, forcing the Woodfield’s single screen to take scraps.
The Woodfield’s owner and manager, Delbert King, tried booking art-house features, classic films, second run movies at cheaper prices, anything to attract an audience and put butts in the seats, but when those failed to pay the bills, he put the butts up on the screen. Now they were just breaking even.
Shelly sighed.
Their affair had been her idea. She’d been a student at Stanley University when it started, and thoughts of screwing an older, more experienced man had filled her with excited flutters. She warmed Delbert to the idea with little comments on the lobby floor, double entendres, just to see him sweat. When the summer of 1987 rolled around, she arrived early for work one day, well before opening, dressed in a short skirt with no underwear beneath. She’d made herself wet thinking of what would happen when she asked Delbert to help her change into her uniform, and the reality had been even better. He’d been able to bring her to orgasm several times, and when they finally emerged from his cramped office, they found the rest of the staff banging on the exit doors, waiting to be let in.
She smiled at the memory, but it faded quickly.
In 1988, Shelly graduated. She moved up to Chicago, attempted to put her journalism degree to good use. When that failed, she looked for anything that would buy groceries. She returned home to beg from her parents, but they were of little help. And then Delbert came into her life again, offering her a job and a place to live, and she was quick to agree.
Too quick.
The man lived on the verge of poverty, and there was no reason for it. Sure, the Woodfield was a huge money pit, but he also owned the land on which it sat. From time to time, developers approached him, offering huge sums of money for the property, enough for them to move away and start over, but Delbert would have none of it. He told Shelly the land was worth far more than what they offered, but she could see that he simply had no interest in selling.
“This is a historic landmark,” he was always saying, pointing up to the auditorium’s huge silver screen. “The original Frankenstein had its Indiana premiere right here.”
Her eyes narrowed.
Now Delbert had become Frankenstein. This damned cinema was his monster, and he spent every waking moment here, trying to keep it alive. Every morning, he cleaned the windows. Every night, he polished the popcorn kettles until they shone. In the spring, he landscaped the grounds and applied fresh paint to the outside walls. In the winter, he shoveled every square inch of pavement. And worse still, he spent cash they didn’t have to repair broken seats, fixtures, and equipment.
After three years, she’d finally had enough, enough of their fights about money, enough of Delbert’s excuses, enough of the perverted patrons they now attracted, and more than enough of the Godforsaken Woodfield Movie Palace. When they closed for the night, Shelly was prepared to give the man an ultimatum: his precious theater or his lover.
His choice.
A rattle at the box office door, keys in the lock. She knew it was Delbert and turned away. She didn’t want another fight, and after sitting out here alone and stewing about their problems, she knew that’s what she would get if she looked at him.
“The snow’s getting worse,” Shelly said.
He closed the door behind him. “Yeah.”
“What did you need?”
“I love you,” he told her.
She shook her head in disgust. There was a time when that would have made everything better, but not now. Shelly hated to admit it, but she didn’t even think it was true anymore. “And ...?”
“I know you want to leave.” There was no emotion in his voice.
She felt an icy stream course down her back. How could he know that? They’d had their fights, but she’d never come right out and said what she was planning ... or had she? She must have. How else could he know?
“I do,” she confessed, her eyes still on the snow. It was easier to be honest when she wasn’t looking at him, easier to hurt him when she couldn’t see tears in his eyes. “We never talk anymore. We never spend any time together.”
“We’ll always be together.”
Something hard pushed against the back of Shelly’s head: the barrel of a shotgun. The blast tore her skull into shrapnel and smashed through the glass in front of her.
Delbert King fell back against the door in tears. Blood cascaded down the outer wall of the booth, carrying clumps of soft tissue over the TICKETS SOLD HERE sign. He shoved the bloodied barrel into his own mouth and blew his mind onto the ceiling.
The Woodfield was intimate with death, but it would be nineteen long years before it would taste real life.
AND NOW OUR FEATURE PRESENTATION
1
The bedroom looked empty, but Kim Saunders knew they weren’t alone.
She took a few terrified steps, held out a small digital recorder, and forced words to her lips, “Are there any spirits here who would like to communicate with us?”
No reply. At least, none she could hear right now. It was possible the recorder had registered Electronic Voice Phenomena, EVP for short; a stray word, a phantom phrase, perhaps the echo of horrors that occurred long ago. She wouldn’t know for sure until they listened to the playback.
Kim swept the room with her flashlight, searching for a sign that something was wrong, but everything was neat, orderly. There was a clock radio on the bedside table, an open math textbook lying next to it, and a pair of emerald eyes staring back at her from behind the bed.
She jumped, then realized she was gazing into a mirror.
Her reflection was so pale. She ran a hand through her shoulder-length brown hair, watched her twin on the wall do the same, and turned away.
Her roommate, Tashima Ishmail, was next to cross the threshold. She was as dark as Kim was pale, a small diamond stud sparkled on the side of her nose, and her hair was woven into long, beaded braids. “Is this where they found the little girl?”
Kim nodded.
Ten years ago, amid rumors of incest, Henry York had murdered his wife and child in this house. He stabbed them with a butcher’s knife while they slept, then he turned the blade on himself. Subsequent owners had reported hearing footsteps in the hall, followed by screams. The current resident even claimed to have seen the little girl, Anna, sitting on the edge of this bed in the middle of the night, but when the lights came on, she was gone.
Tashima looked down at the mattress as if searching for blood. “I don’t even know why I’m takin’ this Parapsychology shit.”
Kim managed a grin. “Because you never wanted to hear the name ‘Freud’ again.”
Tashi
ma had often complained that Freud was discussed at length in every television, film, and radio class she took. Thankfully, Parapsychology fulfilled her Psychology requirement.
“That dude was the one who was sick in the head, if you ask me,” Tashima chuckled.
“I put the motion detectors in the hallway,” Kevin Heiliger told them as he entered the room. His blonde hair was spiked with gel, and he wore one of his many Phi Kappa Psi T-shirts. His video camera had a “Property of Stanley University” sticker on the side. “I think we’re ready.”
Kim nodded. She unclipped the walkie-talkie from her belt and pressed the red “talk” button. “Joss? We’re all set in here.”
Silence.
She pressed it again. “Joss?”
A crackle of static, and then, “You never said ‘over.’”
Kim rolled her eyes. “Joss, you’re an asshole. Over.”
He chuckled through a new burst of static. “There you go. I’ve got video feeds up on the monitors from the stationary cameras and I’m ready for anything.”
Kim chewed her lower lip, wishing she could say the same. If someone so much as said “boo” right now, she thought she would run screaming from the room, and she’d trample anyone who got in her way.
Tashima aimed an infrared thermal scanner at various points in the room, taking temperature readings. “Seventy-two degrees ... Seventy degrees ... 11:32 pm. No hot or cold spots to report.”
“Anna ...” Kim held up her recorder and looked at the ceiling. “If you’re with us, we have digital cameras and audio equipment that can see and hear you.”
“Professor Burke says not to use technical terms,” Kevin reminded her. “The spirit of someone who died in the past won’t have any idea what you’re talking about.”
“Anna was killed in the nineties. They had CDs and video cameras.”
“I just think we should stick to the language in Burke’s —”
“Remington Steele’s used to all those castles back in England,” Tashima pointed out. “These are American ghosts.”