felt it with her free hand, jerked it back at the
wetness. She held her fingers next to the phone. No mistaking the liquid at
the tips: blood. She held the phone about a foot from it and snapped a
picture.
A creaking sound came from behind her, then a shadow appeared,
recognizable only by a deepening of the darkness in the room. She stood
and turned, cell phone hand outstretched. There he stood. She couldn’t
see his face, but she instantly knew the shape and form of his body,
standing well over six feet tall, his broad shoulders nearly touching both
sides of the doorway to the den. She pushed the video button on her
phone and began recording what she saw.
“I knocked,” she said, “but no one answered. The door was open.”
No response. She couldn’t make out the features on his face. His eyes
were like caves, dark black against a charcoal face. He stood with his hands
behind him, as if hiding something.
“I just want to talk,” she said.
Still no response.
She looked at the screen on her phone to view what she was
recording. All that was visible was the silhouette of this very large, very
disturbed man.
“What have you got behind you?” she asked.
He moved one hand around and waved it in front of his face.
Nothing.
“Your other hand.”
He moved it around. Even in the dark, she could see the outline of a
knife. A hunting knife, maybe, or a kitchen knife. Maybe even a Bowie
knife.
“I know it’s not your fault,” she said. “I know about your mother. I
can help you.”
The man stepped forward.
Teri stepped back.
He stepped again. She backed up again, the backs of her knees
pressing against the couch. She heard squishing sounds as she stepped in
the pool of blood on the carpet. With nowhere to go, she sat down on the
couch. Arm still extended, still recording.
The man kept coming forward, until he completely filled the screen
on the phone.
He extended the knife.
Everything went black.
A screen disappeared behind an overstuffed chair where Teri sat, wearing
jeans and a button-down Oxford shirt, next to What’s Up in Hollywood? host Carl Price’s desk. A full studio audience applauded, led by Price.
As the
applause died down, the
rubber-faced Price said, “Boy,
how’re you going to get out of that one?”
“You’ll just have to watch the movie when it comes out and see.”
“Was that guy, like, a zombie?”
Teri smiled mischievously. “Again, you’ll have to watch the movie. I
don’t want to give away all the secrets.”
“We can keep a secret, can’t we folks?”
He led the audience in another round of applause.
“Patience, Carl, patience. The movie will be out next month.”
“I’m not giving anything away, though, if I say it’s about a serial killer
who is also a hypnotist?”
“Say no more.”
“My lips are sealed.” Price turned an imaginary key at his mouth.
“I’ve got to tell you, though, this is one of the most fascinating stories of
how a script made it to the screen Hollywood has ever seen. For those in
our audience who have been living in caves for the past two years—”
He stopped and looked across the stage to his bandleader, Archie
Soocher.
“You listening, Archie?”
“Yeah, I’m listening.”
Laughter from the audience. Even bigger, more exaggerated laughter
from the band members.
“The screenwriter actually willed this to you, right?” Price asked.
“Right. And then he took his own life. His mother brought me the
script.”
From across the stage, Archie said, “Man, I’ve got to get out of that
cave more.”
“I think we’re all better off, especially the women, if you stay there,”
Price said. When the laughter died down, he turned back to Teri. “It
reminds me of John Kennedy Toole, the author of A Confederacy of Dunces .”
“Believe me,” Teri said, “we’ve all talked about that parallel. A novel
writer who took his own life because he was so despondent that he
couldn’t get his book published—”
“Then ended up winning a Pulitzer Prize when
wetness. She held her fingers next to the phone. No mistaking the liquid at
the tips: blood. She held the phone about a foot from it and snapped a
picture.
A creaking sound came from behind her, then a shadow appeared,
recognizable only by a deepening of the darkness in the room. She stood
and turned, cell phone hand outstretched. There he stood. She couldn’t
see his face, but she instantly knew the shape and form of his body,
standing well over six feet tall, his broad shoulders nearly touching both
sides of the doorway to the den. She pushed the video button on her
phone and began recording what she saw.
“I knocked,” she said, “but no one answered. The door was open.”
No response. She couldn’t make out the features on his face. His eyes
were like caves, dark black against a charcoal face. He stood with his hands
behind him, as if hiding something.
“I just want to talk,” she said.
Still no response.
She looked at the screen on her phone to view what she was
recording. All that was visible was the silhouette of this very large, very
disturbed man.
“What have you got behind you?” she asked.
He moved one hand around and waved it in front of his face.
Nothing.
“Your other hand.”
He moved it around. Even in the dark, she could see the outline of a
knife. A hunting knife, maybe, or a kitchen knife. Maybe even a Bowie
knife.
“I know it’s not your fault,” she said. “I know about your mother. I
can help you.”
The man stepped forward.
Teri stepped back.
He stepped again. She backed up again, the backs of her knees
pressing against the couch. She heard squishing sounds as she stepped in
the pool of blood on the carpet. With nowhere to go, she sat down on the
couch. Arm still extended, still recording.
The man kept coming forward, until he completely filled the screen
on the phone.
He extended the knife.
Everything went black.
A screen disappeared behind an overstuffed chair where Teri sat, wearing
jeans and a button-down Oxford shirt, next to What’s Up in Hollywood? host Carl Price’s desk. A full studio audience applauded, led by Price.
As the
applause died down, the
rubber-faced Price said, “Boy,
how’re you going to get out of that one?”
“You’ll just have to watch the movie when it comes out and see.”
“Was that guy, like, a zombie?”
Teri smiled mischievously. “Again, you’ll have to watch the movie. I
don’t want to give away all the secrets.”
“We can keep a secret, can’t we folks?”
He led the audience in another round of applause.
“Patience, Carl, patience. The movie will be out next month.”
“I’m not giving anything away, though, if I say it’s about a serial killer
who is also a hypnotist?”
“Say no more.”
“My lips are sealed.” Price turned an imaginary key at his mouth.
“I’ve got to tell you, though, this is one of the most fascinating stories of
how a script made it to the screen Hollywood has ever seen. For those in
our audience who have been living in caves for the past two years—”
He stopped and looked across the stage to his bandleader, Archie
Soocher.
“You listening, Archie?”
“Yeah, I’m listening.”
Laughter from the audience. Even bigger, more exaggerated laughter
from the band members.
“The screenwriter actually willed this to you, right?” Price asked.
“Right. And then he took his own life. His mother brought me the
script.”
From across the stage, Archie said, “Man, I’ve got to get out of that
cave more.”
“I think we’re all better off, especially the women, if you stay there,”
Price said. When the laughter died down, he turned back to Teri. “It
reminds me of John Kennedy Toole, the author of A Confederacy of Dunces .”
“Believe me,” Teri said, “we’ve all talked about that parallel. A novel
writer who took his own life because he was so despondent that he
couldn’t get his book published—”
“Then ended up winning a Pulitzer Prize when
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