Something Weird

Something Weird

  By

  Ian Watson

  Copyright 2014 Ian Watson

  ***

  License Notes

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this eBook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to the vendor of your choice and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  ***

  By The Same Author

  BLOOD SEX & SCOOBY SNACKS

  MORE BLOOD SEX & SCOOBY SNACKS

  THE PENIS MONSTER’S MOVIE GUIDE

  MIDNIGHT MOVIE MADNESS

  SICK IN THE HEAD (AS “DUANE BRADLEY”)

  ***

  Part 1

  On the morning of Sunday April 16, two days before his fortieth birthday, Samuel P Bishop went to kill a man.

  Nick Blake lived alone in a quiet area of town. Breaking in was not particularly difficult. The challenge for Bishop lay in finding something to do until his quarry arrived at seven pm.

  He checked his watch. Right now, Blake was on the road, driving home from the horror festival where he was Guest of Honour. He’d probably stood in front of a hundred adoring fans and prattled on like a simpleton, the way his book did. Had likely reiterated, for the zillionth time, the story of how his self-published novel, released without fanfare, had defied the odds and sold a hundred thousand copies, netting him a deal with a major publisher.

  Bishop had read a few pages of Come The Night, and calling it crude and juvenile was being kind. There was a four-letter word in every paragraph, plus dismemberment, usually performed with a chainsaw, every few pages. The men were tough-talking caricatures, the women submissive. Every supporting character behaved like a complete idiot.

  Then again, Blake was also this: popular. Whether it was because he was flavour of the month, or because they wanted to appear au courant, the book-buying public tolerated his poor writing skills and went along for the ride.

  Bishop often blamed their lapses in judgment for his own failure to make it as a writer. He’d spent half his life bent over a desk, scratching out stories editors didn’t want to buy. Excellent story, the rejection slips read, but simply not for us. For someone like Nick Blake to appear overnight and steal the kudos with an excellent story about cops, hookers, and chainsaws was the final insult.

  That was a good reason to kill a man.

  Blake lived in a three-storey Brownstone purchased not with the proceeds from his book but his day job, which entailed doctoring film scripts. That probably meant he took a perfectly good story, removed everything that worked and added the kind of gore-soaked ultra-violence that only a teenage mind could love. Plus, if you could throw in explosions, car chases and women with all the depth of rubber dolls, so much the better.

  For someone who made his living as a wordsmith, though, even in a medium as despicable as horror pictures, there were precious few books lying around. A home cinema system dominated one room, with the biggest screen Bishop had ever seen flanked by shelves carrying Blu-ray discs with unfamiliar titles. Covers showed brain-sucking parasites, rubber-suited monsters that lusted after bikinied starlets and, of course, a member of the living dead opening one unfortunate’s carotid with its teeth.

  In the next room, Bishop hit the mother lode – Blake’s writing desk. While it didn’t surprise him that the Wizard Of Bore wrote while surrounded by pictures of his beloved monsters, he was interested to see that the desk held only paper and a few pens. There was no laptop, no printer, not even a typewriter.

  Better yet, the drawers were unlocked, and full to bursting. Mostly old junk, but he was heartened to discover a few paperbacks, at least until he realized it was more pulp crap. He had never heard of Richard Laymon or Brian Keene or Edward Lee, and judging by the covers, that was no huge loss.

  Also inside was a red folder containing a few handwritten pages. The Bard’s next tragedy, he thought. The manuscript looked to be around forty pages, written in a child-like scrawl.

  How appropriate.

  The prospect of reading his nemesis in draft form, without the protection of proofing or revision, tickled him. After all, what could be more pleasurable than revelling in your enemy’s mistakes?

  Well, killing him, obviously, and watching the light go out of his eyes. But that would come, soon enough.

  Right now, he was going to enjoy himself.

  Part 2

  LEATHERFACE’S REQUIEM

  The sessions were supposed to be about confronting your demons, defeating them and moving onward, toward the light at the end of the tunnel or whatever, but as he watched his friends humiliate themselves for the umpteenth time, Leatherface had never wanted a drink more badly in his life.

  Setting his decaffeinated coffee aside, he laced his fingers across his chest and thought about how he’d rather be at home, getting wasted watching Barney The Purple Dinosaur, when Jason started crying again.

  Krueger, the bully. All he ever did was pick on Jason, just because they had a history. As usual, Megatron laughed and made obscene gestures while John Ryder, aka The Hitcher, stared straight ahead, saying nothing.

  This wasn’t right. They’d killed more teenagers than Donald Rumsfeld, caused more nightmares than Michael Jackson and become legends in their respective communities, but now they were reduced to this? Court appointed rehab where all they did was mope?

  Leatherface shook his head. His personal decline had been slow and steady, he’d seen it coming, and when the chili finally hit the fan, he realized there wasn’t a booze bottle big enough to silence the voices of regret in his head.

  If only he’d never trusted Michael Bay. That sumbitch had convinced him to sell out his beliefs and sign on to appear in a bunch of crappy flicks that nobody – not the fans, not the filmmakers, not even Leatherface hisownself – liked or believed in. Okay, so they made a ton of dough, but what good was that when folks started throwing garbage at you?

  Christ, even President Obama sent him a shit in a sock.

  To top it all, Bay threw him away when their last collaboration underperformed and moved on to courting Freddy and Jason, treating them in much the same way. He didn’t need ask about their experiences, not with Jason in tears and Freddy punching the walls, as he was now.

  Leatherface decided to lighten the mood.

  “Got a joke for you,” he said.

  Which threw off Freddy’s concentration. He turned, did a double take, and said, “My God, it speaks.”

  “Satan walks up to Michael Bay and says, ‘Would you sleep with me if I gave you $20 million, a Lear jet and a fleet of sports cars?’ Bay looks at the Prince of Darkness and doesn’t hesitate: ‘Absolutely!’ So Satan says, ‘How about if I gave you ten dollars, a pack of Doritos and ten percent of the net?’ Infuriated, Bay says, ‘What kind of filmmaker do you take me for?’ ‘We’ve already established that,’ Satan tells him. ‘Now we’re negotiating the price.’

  Silence.

  “You don’t think that’s funny?”

  “That,” Megatron said, “was a little too close to what Hollywood calls ‘based on a true story.’”

  “Sorry.”

  “What he’s trying to tell you, kid,” Freddy said, “is that you don’t point and laugh at car wrecks. Especially when it’s your car.” He shrugged, then added, “Or career.”

  The room fell silent.

  Jason began crying again.

  Sighing, Leatherface removed an AA card from his
pocket. The five words, printed in bold type, had become his mantra.

  One Day At A Time.

  ***

  Every night after beating off, Leatherface dreamed about Erebus, the primordial deity. One of the first five beings in Creation, Erebus was born of Chaos and brother to Nyx, or Night, with whom he made several little deities that probably had an uneven number of fingers and toes.

  Leatherface didn’t know how he knew this, he just knew, same as he knew a primordial deity was one badass you didn’t want to mess with.

  What he didn’t get was why the sucker entered his head every night, moments after he finished pleasuring himself over Jessica Biel in a wet t-shirt. That wasn’t just rude, it was downright disturbing. Suppose he was working his rod and Mr Personification of Darkness popped in to say howdy? Wood was in short supply these days, and if some uninvited guest kept invading his personal space, he’d be whittling on a matchstick before long.

  In the dream, Erebus usually manifested himself as some faceless dude in a suit who talked at length about death but never said anything Leatherface could remember. Tonight, though, not only did he remember the deity’s words, he also got to see his nemesis up close and personal, confirming what he’d long suspected.

  Erebus was Michael Bay.

  Putting his hands on Leatherface’s shoulders, Erebus/Bay looked him in the eye and said, “Do you know where you are?”

  Leatherface looked around. The landscape was flat, grey and uninviting.

  “New Jersey?”

  “This,” Erebus/Bay said, “is where you come after death.”

  And Leatherface woke up.

  Woke up screaming.

  ***

  They found the body later that morning.

  John Ryder, aka The Hitcher, wore silk stockings, lipstick and a cheap blonde wig. There was an amyl nitrate-laced lemon slice in his mouth and a length of rubber hose around his throat.

  He’d been watching The Fast And The Furious.

  “Did he say anything to anyone?” Leatherface said.

  “Dude didn’t say anything, period,” Megatron said. “He was kind of a cold fish, you know? I asked where he was from, and he said, ‘Disneyland.’”

  A tear rolled down Jason’s hockey mask.

  “Aw, Christ,” Freddy said, “here we go again.”

  “Why can’t you leave him alone?” Leatherface said.

  “Hey, if he acts like a little baby and blubbers like one, that’s the way he’s gonna get treated, all right? Ain’t my problem he isn’t made from sterner stuff.”

  “Lay off him. The kid had it rough.”

  “We’ve all had it rough, Chief. That’s why we are who we are. But there’s only one of us lives alone with his momma’s head in the fridge. Even by my standards, that’s kinda messed up.”

  “You wanna talk messed up?” Leatherface jerked a thumb at Ryder’s body. “I got messed up. Anybody find a note yet?”

  “On the bathroom mirror,” Megatron said.

  Leatherface glanced across the room. Written in lipstick on the glass was a single word.

  Erebus.

  “It wasn’t an accident,” Leatherface said.

  “Say what?” Megatron said.

  As he explained the dream, Freddy chuckled softly.

  “Something funny, Krueger?”

  “Remember who you’re talking to about dreams, numbnuts. Ever hear the expression I wrote the book on this?”

  “Hurray for you,” Megatron said. How’re we gonna report this?”

  “Find an orderly, stupid.”

  “I haven’t seen one since we arrived. Have you?”

  Freddy opened his mouth to say something, then swallowed it.

  “I hear what you’re saying,” Leatherface said. “Neither have I.”

  “Isn’t that just a tad unusual?”

  “No more unusual than five guys who’ve been spat out by Michael Bay finding themselves together in a room. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that we’re all here. And I don’t think the dream was just a dream.”

  “Okay.” Megatron exhaled. “So if we’re not in rehab, where are we?”

  “The Waiting Room.”

  “For what?”

  Leatherface spread his hands.

  “Hell, of course.”

  “We’re already dead?”

  Freddy burst out laughing.

  “No offence fellas, but I think I mighta noticed.”

  “No, it makes perfect sense,” Megatron said.

  “It does?” Freddy looked at Jason. “What do you think?”

  Jason shrugged.

  “Look at it,” Leatherface said. “We’ve all worked for Michael Bay, which is a kind of death. Now we’re just waiting for Charon.”

  Freddy’s eyes narrowed. “Who?”

  “The son of Erebus. According to Greek myth, he’s the Ferryman who transports souls to the land of the dead.” Leatherface swallowed. “Our next destination.”

  They absorbed this.

  “Biggest load of bullcrap I ever heard,” Freddy said.

  “Come on, Krueger. We’ve all been in movies with dumber plots.”

  “Aw, blow it out your ass, wise guy. You are not blaming me for Freddy Vs Jason.”

  “I can prove it to you,” Leatherface said. “If this is a real clinic, I mean, if we’re here of our own volition, then the doors are unlocked and we’re free to leave.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Megatron said.

  Freddy crossed his arms.

  “Show me,” he said.

  ***

  Freddy grabbed the door handle.

  “Doesn’t matter what’s on the other side, does it?” he said. “Whatever it is, one of us is a loser.”

  “Sounds about right,” Megatron said. “You ready?”

  Krueger exhaled. Shaking his head, he tightened his fist around the handle and pushed down.

  Yanked the door open.

  Stood in the doorway awhile, luxuriating in the late summer sunshine.

  “Well, bless my ass,” he said. “The door was just a door. What’re the odds?”

  Leatherface didn’t buy it. Too neat, too convenient.

  He opened his mouth to say something when the shadow fell across Krueger’s face.

  Freddy looked up, startled, as the hand burst through the doorway. The talon-like fingers curled around him, making a giant fist that, seconds later, whisked him away.

  His final words turned the air blue.

  “Time to leave,” Megatron said.

  Leatherface stared at him.

  “What good will it do?” he said.

  Cracks spread across the ceiling, plaster raining on their heads. The roof disappeared, giving way to brilliant sky, the sun bright enough to throw the creature’s advancing shadow across the room. Shielding his eyes, Leatherface stared at the Ferryman.

  Charon had manifested himself as the fiercest and most remarkable creature possible: a thousand eyes, a dozen arms and a mouth full of razor sharp teeth. Fire issued from its mouth and snout, its leathery wings flapping eagerly.

  Leatherface had to admit, he was impressed.

  Somewhat less enthused was Jason who, having backed himself into a corner, blubbered as the wall collapsed under Charon’s fist. He was still blubbering when the fingers closed around his head and yanked him out of the room.

  Another hand descended towards Leatherface, effortlessly scooping him up. As Charon tightened his grip, and Leatherface prepared himself for what he hoped was a long journey, a thought occurred.

  Death sure beat working for Michael Bay.

  Part 3

  BUNNY MAKES THREE

  Sean Roberts had always been a jerk. Crashing the car didn’t change that, it just made Kelly want to kill him sooner than she’d planned.

  The Ford bridged the gap between the end of the road and the swell of an embankme
nt. The damage was negligible, so the car was likely driveable, but good luck getting it free without a tow.

  Good luck getting a truck out here after dark.

  “Nice,” Kelly said. “Good going.”

  He shrugged. “If the road was dangerous, there should’ve been signs.”

  Kelly rolled her eyes.

  She started to say something, then swallowed it, knowing that whatever she threw his way would bounce right off. Sean was one of those pinheads who charged through life with bull-in-a-china-shop finesse, letting nothing bother him. If he was overdrawn, it was the bank’s fault. If he hit someone while drunk, it was the cops’ fault for not stopping him.

  If he crashed their ride despite driving at thirty on a straight road with a full moon to guide him, it was because there were no signs.

  One day, he’d be found in a shallow grave with a marker that read A Useless Asshole – But It Wasn’t His Fault. And that day was fast approaching.

  She was ready to kick a dent in the shotgun door when she heard the car engine, and looked up.

  A battered pick-up dawdled towards them, headlights dipping as it screeched to a stop. The door popped open and an old man, fat and bearded, stepped out and walked over.

  He looked at the Ford, then looked Kelly and, being the astute type, said, “You’re stuck.”

  “That we are,” Kelly said.

  “You don’t want that. Not way out here.”

  “So I gathered. You give us a tow?”

  “Sure, why not? I got eleven of them.” He let that sink in, then added, “Little backwoods humour.”

  “Huh,” Kelly said.

  “Living out here, people think we’re inbred.”

  “Imagine that.”

  “You’re gonna need a rope,” he said.

  “Nothing gets past you, does it? Yeah, we need a rope. You got one?”

  The man shook his head.

  “Nope,” he said. He looked crestfallen. “I could probably get one, though.”

  “That would be a start.”

  “Only problem is, it’s back at the house, and I live about ten miles from here. If you think it’d be quicker and easier to call a truck, you might want to do that.”

  She glanced at Sean and was surprised to see he already had his cell out. When he didn’t respond further, she kicked him and he looked up. “What?” he said.

  “I’ll go to my place,” the old man said.