Authors: Alan Spencer
“The dead know many things.”
Stan Merle Sheckler had been a fake name he used to direct over ten horror movies, each seized and possibly burned by the Private Film Coalition of Public Morals. How did this woman, the villain of his film, the walking celluloid image, know this about him?
The woman sensed he was about to pull the plug. “I know where your films are, and I can retrieve them for you. They exist. They’ve been preserved. And they’re kept only blocks from where you live. Think about that. Maybe then you’ll bring us back again.”
Ted removed the plug. The projector stopped. The theatre went completely black. The naked woman vanished as did the other flying vampires. He removed the reel and fled the scene before the police arrived.
Chapter One
I know where your films are, and I can retrieve them for you. They exist. They’ve been preserved. And they’re kept only blocks from where you live. Think about that. Maybe then you’ll bring us back again.
Two weeks later, the woman’s words continued to repeat in Ted’s mind. A variety of memories, nostalgia and regret festered in him ever since that strange conversation had transpired. He regretted the quick decision to pull the plug on the projector. He should’ve touched the woman first to prove she was real. He needed proof positive this phenomenon was genuine.
So many died. They are real. That’s why you can’t bring them back again. They’re murderers. But they’re movie characters, for God’s sake.
Ted downed another gulp of whiskey sour at Maddy’s All Night Pub. He was in the heart of East End Chicago, ten miles outside of places like Navy Pier and Shedd Aquarium. He was close to the low-end district without being afraid to walk on the sidewalks alone after dark and fear for his wallet or his life. He sat alone on a Friday night until Gary Pollard, a close friend, arrived. Gary was a screenwriter, mainly romantic comedies, his latest starring John Cusack and Helen Hunt. They watched the Cubs versus Red Sox game. The Cubs were being swept in the series. Ted and Gary didn’t particularly care about baseball, but they did care about filmmaking. Ted had been a movie reviewer after his film career winded up in the shit can. Financing was impossible with his track record: ten movies and debt up to his ears to show for it. After the Private Film Coalition of Public Morals seized his original negatives, nobody wanted to fund any of his projects.
Gary lit a cigarette and offered one to Ted. “So how did the film festival go? You were stoked. Was it everything you ever dreamed it would be, this thing called fame?”
Ted was shocked the man hadn’t heard about the tragedy. “You mean it wasn’t in the news?”
“I haven’t been watching the news.” Gary scratched his black stubble, pretending his fingers were an electric shaver. “I just finished another script for Miramax. I don’t know if they’ll take it or not. I’m up against four guys writing the same script. I hate it when they make you compete. It’s their way of ‘increasing the quality’ of the script. So what happened, huh? It was your big day. Your film finally got its showing. That’s monumental.”
“Fifteen ended up murdered.”
“Come on. Be serious. I know it’s a horror movie. Did you scare them to death? Did the university include an up-chuck cup with every movie ticket? I hope you’re paid up on your shock insurance policy.”
Ted stared him down. “Fifteen people were murdered. I—am—being—serious.”
Gary softened his face. “My God, what happened?”
“Nobody believes it, even with hundreds of witnesses. I was interrogated by the police. They thought I’d concocted some crazy publicity stunt for the movie, and I said they were nuts out of their shells. The evidence is clear. I had nothing to do with it. There
was
no evidence. Only people with their throats torn out. People with missing heads. Decapitated. People drained dry of blood.”
Gary hadn’t touched his longneck. “You were there, what did you see, man? You know the truth.”
“If I say it, you’ll think I’m full of shit.”
His friend patted his back. “Everybody in the world should buy you a drink. I’ve known you for eight years, friend. You’d had a bad run, to put it lightly. And it’s all because you married Becky Brauman.”
“Becky.” Ted muttered it like a curse. “She sure didn’t put up much of a fight to stay with me. After her father got through with me, my bank accounts were seized. My car, my furniture, all my belongings were repossessed by collectors, and next thing I know, I can’t get anybody to finance even a shitty laundry commercial if it’s made by me. The funny thing, nobody has really seen my movies all the way through. Never.
Morgue Vampire Tramps Find Temptation at the Funeral Home
would’ve been the first. Would’ve been.”
The mention of Becky added to the ulcer forming in Ted’s midsection. He married Becky straight out of film school at New York University. Becky was the daughter of the man who happened to be the head of the Private Film Coalition of Public Morals, a man named Dennis Brauman. He created an underground sect of the National Legion of Decency. Both legions created rules for filmmakers to obey: the rating system, what sexual or graphic scenes should be cut out of films, and in extreme cases—like Ted’s films—if they should be seized and destroyed. Dennis was also the head of PFCPM, and he didn’t want his daughter married to a rogue schlock moviemeister responsible for films like
Blonde Beach Bimbos Blast
Aliens
,
Sasquatch in New York
, and
Carnal Carnival
. The films themselves weren’t subversive beyond any Roger Corman film of their time; no rape, incest or orgies occurred in the films, but Dennis managed to financially discredit Ted’s independent film company and steal his movies—all the while convincing Becky he was a sleazebag who directed pornos with monsters.
“So what happened during the showing?” Gary begged. “Quit holding back. Are you building suspense?”
“It’s not a fun story. You won’t believe it.”
His friend stubbed out his cigarette and started smoking another one. “All the more reason to tell me. What killed those people?”
Ted gained the courage to put the story into words. “Flying lesbian vampires are what happened.” The phrase would’ve been humorous in any other setting. “My monsters came to life on the screen. You can ask the witnesses. They were real. They killed people.”
Gary’s expression didn’t shift. “
Hmmm.
Maybe this is a sign, pal. Mid-life crisis is knocking on your door, and you’ve answered. I haven’t heard anything about killings at, what, Iowa University? No, I would’ve heard about it. And flying monsters?—flying lesbian monsters?—that would’ve been front-page territory. Were the deaths a fake publicity stunt? Stan Merle Sheckler is back, ladies and gentlemen, and he has no scruples—again.”
They’ve blocked it out of the news, Ted realized. He threw up his hands in defeat. “You know, I looked it up on CNN, and nothing. Nothing on the web. No articles. Now it makes sense.”
“Did any of this actually happen? Come on, give up the ghost. You’re fucking with me. Joshing me, right? Nice one, pal. Real good zinger. Can I hear the punch line? I'm waiting for it.”
Ted gave up. Hearing himself explain the truth was as outlandish as it sounded. The police had created a media blackout. And it made sense. Who would believe flying vampires were real?
“Yeah man, I’m just fuckin’ with you,” Ted pretended to joke. “The damn reel snapped during the showing. We made it about ten minutes, and they couldn’t fix the problem.”
Gary sighed in frustration. “Ah, that’s the luck. I’ll buy you a drink. Hell, let me buy you ten!”
Ted accepted the drink. After an hour of banter, they both left the bar. Gary headed west to his studio apartment, and Ted returned to his one bedroom apartment in East End.
Two-thirty, and Ted couldn’t sleep. After his conversation with Gary, everything was coming together. Nobody knew about the event because it was kept out of the media. Fifteen people had died, Detective Vickers told him again and again back at the Iowa City Precinct. He was sequestered at a local Holiday Inn while the police sorted out the bodies and the crime scene investigators tested DNA and blood. Detective Vickers had played it straight with him. “Look, Ted, I have no problems with you. You couldn’t have done,” he cleared his throat, “what was done to those people. And you have witnesses. I’ve had to check my ears, frankly. They say monsters with wings were flying through the screen and slicing up their victims and drinking their blood.”
“Yes, that’s exactly what happened,” he'd insisted. “They looked like they were straight from the film. It’s ridiculous, but it’s what we all witnessed, sir.”
“Ah-hah,” Detective Vickers had said, sucking his teeth. “Then I suppose my only real speculation is that somebody has committed a horrible, violent crime. Very intricate indeed. Maybe you’d know of a fan club or followers of your films that would wish to reenact the attack?”
This was Ted’s lifelong failure. “I have no real fans, Detective. My films were seized in 1979 by the Private Film Coalition of Public Morals. It’s a long story. When movies are banned, they’re often considered illegal property. I haven’t had access to the films in over thirty years, and then one pops up randomly.”
“That’s very interesting,” Detective Vickers said. “You’ve just given me something good to chew on. I can understand your grief and confusion. If you can name anybody who would vaguely be considered a super fan or crazed psycho, please call me.”
Detective Vickers believed somebody had recreated the monsters from his film, but from what Ted saw in the booth, that was impossible.
But maybe it is possible. Anything is at this point. The detective has a legitimate point. Why would your movie suddenly show up after so many years, and then this crazy stunt happens?
He stared at the computer screen in his bedroom. He was reading an article from the
Anderson Mills Gazette
. He’d read it many times. Edwin Maxwell, Professor and Director of the Iowa University Film School, had emailed it to him months ago to explain the circumstances in which his movie landed in his possession. Edwin’s father was an avid collector who had died a year ago and bestowed the films to his son. Edwin also explained that his father was an ex-member of the PFCPM, and had stolen many of the seized reels throughout the years, including Ted’s. Edwin was a fan and apologized for his movies being seized, and in apology, offered a screening at the university in honor of the only salvaged reel from the Anderson Mills Massacre.
Why would the professor create a stunt like that? He’s a fan. He wanted the movies to be seen. It doesn’t make sense.
Then again, maybe the movies
did
become real.
He relished another nip straight from the whiskey bottle. He read the article about Anderson Mills again—though he’d read it ten times already:
Tragedy strikes the small town of Anderson Mills. Fifteen hundred of the three thousand locals have been declared dead or missing. The sole survivor, Andy Ryerson, has no recollection of the events. Houses are reported to have been broken into and destroyed. Sources claim it to be a terrorist incident, but as of now, any specific information has been withheld pending an investigation…
Andy Ryerson was a familiar name. Detective Vickers questioned him about the young man, but Ted didn’t know the kid until he read the article. The detective asked him why Andy was found brutally murdered outside the theatre. Professor Maxwell had mentioned in the email a prized student had watched the reels in Anderson Mills to write reviews for the DVD release, and that kid was Andy Ryerson.
Did Andy previously survive an attack like the one at the university?
“It doesn’t matter.” He pounded another shot straight from the bottle. “He’s dead now. Nobody believes my story.”
Sometimes I don’t believe it myself.
Ted was drunk enough, his steps weren’t sure, and he stumbled to the closet. Regardless of whether his film came to life or not, he wanted to locate his other seized films. Thirty years was much too long to wait, especially when he knew the property existed.
He removed
Morgue Vampire Tramps Find Temptation at the Funeral Home
from the top shelf within the Polypropylene film can and set it on his bed. Then he loaded up the Max-310 film projector. Ted turned out the lights. He flipped the switch to the projector. An uneven white square hit the wall.
He glanced back and forth between the reel and the projector. “Like you’re coming to life, yeah right. That would be truly crazy.” He cackled like a drunk. “Madness.”
Ted pounded back another shot of liquid courage. He wiped what dribbled on his lips and down his chin onto his shirt sleeve. “Thirty-three years of being a broke-ass film critic. I wanted to make horror movies, not write crummy reviews.”
Movie companies were paying out good money for old horror movies for DVD release. Schlock-Shock-Cinema had contacted him to offer a job giving audio commentary on
Morgue Vampire Tramps Find Temptation at the Funeral Home
. If he had all ten movies, Ted imagined, he’d make a load. Three-hundred thousand dollars, he thought, would be ample to fund a new picture. After speaking with Gary tonight, he decided he wouldn’t rest until he tried to resurrect the monsters and take them up on their promise to recover his movies. I
’ll either prove I’m out of my gourd or that what I saw was actually real. And if they’re real, I’ll play it safe.