Nightshift
Everyone who knows me is well aware
of the fact that I’m basically afraid of my own shadow so imagine the shock and
awe inspired when I announced to my small circle of friends and family that I
took on a seasonal gig as a ‘haunted
house actor’. Mother said: “Now Nomi Rickles, why would you go and do
something so foolish? Silly girl. I know you’re saving for a camera but this
job is not a good fit for you, darling.” Best friend #1 said: “Are you fucking kidding me?! You’ll have
nightmares for LIFE!” Best friend #2 said: “Ten bucks says you won’t last day. You’ll be a haunted house
drop-out.” Best friend #3 said: “No
way! That’s SO cool. Can you get us free tickets!?” I expected my mother to
be aghast; I was frightful out of the womb. As for my friends, obviously I got
them tickets and they had a spooktacular tour through ‘Murder Hall’.
My first night on the job some poor
schmuck wearing a bloody pig mask in the kitchen scene got kicked in the balls
repeatedly by a soccer Mom he scared the bejesus out of. He popped up in front
of her and let out an earsplitting high-pitched squeal and her knee mashed his
junk black and blue. The whole premise of these haunted house things is prey on
people’s worst fears and phobias, soccer Mom had a severe aversion to swine I
guess. Needless to say that guy never did come back to work. They did warn me that their employees often
bore the physical brunt of the resulting terrors, an occupational hazard, “We’ve seen some of the toughest looking guys
shrink into weeping children when confronted by their worst fears. Some of them
even shit their pants.” My only hope was someone didn’t have a heart attack
in front of me. So far, no one has. Well, almost.
I was the last one hired so I got to
go through the house to experience it for myself before suiting up. I wandered
through behind a gaggle of cheerleader types which was a mistake because they
screamed just for the sake of it at least until we reached the dining room. One
of my soon-to-be co-workers acted as a severed head, a mangled center piece for
a ghastly last supper in the middle of a long planked dining table. One of the cheerers,
giggling, sidled up to the table and leaned close to the plated face, “She like looks sooo freakin’ real, like oh
my God.” The other girls closed in around her shoulder at the table’s edge
and foolishly marveled. My soon-to-be co-worker, who looked very much like a
twice possessed Linda Blair in ‘The
Exorcist’ snapped open her eyes at the same time psychotic strobe lights started
flashing and a loud split second blast of death metal sounded. Her eyes were
wide and crazed, teeth gory and snapping ravenously, tongue flapping like a
demented demon. It petrified the first girl so bad that she toppled the others
like dominos. One of them left crying with a sprained pinky finger.
A few weeks into it the front of
house supervisor asked if I’d go survey the line for the tough guys to toy with
a little more and those already super terrified so we didn’t mess with them as
much. I was disguised in a black reaper cloak mostly to hide my facial characteristics
I wear inside. While perusing those queued in line, I felt my heart skip a
dangerous beat and the long scar on my back blister at the sight of my childhood
nemesis. Brandy Vance once lived three doors down from me in junior high school
and was a year older. She tortured the living hell out of me every chance she
could and then maimed me. If it hadn’t been for her father coming home early
from work with a migraine no one would have witnessed me barricaded in her
backyard while she slashed me across the back with a length of barbed wire. Her
poor fragile father, beyond horrified at the act, asked her why she would ever
do something like that to me. While knelt on the grass sobbing and holding my
bleeding flesh, she leered down at me and then over to him, shrugged her
shoulders casually and said, “Aw you know
Daddy, for shits and giggles.” Fucking bully. They shipped her off to God
knows where but I didn’t care because she was gone. I’d hoped forever. I’m
pretty sure her parents split up after that and her father had a nervous
breakdown. Her witch of a mother still lives three doors down but she keeps to
herself. Brandy must be visiting. There she was, in line for ‘Murder Hall’ cozied up to some beefy troglodyte
in a too small varsity style jacket. I snuck back into the employee only area
with one thing on my mind, revenge.
I admit that because knowing Brandy Vance
was coming through I didn’t elicit the number of bone chilling frights I’d been
getting in the days previous. One guy jumped back so hard he dented one of the makeshift
walls. I got a bonus for that in the form of a gift card. It’s the only kind of
job where you are rewarded for damages incurred. If I’m being honest, ‘Murder Hall’ is just as daunting in
broad daylight as it is in the pitch dark. It’s fashioned after a 19th
century decaying mansion that feels more like an creeped out asylum and home of
the best startle scares, my room has a two tier terror. The room I work out of
is an upstairs bedroom. There’s a fog machine, a cracked mirror and it looks as
though the paint is peeling from the walls. Across from an old brass bed with
browning linens is a dilapidated bassinette, sort of in the middle of the
floor, the focal point in the room. Inside of course is an animatronic demon
babe that springs up when someone nears it or attempts to look inside. That’s
the first tier. Once the morbid nursling sinks back down into its bed, I step
out from the shadows in whatever disguise I choose that day. People think the
scare is over and then I emerge from the shadows for tier two. I’m fairly tall
and big-boned so my presence tends to loom large in the foggy haze of the
darkness and depending on my mood sometimes I’ll drag myself across the floor
to grab people’s feet and legs. I am so surprised I haven’t been kicked in the
face yet. Because I was out monitoring the line-up awhile I had to rush to get
ready and couldn’t find my usual garb which looks a lot like the girl from ‘The Ring’, a pink dress with a long
black wig draped over my dead looking make-up’d face. I’m tall and big-boned
but flexible so I can contort. It’s how I landed the job in the first place,
that and my theatre background. I’m proficient in voices. Instead, I stole an ugly
pair of mechanic’s overalls and stuffed a cushion in the chest area to make
myself look ominously large, threw on a pair of heavy work boots sitting by the
sofa, covered my head in an old gas mask, wound my way to my usual room, and
waited. It seemed like a shame I had to cover up a particularly excellent make-up
job but in the end, it was more than worth it.
Throngs of thrill seekers entered my
room and the more they poured in the faster my heart pounded. One unfortunate
soul landed hard on the floor crying in the fetal position just from the baby. I didn’t have the heart to surface from the
shadows and make it worse. I have no balls to mash but there was no way I was
getting a beat down before I avenged my own oppressor.
Brandy Vance and Meat Head entered
the room alone, the first after a long lull in traffic. They slopped into the
room, giddy and crass, striding over the gaps in the creaking floorboards, the scritch
of tree branches scraping at the windows sounded behind long dusty ripped drapes.
The sound of her pitchy voice made my mouth go dry and sour. It made me wish I
was stationed in the hall closet so I could have pushed her down the old warped
staircase and watch her tumble until she was twisted like a pretzel at the
bottom. Violet daydream aside, I went into terror mode when Meat Head loomed
over the baby. I triggered its rise and he let out a blood curdling scream, “That fucking baby just scratched me!” My
favorite parts of the baby’s anatomy are the razor sharp teeth and matching
fingernails but they are mere rubber and in no way harmful should a paying
customer come in contact with them. Brandy Vance rolled her eyes at her
companion, “Yeah, I’m sure. It’s a fucking
rubber doll, nitwit.” She reached in and pinched the doll’s hand unaffected.
He shook his head, “If you’re going to keep
being a bitch like that, I’m out.” Brandy Vance cocked her hip and sucked
her teeth in contempt, “There’s the door,
asshole.” Meat Head followed her lead and stormed out muttering expletives
under his gruff beer addled breath. Somehow the stars aligned. Meat Head
abandoned her in my room and the traffic lull persisted. We were alone. I surveyed
her from my dark corner while she poked around unfazed. She looked slight and I
felt potent. I never thought I’d ever have the upper hand with Brandy Vance but
there we were, her prowling around like she’s above it all and me dressed as an
unhinged serial killer with a shiny butcher knife prop in my hand.
Meat Head was long gone and there
was no time to waste. Brandy Vance pulled at the tattered curtains and twirled
herself around. I stepped antagonistically out of the shadow a mere step behind
her. She smelled like stale cigarette smoke and perfume. I inhaled inside of
the gas mask and it hissed just at her earlobe. She froze. “Babe, is that you? Babe?” Without thinking, I wrapped my cold gloved hand around the
back of her neck and squeezed tight bending her neck leftward. Her body tensed.
I teased her jugular with the fake blade of the knife and I growled at her ear,
“Tell me why I shouldn’t slit your throat
ear to ear … Brandy?” The sound of her name raging out of the mask jolted
her. She tried to free herself from my stranglehold but the more she tried the
tighter I squeezed. I couldn’t help myself. I felt the slash of the barbed wire
flailing against my skin all over again and the urge to snap her like a twig grew
stronger, “How do you know my name!? Let me go!” She urged me to set her
free, her voice cracking, my heart raced so fast I thought it might lurch out
of my chest and punch straight through her back. “See you in Hell, bitch …” The blade grazed her neck. Brandy shrieked
so loud her voice gave out. I heard others coming for the door. I shoved her forward
by the scruff of the neck. I heard her bare knees crack against the floor. She
whimpered and rubbed the back of her neck, “You
psychopath! You’re not allowed to touch me! You’re getting fucking fired,
asshole!” I was overcome with a conflicting permutation of wrath and euphoria.
Rage for her cross my path again and conjuring up the abuse I endured and elation
because while I only intended to frighten her when she was in my grasp the desire
to really hurt her intensified, payback for the scars she left on me mentally
and physically. Before she could get up off the floor, I bound across the room
and blew through a large crowd of teenage boys with my knife held high and
menacing. I scared them shitless. As powerful as the sensation was, I wasn’t a
bully, I wasn’t Brandy Vance. But, it terrified me at how tempting it was to
cause harm.
I rushed to the dressing room area
and disrobed in the middle of the shift. I put everything back where I found it
and sat in my plain clothes trying to catch my breath, the make-up on my face
smudged, my hair matted. The site manager ran in and asked me where Devon was,
eyeing his work boots and overalls in plain sight, “I don’t know. I haven’t seen him all night. Everything okay?” He
threw up his hands exasperated, “No everything
is not okay. I’ve got a customer out here claiming he practically strangled
her. His ass is grass.”
Sorry Devon.
***
I started writing this little exercise one
evening sitting at Kelly’s bedside. I intended a little something chilling to
post for Halloween but I couldn’t get back to it. It’s still needs some work
but the draft is here one day shy of one of my favorite holidays.
I didn’t do a thing for Halloween except
write this story. I was too sick with a cold yesterday to pass out candy. Zoe
did it for me. Bless her heart. Maybe next year Erica and I will dress up and
have some fun.
Hope you had fun reading this little
tale. I got the idea on my way to work one morning passing by the haunted house
thingie at Alderney Landing. This little story evolved in my head and I started
pecking at it in bits and pieces. This, aside from a proper edit, is the
result, blogged for your review.
In propinquity,
Nic
I loved it Nic!
ReplyDelete'Sorry Devon' great ending.