Welcome to this week’s M9B Friday Reveal!
This week, we are revealing the first chapter for
Horror Business by Ryan Craig Bradford
presented by Month9Books!
Be sure to enter the giveaway found at the end of the post!
Armed
with a passion for classic B-grade horror movies, a script co-written
by his twin brother, and a wicked crush on his death-obsessed neighbor;
hardcore horror fan Jason Nightshade must finish his student film.
But
his plans are derailed when the children of suburban Silver Creek start
disappearing – his twin brother among them. Battling a possessed video
camera, a crazy zombie dog, a monstrous bully, and a frighteningly
broken down family life, Jason embarks on a mission to find his lost
brother so the two can write an ending for his story.
As
any horror fan knows, saving the day won’t be easy, as Jason finds
himself forced to face the real world where death isn’t just a splash of
fake blood on a camera lens.
Title: Horror Business
Publication date: February 2015
Publisher: Month9Books, LLC.
Author: Ryan Craig Bradford
Excerpt:
Chapter 1
[rec 00.00.00]
Warm
colors sharpen as the focus reveals an image of a boy. The boy sits
patiently and stares at you. He giggles and sticks his tongue out as the
image softens before settling on an appropriate focus. You recognize
this boy because he looks a lot like me. A voice from offscreen tells
the boy that everything’s ready, that he can begin whenever he feels
like it.
Boy: What do you want me to say?
Offscreen: What’s your favorite scary movie?
Boy: Like in Scream?
Offscreen: Just answer the question.
Boy: What’s this for anyway?
Offscreen: Nothing really. Maybe a school project.
Boy: Fine. But a favorite scary movie? That’s like picking your favorite child.
Offscreen: Well, what are some of the ones you like?
Boy: I like ghost movies.
Offscreen: How come?
Boy: I think the only thing more frightening than opening a closet door
and finding a knife-wielding maniac is opening up that closet door and
finding nothing. If you take away all the monsters and serial killers,
all we have to fear is ourselves. We create ghosts when there isn’t
anything else left to scare us.
Offscreen: That’s deep.
Boy: Are we done yet?
Offscreen: Just state your name. You know, for legitimacy.
Boy: My name is Brian Nightshade and you’ve just tuned in to What I Think About Horror Movies.
Offscreen: Thanks.
The image goes black.
October
If we shoot a movie in black and white we use chocolate syrup. If it’s in color we use corn syrup with red food coloring.
So much sugar goes into blood.
Chocolate syrup was used for Alfred Hitchcock’s Psycho. Corn syrup was
used for The Evil Dead. It was my brother who told me that.
Death needs to be sweetened.
I pedal past a row of shuttered buildings on my way to the grocery
store. The faux-cabin exteriors only deceive the tourists that flood our
town during the summer and winter months. Most shops simply shut down
during the fall. Silver Creek has been dead since Labor Day and will
remain that way until Christmas.
I check over my shoulder, hold my
breath, and swerve into the road. A gust of wind blows a swarm of dead
leaves into my spokes, some of which get shredded. The others get caught
between the wheel and the fork. I enjoy the gory death of the red and
gold foliage. A minivan pulls up alongside me. I make eye contact with
the driver, a middle-aged woman with a sour face. She shakes her head
and speeds away. I flip her off.
I cut to the left and let the
momentum take me up the slight incline of the parking lot. I set my bike
against the rack and leave it unlocked.
There’s a cork bulletin
board at the entrance to the grocery store—a place where people can
advertise yard sales, community events, or lost pets. It’s covered with
brightly-colored flyers. The flyers declare their purpose with bold,
20-point font.
MISSING CHILD
The parents who make the flyers use
the most attractive pictures, as if that will get their children found
faster. I feel bad for the parents with ugly kids. The faces look at
you, smiles frozen with gapped and crooked teeth because they haven’t
had the benefit of a good orthodontist yet.
Some of the kids have
taken to collecting them like baseball cards. Sometimes you’ll see a
grief-stricken parent replacing a flyer of their missing kid. It’s
awkward.
Hot pink, neon green, electric orange. I look down to avoid
them. The neon looks awful and inappropriately bright. Like they’re
trying to sell something.
I think again of sweetened death.
The
corn syrup is expensive. I check for a knock-off brand on a lower shelf,
but it turns out I’m holding the knock-off. The higher-priced bottle’s
label shows an abstract illustration of a farm and boasts 100% organic.
Mountain prices for a mountain town. Silver Creek loves to spend money
on products that make it feel rustic.
There’s barely enough money in
my wallet to cover the corn syrup, and I briefly contemplate changing
the movie to black and white. I’m sure we’ve got a shitload of chocolate
syrup back at the house. It’s been so long since my family’s eaten ice
cream.
But no, it has to be in color. I’m not fucking around with this one. It’s going to be my masterpiece.
I wait behind Marilyn Mackie while the cashier rings her up. Mrs.
Mackie fills the aisle; her ass grazing the gum and breath mints on the
display behind her. She stares ahead until the cashier—a similarly large
girl with braces—tallies the total of her groceries. The sum is
humongous, and I can’t wait to tell Steve about how much the Mac Attack
spent on food the next time I see him. Mrs. Mackie snaps out of her daze
and
notices me. The recognition makes her gasp and she puts a hand to her chest. It’s like she saw a ghost.
“Hi, Mrs. Mackie.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Jason. You startled me.”
I nod and look down at my shoes. I pass the bottle of corn syrup between my hands. Mrs. Mackie pays.
“How are your folks?” she asks.
“Oh, you know.”
“That’s good,” she says. “I mean, not good, but. …” She trails off. She
exhales and her entire being deflates; her chin sinks into the comfort
of her neck. “I’m sorry. It’s been hard for all of us.”
“It’s okay.”
The printer uncurls a receipt, and the checkout girl folds it three
times before handing it to Mrs. Mackie. Mrs. Mackie pushes her cart of
groceries forward while she reads the scroll of her purchases. I put the
bottle on the conveyer belt and watch as it’s pulled toward the
cashier. I wonder if she and Mrs. Mackie regard each other as past and
future selves.
“You remind me of someone I’ve seen before?”
The
checkout girl smiles at me and waits for my reaction. It’s not a
question, really, but the upward pitch in her last word forces a glaring
question mark. The white bands on her braces have turned yellow from
neglect and she holds my corn syrup hostage while I think of a response.
Mrs. Mackie looks up from her receipt. The terror returns to her face.
“Maybe it’s my brother. We’re twins.”
“Maybe. Or maybe someone famous?” She twists the bottle around in her
hands. It’s disturbing the way she caresses it while she thinks. Her
tongue sweeps her broad-set, braced teeth. I want to tell her again that
it’s probably my brother who she’s thinking about, but I know that’s
not true.
“Excuse me,” says Mrs. Mackie. “Are you new here or something? Don’t you know who he is?”
The checkout girl frowns and gives up. “I don’t know.” She sighs and
chucks my syrup into a plastic bag. “They just tell us to be nice to the
customers.”
She hands me the bag with a limp wrist. I take it
without saying thanks. Mrs. Mackie, embarrassed from her outburst,
waddles to the exit, and the automatic door swings open. I maneuver
around her before she fills the doorframe and the electric eye senses my
urgency. I jump out into the parking lot to feel the
cooling-but-still-warm autumn air. I realize I’ve been sweating.
“Don’t listen to her. What does she know, anyway?” Mrs. Mackie calls out
to me from the entrance of the store. She reaches into the pocket of
her sweatpants and pulls a yellow flyer out, folded into fourths.
“Things will work out, you’ll see.” She slaps the flyer onto the
corkboard and tacks it in.
The automatic door closes slowly on Mrs. Mackie like a fade out.
***
My brother, Brian Nightshade, was the first to go missing.
Since then, Donny Yates was second, and then a week later it was Collin
Stephenson. Bobby Islo, Andy Stoner, Clint Something and the
girlish-looking Sean Fornier disappeared within a three-month span.
Wendy Dee was the first and only girl to go missing so far. After her
disappearance, the town’s cruel irritability toward these “runaways” was
replaced by a surging fear of kidnappers and child-molesters. Every
recluse and old person became a target for suspicion.
It’s funny how a girl can change things.
Greg Mackie was the latest one. He went missing last week.
Nine children so far.
***
I’m
positive that The Lost Boys is the greatest vampire movie ever made,
only because it’s the dumbest. Most vampire movies become bogged down by
romance and other boring stuff. Or what Greg Mackie called it: moral
ambiguities and penetration motifs. He was into that kind of theory
stuff.
I lean my bike against the window of King Kong Video, Silver
Creek’s only rental store. The clerk, a balding twenty-something, stares
through the glass and frowns. He wears glasses and has a beard shaved
to create a fake jaw line on his soft face.
A large portion of King
Kong’s selection consists of VHS tapes. They don’t stock new releases,
which is fine by me—I just download whatever I can’t find. New movies
aren’t really scary anyway. I’m pretty sure the store stays in business
because of their adult section, but it’s possible to find gems that only
exist in analog: B-grade films with lots of gore and nudity. Some of
them are actually okay.
“Please don’t lean your bike against the
window,” the clerk says. “It could break it.” He’s got some pretentious
foreign movie playing on the TV. Waves of an incomprehensible language
float through the air. There’s a MISSING CHILD poster taped on the wall
behind the counter. It’s Collin Stephenson, the third kid to go missing.
“You got The Lost Boys in?” I ask.
“Vampires?”
“Yep.”
The clerk tsks, but types the request into King Kong’s ancient computer
system. He hits a key, and the machine lurches to life. It sounds like
actual gears are carrying out the function. Collin smiles at me from
over the clerk’s shoulder. It's been a long time since Collin's parents
have printed any new flyers, making this poster somewhat of a
collector’s item. I wander into the inventory while the computer thinks.
I peruse the horror section, admiring the artwork on movie boxes,
noting which ones have the scariest screenshots on the back. Re-Animator
2 is a good one; Chopping Mall is all right but it has the best name of
any movie. Frankenhooker is one of my favorites. I watched that twice
in one night before.
When we were little, my brother and I were so
scared of these boxes that we’d dare each other to look at them. Our mom
made us stop when Brian started seeing monsters in the closet.
I
pick up another box. The movie’s called Basket Case. On the cover, a
claw pokes out from the rim of a wicker basket and a frightening set of
eyes peer out from deeper within.
The movie is about two brothers:
Duane and Belial. Conjoined twins. Doctors separate them at birth
because of Belial’s monstrous appearance—like a tumorous mound growing
out the side of Duane. Just a pile of skin molded into teeth and arms,
really.
As adults, Duane carries Belial around in a wicker basket to
exact revenge on the doctors that separated them. Because that’s what
brothers do.
Last year me and Brian wanted to be Duane and Belial for Halloween, but we couldn’t agree on who got to be the deformed twin.
“Hey kid!”
I drop the box and catch it in mid-air before setting it back on the shelf.
“It’s out,” says the clerk. “The Lost Boys. Computer says so. Says it was rented two weeks ago.”
“Can I put a hold on it?”
“What’s the name?”
It’s annoying. I’ve been in this guy’s store nearly every weekend for
the last two years and he still doesn’t know my name. Fuck his window. I
hope my bike does break it. “Nightshade.”
The guy clacks away at the keyboard. His brow furrows. “Interesting. Says here that you were the last one to rent it.”
“What?” The clerk turns the ancient monitor toward me. The name NIGHSHADE reads out in green text. “I don’t have it.”
“Are you sure? You weren’t the one who rented it?” He slides his
glasses up the bridge of his nose. “I’m pretty sure it was you.”
“I rent a lot of movies here, but not that one. I don’t have it.”
“Pretty sure it was you. I have a good memory, Nightwing.”
“Nightshade.”
“Mmhm.” A victorious breath. “I don’t know. Not my problem. It’s on your family’s account, so either find it or pay the fine.”
The cassette playing the foreign movie cuts out. Dialog becomes
muddled. Lines of static roll down the screen and the picture jumps from
left to right. The image freezes and a loud clicking comes from inside
the VCR. Interior whirring speeds up until the machine’s mouth spews out
the tape in long strands.
“Shit,” says the clerk with more resignation than annoyance. I leave without renting anything.
***
The
main streets of Silver Creek eventually feed into the suburban
neighborhoods where houses are modern and earth-toned. You used to be
able to walk outside at night and watch your neighbor’s big-screen TV
from the street. You could even hear the pummeling action through their
surround-sound. Most everyone keeps their blinds closed now. I stand at
the entrance of my own house, hand on the door. Vibrations from my
parents’ expensive sound-system massage my palm in spurts. This
evening’s attempt at twilight is filtered through haze; shadows look
smeared. It’s as if a far-off volcano has spewed its evil, and dominant
winds have brought the ashes of creatures to settle in the atmosphere
over our town, a dusty swarm of spirits that dims the sunlight.
I
turn the knob and push. The house is vaguely humid. Mom’s watching a
show about historical hauntings. On the screen, some guys are using
night vision cameras and EVP recorders to prove the existence of ghosts.
They never find anything, but my mom’s completely addicted. She doesn’t
even know what EVP stands for.
They’re playing back the audio
recording, enhanced for home viewers. The result is a high-pitched
squeal that drops out in rapid successions. The ghost hunters try to
convince us that this pattern is a ghost saying, Get out of my house.
“Mom,” I say. “Hi!”
Mom looks up from the TV. The screech continues. She waves.
“Jason. I didn’t see you.”
I fall onto the cushion next to her. She
has no scent anymore. In fact, a faint antiseptic odor has overtaken
everything, muting out any sense of home. It’s the smell of keeping
yourself busy, keeping your mind off things.
Mom points to the screen. “This house. They say it’s the most haunted house in America.”
“Don’t they say that about all the houses?”
“Huh?”
On the screen, a stationary camera catches a door closing by itself. The creak is deafening.
I shout my question again. Mom laughs. The crew runs toward the camera.
The night vision filter makes their eyes look simultaneously alive and
soulless, like wild animals. The host’s fear—captured by the green
filter—is by far the scariest thing about these shows, not the closing
doors or muffled audio. Darkness makes everyone look feral.
The show
cuts to commercials that are nearly twice as loud as the ghost show. I
stand to leave. Mom grabs my hand, squeezes, and lets it go. A loving
acknowledgement. A wordless I know, or I’m sorry, or another
deep-meaning pleasantry. I leave her alone to watch her show.
I push
through the kitchen door and into an overbearing cloud of smoke, like
walking through a sweaty cobweb. The smoke detector buzzes; its alarm
sounds weak from overuse.
A pot sits on the stove; flames reach up
the side with demonic glee. I shut the monster down. There’s no water
left, just burnt spaghetti stuck to the bottom. I turn the sink faucet
on and put everything under the cooling rinse. The pot, relieved of its
torture, gives off a heavy sigh and unleashes one last puff of steam
into the air. I silence the smoke alarm by taking it off the wall and
removing the battery.
My dad walks in, waves smoke away like he’s
used to it. He opens the fridge and pulls out a diet root beer. He
empties half of it in one gulp. A belch blossoms out of his throat, and I
smell a day’s worth of closed-mouth.
“What’s with all the commotion
in here?” He nods toward the disassembled smoke alarm in my hand.
“That’ll kill us, you know.” He winks and finishes his soda.
“It was
going crazy. Somebody left the food on the stove.” I pick the pot up
out of the sink and show him the caked-together mass of spaghetti, brown
and drowning in the tepid water.
“Wasn’t me,” he says and lets the room suffocate on scalding air while he opens another can.
***
We
eat sandwiches that night. Peanut butter and honey. The ghost show is
still running (some sort of marathon, I guess). We eat at the table, but
all our heads are turned to the TV. I peel the crusts off my bread and
dangle them above my mouth before dropping them in.
The screech of
an EVP recording makes us all wince. I look over to my mom, and her eyes
are hidden behind glasses reflecting the images of men running from
invisible pursuers.
At the commercial, my mom turns the sound down.
“How was school?” she asks.
“It’s Saturday,” I say.
“That’s my boy,” my dad says. He crams a last bite of sandwich into his mouth.
“Can I spend the night at Steve’s?”
“Sure,” Mom says. “Whatever you want.”
“Oh!” Dad says. “Honey, did you know you left the pot on the burner today?”
Mom looks down at her sandwich as if it’s a piece of evidence. “Oh.”
“Yeah.”
“Sorry,” she says. “Must’ve forgot.”
Dad nudges me. “Must’ve forgot.” He chuckles. “Get it?” He says this like an inside joke. “Get it?”
“I knew I forgot something,” she says.
“Damn near burned the house down. Ask Jason.” He looks at me for approval. I stare at the crumbs on my plate.
“She must’ve forgot,” he says again with some mysterious emphasis. He
mouths it to me while Mom watches the ghost hunters. I clear my place
without asking to be excused. Mom turns the soundtrack up to
ear-splitting levels. Dad grabs my wrist; he’s laughing so hard that the
crumbs on his belly are shaking off onto the carpet. Tears stand in his
eyes. I still don't know what he finds so funny.
“Get it?” he keeps asking.
Horror Business
We
didn’t fuck around when it came down to business: just like how the
original Evil Dead was a better movie than Evil Dead II. Just like how
the original Halloween was better than Friday the 13th, but still not as
good as Nightmare On Elm Streets I and III. Just like how The Ring was
good, but every other remake of a Japanese horror movie sucked. Just
like how the Re-Animator might be the best comedy-horror ever made, and
how there really hasn’t been a good vampire movie since The Lost Boys.
Like how we knew that the original Dawn of the Dead was filmed at the Monroeville Mall in Monroeville,
Pennsylvania. Like how it’s lame that you now have to say “the original” when talking about a lot of horror movies.
Like how we thought Pinhead was a good villain but Hellraiser was confusing.
How 28 Days Later is not a zombie movie, technically.
And how movies aren’t really as scary as they used to be.
Horror business was our business, and we didn’t fuck around.
About the Author
Ryan
grew up in Park City, Utah. His fiction has appeared in Quarterly West,
Paper Darts, Vice, Monkeybicycle and [PANK]. He currently lives in San
Diego where he acts as Creative Director for the nonprofit literary arts
organization So Say We All. He’s the co-editor of the anthology Last
Night on Earth and founder of the literary horror journal, Black
Candies.
Connect with the Author:
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