Author: Laurie Faria Stolarz
Category: Suspense
Go to read content：https://onlinereadfreenovel.com/laurie-faria-stolarz/page,4,45783-project_17.html
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who raises her hand to answer every question, and who asks the teacher for extra work just so she can get ahead?
Crazy. But what's even more crazy is that she contacted me about this project. She came running up to me this morning at school, asking me if she could be in my film-- no questions asked.
"Are you serious?" I asked, all but jumping up and down. "That would be amazing."
"Really?" Her brow crinkled up like it came as some big surprise that I'd let her on board.
"Amazing," I repeated, feeling like a complete and total cheese-ass as soon as the word came out. But honestly, what else could I say? I mean, the girl is complete eye candy--like RTV won't eat that up. I wouldn't mind eatin' it up either.
I signal to Mom that my group is here and then whip off my apron to join them in the corner booth.
"Are we it?" Tony asks, pulling out his day planner. "Just the four of us?"
I shake my head just as Liza comes in. And honestly, she couldn't look any cuter--tight black turtleneck, short wool skirt, tiny black glasses, and hair tied up in a messy ponytail, like a hot little schoolgirl.
Liza scoots in beside Mimi, and I do my best to focus, starting with the introductions. I thank them for coming, tell them how great this is going to be, and then we get right down to business. We talk about all the practical stuff first--where to meet, what to bring, and what to say
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to our parents since we're gonna be out all night.
"All night?" Greta squawks. "Why can't we just leave when you're done filming?"
"It won't take all night," Tony says to assure her. "A small-budget production like this shouldn't take us more than a few hours."
"No way," I say. "We're spending the night--end of story."
After all, there's a big difference between only having to stick it out for a couple hours, and knowing that you're stuck there all night--until the next morning.
"Why can't we just pretend to stay there all night?" Greta pushes. "We can totally make it look legit with some sleeping bags and backpacks."
"I want to do this right," I say. "If we play around, it's gonna look like we're playing around. I want this to be real."
"You're obviously not familiar with my acting abilities," Greta says with an eye roll. "I make things look real."
"Realer than real, babycakes." Tony winks at her.
"Wear dark clothes," I say, ignoring their crap. "And bring water and convenient stuff to eat--stuff you don't have to cook." I look at Liza, who's actually taking notes, writing down my every word like this is history class or something.
"Anything else?" she asks, peering up at me when she's finished writing.
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I want to tell her yes--that I can't help but wonder if she remembers me from that day, freshman year, near the bus circle, when I couldn't stop gawking at her.
"We should carpool," Mimi says, snapping me back to the moment. "The place where we're going to park is pretty dead at night. It would suck if a cop drove by and saw a row of cars. It would definitely give us away."
"Is it true the place is haunted?" Greta asks, fidgeting with the salt and pepper shakers.
"Don't worry, babealicious, I'll be there to protect you." Tony--no bigger than my pinkie--wraps his match-stick arm around Greta, like the guy would even stand a chance saving himself from a baby kitten.
"What do you mean by haunted!" Liza cuts in.
"Are you serious?" Mimi laughs. "You haven't heard about all the weird stuff that's happened there? People say that it doesn't even matter what the temperature is outside--I mean, it could be a blazing-hot summer day but it's always super cold in there. They say you can hear the patients whispering through the drafts, telling you all about their suffering."
Liza's eyes get mother-big, making me want to put a muzzle on Mimi, since all I need right now is for someone to back out, let alone Liza.
"It's not illegal to go up there, is it?" Liza asks.
Mimi's stud-pierced lip drops open. "What, do you live under a rock?"
Luckily, my mother interrupts the moment. She
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smacks a plateful of day-old lemon doughnuts onto the table. "You kids working hard?"
I nod and flash her a smile, thankful that she doesn't hang around.
A few moments later, the doorbells jangle as Chet pushes his way in. "Hey, scumbag," I say. "What are you doing here?" He's all wrapped up in some towel-like thing, like a straitjacket, so his arms and hands don't move. "What the hell are you doing?" I ask him.
"Dressing for the occasion," he jokes.
"Are you serious? You changed your mind?"
Chet was one of the first people I asked. Not because he's a good buddy of mine or anything. The guy's more annoying than anything else. He's a clown--he even looks a little like one, with his pasty white face and curly orange hair. But he tries to be funny, and, all considered, I thought the movie might need some of that.
"Yeah, I'm going," he says. "This mummy stuff is pretty hot."
"Who clocked you?" I ask, noticing his shiner--a dark patch right below his left eye.
"Nobody," he says. "I just thought it went with the outfit."
"You're the man," I say, standing up. Not thinking, I go to give him a high five, but instead, end up fiveing his elbow.
I pull a chair over for him, and we get back down to business, talking about our plans for another good half
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hour. "So tomorrow night," I say as things are breaking up.
I take one last look at my group--at Greta and Tony, now feeding each other fingerfuls of lemon filling from the doughnuts; at Liza, still taking notes; at Mimi in all her layers of blackness; and then at Chet in his straitjacket.
"This is gonna be one bitchin' movie," I say, more excited than I ever thought possible.
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DERIK
AFTER THE MEETING at the diner, I head over to my uncle's apartment for one last video lesson. Except it turns out to be more like a final exam. Uncle Peter actually made up a test, including a written section, a visual part where I have to watch various movie clips and describe the shots they used and why, and a hands-on part where I have to go outside and shoot in his backyard. The guy's a whack, but I score an A--the only A I ever got... aside from gym, that is.
"You're really taking this thing seriously, aren't you?" he says, plunking down across from me at the kitchen table.
"I really wanna win."
"Have you told your parents yet?"
I shake my head and look away.
"I take it that's a no?"
"If I don't win, there's no need to tell 'em."
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"Why not? It's your life. Contest or not, you've got some real talent with this. If you want to go for it, go for it; but don't let some contest dictate your life. You need to do what you want."
"Tell them that."
"You tell 'em."
I shrug again, knowing that I can't, that my parents are counting on me to continue the business; that even if I do win, I don't know what the hell I'm gonna do--how the hell I'm gonna break it to them.
"You know you're gonna need some kickin' equipment, don't you?" he says.
"Thanks, Uncle Pete," I say, hoping he's gonna loan me one of the digital cameras he reserves only for his senior class students.
He gets up and heads for his studio, coming back just a few seconds later and placing his Sony DV camcorder in my lap--the same one that cost him more than $3,000, the one he uses for wedding gigs. "Be gentle with her," he says. "She's an easy lover, but she's delicate just the same."
"Are you kidding me? I can't take this."
"You gotta take it. That girl gives the best film of any babe I've ever had. She's also got night vision--don't need to worry about working her in the dark. This babe's got it all."
"Are you kidding me?" I repeat.
"Take it," Uncle Peter says. "And take my dolly, a couple shotgun mics, and a bunc
h of DV tapes, too. The dolly
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will help keep you steady as you're shooting down those long corridors. Nothing worse for a filmmaker than a shaky hand."
"Wow, I don't know what to say. Thanks, man."
My uncle smiles, proud of me, I think. "Come by over the weekend, after the shoot," he says. "I can teach you a thing or two about editing your footage. I've got a new program that works the nuts."
"Thanks," I repeat, excited by his enthusiasm, by how good it feels to have somebody be proud of me for once.
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CHET
TWO NIGHTS AGO my dad got so hammered that he ended up backhanding me across the face. He doesn't normally do that. Normally when he drinks, I just keep my bedroom door closed and locked. Normally I try to keep out of his way. But two nights ago I didn't.
My dad got pissed that my music was too loud, that I ate the last banana, drank the last Pepsi, didn't thank him for serving in Desert Storm. And so he smacked me-- hard --making my eye socket feel like it was going to explode.
The guy just refuses to put the bottle down.
We haven't talked since it happened, so I'm not even sure if he remembers that he did it. But I wonder if he notices the shiner he left me with--if he asks himself where it came from. If he's even looked at me to check it out.
Suffice it to say, the idea of getting away for one night
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is too tempting to ignore. And so here I am, driving to Danvers crazy hospital, wondering if maybe I should turn around and just camp out someplace in my car for the night. But maybe it won't be so bad. I mean, once you subtract the whole spending-the-night-in-a-haunted-asylum factor, there are definite benefits to this trip. For one, there are going to be girls there. For another, those same girls are going to be scared. And third, scared girls + hard-up Chet = possible nookie.
What's it been, like, a year since I had a date?
The truth is the asylum has always intrigued me-- driving down Route 1, passing the local strip clubs, wishing I had a fake ID to actually get inside said local strip clubs. And then seeing the asylum peaks and steeples peeping up at the top of the hill. I remember the first time I saw it. I was at the mini-golf course in Middleton with some of my buds. All you saw ahead of you was this giant brick castle sprawled out in the distance at the top of a hill. I asked my friend what it was and he told me; only, he called it the witch's castle, claiming that the judge for the Salem witch trials used to live there--the guy who had all those people hung. Sometime after Judge Hathorne moved, they tore the house down and built the asylum. So it's almost as if, with a history like that, the place never stood a chance.
I drive down Route 62, noticing the hospital driveway on the left at the turnabout, but speeding past it. Mimi, who seems to know a little too much about the asylum if
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you ask me, says it's best to access the campus off the beaten path since cops are notorious for hanging around the entrance. So I take the exit for Route 1 South, remembering how Derik said that we should get to our meeting place between nine and nine thirty, rather than arriving all at once. It's a little after nine now, so I'm hoping I'm the first, hoping that maybe I can hide and then sneak up on Derik and the others and spook them all out, lighten the mood a bit, maybe--since I'm thinking they're going to need it.
I pull into the office park where we're supposed to meet, and drive around to the back of the buildings. The parking lot is mostly deserted except for a few cars, all empty--maybe a sparse night crew working at the electronics company. You can see the outline of the hospital from here--all the pointy steeples, like a creepy sort of church. There's a wooded hill that leads up to the place, but it's completely dark--like a horror movie about to happen.
I take a look at myself in the rearview mirror and try to calm myself down, to tame all my stupid cowlicks. Unfortunately, I inherited my father's curly orange hair. Unfortunately, I'm not exactly GQ material with my ghost-white face and freckly nose, and now the shiner I've got to top the picture off. But who knows, maybe one of these girls will have a soft spot (or two) for tall, banged-up, and funny.
Slicking my hair back as best I can with one hand, I
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stretch my brain cap over the crown of my head with the other. It's one of those second-skin bathing caps. It's got a picture of a brain on the top, making me look like a bald man with a lobotomy. I wore it last year to a Halloween party and pulled it out for tonight (among other party pleasers) since, for obvious reasons, it suits the occasion well.
A few minutes later, I spot a car pulling into the lot. It's Derik's--a dark blue Chevy truck. He backs in a couple cars down from mine, but he doesn't get out--just kind of sits there with his headlights shut off, engine halted, like he doesn't even know I'm here.
I grab my backpack and scoot out quick, hoping he doesn't spot me. I can see the shadow of him sitting there. Mimi's in there, too, sitting in the passenger side. The lights in the parking lot are anything but bright, but I'm still able to make out her kinky black hair.
I walk as slowly and quietly as I can toward the driver's side. Then I smack my palms against the window and let out a sickly moan--the victim of a lobotomy. I even lower my head so they can see the brains.
"What the hell are you doing, man?" Derik shouts, rolling down the window.
"What?" I ask, the smile melting off my face. I look at Mimi to see if maybe she has a sense of humor, but she looks just as peeved.
"Are you trying to get us bagged before we even get up there?" Derik asks. "Get that thing off your head. You're supposed to be wearing black."
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"I am wearing black," I argue, pulling a black knitted hat on over my brain cap.
Derik sighs and leans back in his seat, clearly stressed. He checks his watch. "Nine twenty," he whispers. "Where the hell is everybody?"
"Getting fitted for strait jackets," I joke.
But Derik doesn't appreciate my humor. "How 'bout I pop you in your other eye?" he says.
A few moments later, another car pulls into the lot. "This is probably them," Mimi says, pulling on a black ski mask. At first I think the mask is a joke--that she's on the same wavelength as me--but she doesn't even crack a smile.
Tony and Greta get out of their car, dudded out in black as well. Greta's got on a long black skirt with a black fur jacket that reminds me of Shithead, my cat.
"Are you gonna be able to climb in that outfit?" Derik asks her, stepping out of his truck.
"You said dark clothing," she says, in the deepest, huskiest voice I've ever heard come out of a girl. "And for your information, this skirt is Calvin Klein. As a filmmaker, you should be grateful that I took so much time with my wardrobe."
"I'll be grateful if you can get your ass up that hill," Derik says.
"You look amazing," Tony tells her, giving her butt a good rap.
"Are you sure? I mean, maybe the fur is overkill. No
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pun intended. I don't want those PETA people talking trash about me in some tabloid."
"Amazing," Tony chirps, a high-pitched voice like someone kicked him in the jewels. "Like a real A-lister."
Whatever that means, it totally perks Greta up. The girl snuggles up to his Slim Jim figure and purrs into his neck.
"Get a room," Mimi says.
"Preferably one with some shock equipment," I say. "Could add a real zap to the experience."
"Where's Liza?" Derik asks, ignoring my joke.
"She's with us," Greta says, pausing between purrs.
I look toward their car and notice a shadow moving in the backseat.
"Let's just say she's a tad bit nervous," Tony says.
"More like a basket case," Greta corrects. "This obviously wasn't a good idea for her."
Derik unzips his DV recorder from its case and turns it on.
"What are you doing?" I ask.
Instead of answering, he brings the recorder over to Tony's car. He knocks on the window, a
nd Liza lets him in.
"That's really smart," Tony says, once Derik's inside. "Get the drama on film right from the get-go."
"Or the smut," I say, knowing full well about Derik's male-slut reputation (and envying it), wondering if Derik's trying at this very moment to capitalize on Liza's nerves. I mean, who would be that sketchy?
Um, I mean except for me.
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A few minutes later, Liza comes out. Her arms are folded and there's a worried expression across her face, her lips pursed together like she's on her way to have root canal or something. I'm half tempted to pull off my hat so she can see my lobotomy cap, thinking that it'll make her laugh. "Are you all right?" I ask instead.
Liza nods, but her eyes are focused on the hill--on how steep it is, maybe, or how the trees and brush look so thick.
"She's been doing some online research about the place," Derik tells us. He pulls a hooded sweatshirt from his bag and drapes it around her shoulders, totally stealing my game.
"The Internet can be a dangerous place," I say. "I once got so obsessed with female wrestlers, I couldn't stop surfing for pics--girls in headlocks, giving each other noogies, doing body slams, pulling each other's hair." I close my eyes and smile for effect, as though lost in the Land of Reminisce. "After a while I couldn't sleep at night, couldn't get my mind to shut off."
"More like you couldn't get Mr. Righty to shut off," Mimi says, gesturing up and down with her hand.
"Funny that you would automatically think of Mr. Wanky at a time like this." I wink. "Anything you need to tell me ... or show me?"