Witching Hour Theatre Page 2

  Resignedly, he made his way down the aisle, past the drunken rowdies just out of Happy Hour, past the silent moviegoers whose mobile devices illuminated their slack faces like rectangular gods.

  He reached the second row from the front, where a new problem presented itself. Not only was he too close to the screen, but the exit tunnel jutted forth fifteen feet from the wall so that it actually blocked a small portion of the screen. Terrible planning, Wilson thought. The tunnel would only obscure a fraction of the film, but it was still an annoyance.

  Well, he reasoned as he sidled up the second row, at least he’d found three empty seats. Planting himself in the middle one, he placed his drinks in the holders, and eased against the cushioned back. He scooped a handful of popcorn and experienced the familiar thrill as the salty butter coated his mouth.

  He couldn’t help but feel that Nichole had prepared the bucket specially for him.

  Wilson sipped his root beer and munched more popcorn.

  He stopped in mid-chew.

  There were three young women in the row in front of him turned around, staring. At a glance, Wilson guessed they were high school seniors. One wore a light blue sweater and a bandanna that didn’t quite match; the other two wore tee shirts, one pink, the other black. All three favored heavy eye makeup.

  “Can we help you?” asked the girl in the pink shirt. Wilson glanced at her protuberant upper lip and realized she was wearing braces.

  Larry frowned. “Help me with what?”

  “Do you have to sit there?” asked light blue sweater.

  He glanced askance at the empty seats.

  “Are these reserved?” he asked.

  Light Blue Sweater rolled her eyes. “No, they’re not ‘reserved,’” she said, as though Wilson had spoken in ancient Aramaic.

  “Then I don’t understand,” he said and felt little beads of sweat dotting his temples.

  Pink Shirt’s gaze was baleful. “Of course you don’t. That’s why you sat right behind us.”

  She and Light Blue Sweater exchanged disgusted looks and turned back to the screen, which flashed ads for local realtors and used cars.

  Wilson’s stomach roiled. He was only thirty-seven and completely harmless, but the girls acted like he was some moth-eaten creature bent on harming them, a depraved pervert who frequented the theater to prey on young girls.

  Wilson’s lips formed a thin line. He wasn’t a pervert, dammit, and it wasn’t fair for them to treat him like one.

  Wilson was about to pursue the matter, to somehow vindicate himself, when he noticed the girl in the black shirt, the one who hadn’t spoken, was still staring at him. Her eye makeup had been applied with more care than that of the other two, and she had a pierced eyebrow to match the piercings in her ears and nose.

  At once Wilson understood. The other two, the ones in the blue and pink tops, were playing at being horror movie fans. They’d come here tonight because Witching Hour Theatre sounded fun and diverting, and it afforded them the opportunity to slum with the hardcore horror buffs. If one didn’t look too closely, he supposed, they looked the part. But something in their facial expressions, something in the aloof way they lolled in their seats with their thumbs perpetually tapping their mobile screens, betrayed them. They were here for kicks and they wouldn’t be coming back. After the novelty wore off, these girls would be bored stiff.

  The Goth girl in the black shirt, though, the one who was now favoring him with a little secret smile, Wilson knew she was the real deal, and as she gave him a nod and turned back to her companions, he remembered seeing her here before. Like him, she often came by herself. That smile she’d given him, she’d recognized him too. To her, he wasn’t a creepy old man. To her, he was a fellow horror maven.

  At once, Wilson felt better. He was still in his element, regardless of the distractions and the crowd and the petulance of the other two girls. In the third girl, the one with the piercings, he had an ally. Eventually, the other two would leave, as would sixty percent of the crowd after the first feature. Only people who loved The Omen or those who’d heard about it would stick around for the second film. Three quarters of those would grow tired or bored and depart before the second feature was halfway through.

  Wilson half-turned and skimmed the multitudinous faces. Most of the people appeared to be casual fans, so Wilson was confident the theater would be all but deserted by the time Veil of the White Temptress came on. Oh, even if there were twenty or thirty folks remaining for the third feature, they would be men and women like him, hardcore devotees who could spot a bad horror flick a mile away. Though they rarely spoke when the lights came on, he’d developed a rapport with some of the regulars. They played off one another, making cracks about the clunky dialogue or the cheesy special effects. It wasn’t as entertaining as Mystery Science Theater 3000, but if the movie were bad enough, it was a hell of a lot of fun.

  Savoring the energy pulsing through the cinema, Wilson ripped open his Twizzlers and unsheathed a pair from the bag. He bit off the tips of the licorice strips and let his eyes wander to the vermilion velvet draping the walls, the bunched curtains bookending the screen. Slender bronze sconces cast spires of orange light up the walls. Here and there hung the black speakers the Starlight had adopted a few years ago to give the movies they showed some bite. Though Theater Two was old, the equipment was state-of-the-art; hearing a heroine screaming for mercy or a gout of blood splashing against a shower stall, a moviegoer felt like he was right there in the action.

  God, he loved this place.

  The churlishness of the girls fading, the sweet salty taste of popcorn and Twizzlers mingling in his mouth, Wilson let the sights and sounds wash over him. He’d been to theaters older than this, venerable buildings with balconies jutting over the rear seats and gilded pipe organs tucked into alcoves, yet the Starlight was his sentimental favorite.

  But only Theater Two. Perhaps it was its layout—two large sections bifurcated by a single narrow aisle—that made it cozier than Theater One. Though newer, that room didn’t have the atmosphere of its older counterpart. It was larger, offering three seating areas rather than two, yet it had no personality, no character. Theater One felt like an airplane hangar. He considered it a stroke of genius that Witching Hour Theatre was conducted in Theater Two, for the atmosphere here made the horror classics even better.

  Electric chills rippled his spine. It was 11:59 on a Friday night and the workweek was over. He’d have all afternoon tomorrow to idle at his favorite bookshop. Tonight, he could experience the thrill of being chased without the danger of actually dying. He could inhabit the minds of murderers without inflicting damage on anyone. He could be more than a meek little man sitting alone in the dark with Twizzlers dangling from his mouth.

  Here, he was free.

  The theater darkened.

  Scooting his rump to the front of the seat, Wilson reclined and peered up at the images. The prelude of obligatory advertisements paraded across the screen to the accompaniment of an ecstatic synthesizer. This close, the images were overwhelming. His entire field of vision was nothing but massive popcorn containers and swooping cups of soda, an unheeded request for silence and a futile plea for the termination of cell phones. He knew how silly it was, but he even enjoyed this part of the moviegoing experience, the disclaimers and the unnecessary shilling for refreshments, as if everyone in the room hadn’t passed the concession stand on the way in.

  There were two trailers for upcoming releases: one of them a raunchy comedy; the second, a sequel to a serial killer suspense film. He’d liked the original, and the follow-up looked promising. They’d at least gotten the same lead actor back—usually a good sign.

  The electric torches dimmed and the theater was shrouded in pitch. Scattered hoots and catcalls erupted from various points in the room, coaxing the electric hum of anticipation into a crackling frenzy. A man’s gleeful voice shouted something about seeing some blood and guts. The girl in the light blue sweater shrilled out a n
onsensical reply, but Wilson was too elated to be annoyed with her. Whether her excitement were genuine or feigned, at least she’d come tonight, and as long as Witching Hour Theatre made the cinema money, it would be allowed to continue. He couldn’t imagine his life without it.

  Death Mountain starred a couple actors who’d been featured in recent entertainment mags, teen idol types who’d made their start on daytime soaps or Disney sitcoms. The supporting cast included two horror movie veterans—Sid Haig and Tony Todd—and seeing their names, Wilson felt a tug of nostalgia. The cheers that accompanied the names separated the zealots from the novices.

  The special effects, Wilson was heartened to find, had been created by a master in the field, so even if the movie turned out to be crap it would still be visually interesting. The screenplay, however, had been written by four different people. Definitely a bad sign.

  The director’s name faded and was replaced by an establishing shot of a lake in the moonlight.

  Wilson crammed popcorn into his mouth as a good-looking pair of teenagers made their way through the woods by the quiet lake. The pair emerged from the forest onto a pallid beach. As the boy spread a blanket on the sand, his companion kicked off her sandals and let fall her jacket, revealing an impossibly tight tank top. At the sight of her perky nipples poking through her white shirt, a number of men in the audience cheered wildly and drummed their feet on the floor. In response, some woman called out “Pigs!” and the audience broke into laughter.

  Wilson grinned. The feeling of community, of sitting around a giant campfire with a group of old friends, was strong tonight.

  As the girl was about to shed her tank top, a twig snapped in the woods nearby; she lowered her arms, the tank top creeping down her sides. The lack of nudity was met with boos, and another wave of laughter rippled through the audience. Her boyfriend moved to embrace her and soon the pair was kissing passionately.

  They lay down on the blanket. The moonlight was preternaturally bright, but of course it had to be for the audience to get a good look at the young woman’s large round breasts as she discarded her shirt. As the predominantly male audience pumped their fists and exchanged high fives, the young man onscreen unbuttoned the woman’s jean shorts and began to drag them down her curvy hips.

  A louder crack sounded from the woods, and the woman, her silicone breasts jiggling, sprang to her feet and fastened her shorts. The audience groaned. Her boyfriend was as anxious to continue the goings-on as were the men in the audience, but the woman convinced him to investigate the source of the noises.

  Here we go, Larry thought. The only question would be who would get it first. Wilson’s money was on the boyfriend. Eight times out of ten, it was. So far the film hadn’t shown him anything original, so there was little reason to expect more than a paint-by-the-numbers opening slaughter.

  True to form, the camera followed the boy as the woods swallowed him and then cut to the killer’s perspective as he or she or it watched the boy from the shadows. The boy’s footsteps were unnaturally loud as he asked “Who’s there?” and uttered such lines as “This isn’t funny” and “You better come out and show yourself.” It took four writers to come up with that? Wilson wondered and smiled.

  The director cut to the woman kneeling on the blanket, hugging herself against the chill of the night air. She looked very young and very pretty in the moonlight. Her eyes were a light brown. A little bit like Nichole Patterson’s, Wilson decided. As the scene cut to the boy’s hesitant exploration of the woods, the temptation to ask Nichole for a date tickled at the back of Wilson’s mind. He was several years Nichole’s senior, but she was old enough to make her own decisions and she seemed interested in him.

  So why exactly was he balking at the prospect of taking a lovely young woman out for a nice dinner? It wasn’t as though his schedule wouldn’t allow it. He hadn’t been on a date in over a year, and even that had been a disaster. What had he to lose?

  A scampering rabbit startled the boy onscreen and jolted Wilson out of his reverie. In the row in front of him Light Blue Sweater and Pink Shirt screeched and giggled. Wilson thought, This is usually when the bad thing happens—right after the false scare.

  The boy spun and opened his mouth to scream. An axe whistled through the air and cleaved his head in two, stopping the scream. The upper half of the boy’s head landed on the forest floor, his shocked eyes gaping at the camera.

  So much for subtlety, Larry thought.

  The woman on the beach didn’t hear the division of her boyfriend’s skull—a proposition Wilson thought unlikely given their proximity—so she rose and crept down the path he had taken.

  Now, Larry thought, is when we’ll have another false scare, after which the woman will discover her butchered boyfriend, followed by a chase during which we’ll get more of the killer’s perspective, ending with the big-breasted woman’s demise.

  Wilson regretted to find he was correct. After the woman took the predictable fall and sustained the requisite injury, she attempted to crawl away from the killer. The one saving grace of the contrived scene was the manner in which the director showed her head tumbling off her body as the axe sprayed blood over the camera. The scene was clichéd, but the excellent makeup work was showcased. That had to count for something.

  Wilson sucked down more root beer and waited for the body count to rise.

  Chapter Two

  The body count reached nine—a fairly respectable number—before the killer, a mentally handicapped custodian, was shoved from a third-story window and impaled on a farm implement. But despite the solid make-up and special effects, Death Mountain was a disappointment.

  The highlight of the film had come not from the movie itself but rather from an incident involving two drunken men who’d obviously come to the Starlight straight from the bars. Though they’d sat near the back of the theater, Wilson could hear them spouting rude comments at the screen throughout the film. At first it was amusing, but as their taunts grew more profane, the audience grew restless, and Larry wished the men would go home.

  The rest of the moviegoers seemed to exhale a collective sigh of relief when, with a “This movie blows,” the pair of sots stumbled down the aisle to leave. Wilson considered reminding them the tunnel exit under the movie screen was locked during Witching Hour Theatre but decided he’d enjoy hearing them discover it for themselves.

  Laughing coarsely, one of them pounded open the tunnel door like a battering ram and for a moment, Wilson spied, through the darkness of the tunnel, the metal crossbar one pushed to open the alley door. As the inner door of the theater eased shut, he heard one of the men slam into the outer door with a muffled thud. Obviously finding the door chained shut from the outside, the men rattled the metal bar and abused the unyielding heavy wooden door. Then, spitting expletives at the ownership, they slunk through the tunnel doorway and reentered the theater. A spate of sarcastic applause broke out among the theatergoers, which further inflamed the already embarrassed duo. Wilson sat silent, cherishing their humiliation with a delicious private glee. The two louts marched up the aisle soberly, their smooth departure ruined by a chain and a padlock.

  Though the episode with the men pleased him, the fact that Death Mountain was a major letdown dampened Larry’s spirits.

  Thankfully, The Omen was as entertaining as he remembered. The child who played Damien, the son of the devil, did a credible job considering his age, and Gregory Peck and David Warner hit just the right notes in their respective roles as the American ambassador to England and the meddling journalist. The babysitter’s suicide, the hysterical animals assaulting the car, Peck’s wife’s unintentionally hilarious plunge from the banister, the revelation of the graveyard bones—all were iconic moments which made Larry glad to be a horror fan.

  Sadly, most of the crowd had departed after the first feature, and the numbers dwindled further during The Omen. By the time the lights came on signaling the five-minute intermission before the final show, Wilson counted
only thirteen souls, including himself, left in the theater.

  As he toted his popcorn bucket to the concession stand for a refill, he debated asking Nichole Patterson out for dinner the following evening. This time of the year was nice: the leaves were just beginning to change, and the air carried an exhilarating chill. He’d not find a more romantic setting for a first date.

  But what if she said no? How could he show his face here again with that awkward failure looming over him?

  He approached the concession stand and saw Nichole smiling at him from the counter.

  “And how was The Omen?” she asked.

  “Good as ever,” answered Wilson. “It features probably my favorite scene of a man being decapitated by a sheet of glass.”

  “Funny,” she said. “I sometimes think many romantic comedies could be improved by a bloody beheading or two.”

  Chuckling, he slid his empty tub across the counter. “Nice button,” he said, nodding at her red vest. On a circular black background, bloody red text read WELCOME TO WITCHING HOUR THEATRE.

  “It was either this button or a share of the company,” she said. She tapped the bloody red text. “I figured this was the better investment.”

  Larry laughed, but it came out too loudly, like a donkey’s bray. Idiot! he thought. Could you, for once in your life, be cool?

  As she handed him his refill, he cleared his throat and asked, “Why is it I never see you peek in during the films?”

  “I do on Mondays and Wednesdays,” she said.

  So she remembered the other nights he came to the Starlight! He ignored the pleasant flutter in his belly. “But those pictures are never as good as the ones shown on Friday night.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “I abhor horror movies.”

  He tried to subdue his irritation. “How can you ‘abhor’ them? They tap into something primal in all of us. Horror is one of the only genres that’s truly universal.”