The Black Chronicle (4 page)

Christopher’s apartment was exactly as Jeremy had expected it to be—not only messy, but dirty. The floor looked as though it had never been touched with a mop or broom. The sink was crammed full of dishes which, by the look of the detritus of food crusted on them like barnacles, had been there for a very, very long time. Next to the sink was a stack of empty TV dinner trays. Jeremy was sure that once all the dishes were dirty, instead of washing them Chris just started eating straight from the package. He knew if he looked he would find a box of disposable plastic forks and had to open only two kitchen drawers before he found them. The whole place stunk of body odour and cigarettes.

              In the living room next to the old rear projection television was the ever-present, ever-growing, stack of video games. Christopher had virtually every video game console ever made. His library of games was astonishing. Hundreds of discs and old school cartridges teetered in towers like proud little monuments to anti-socialism. 

              The spot he would sit on the couch and to play was obviously sagged in. Next to the couch was a two litre Coke bottle full of urine. Jeremy had seen him do this before during all-night vid binges. There were days when his brother would play these fucking video games for 18 hours or more, stopping only when he couldn’t fight the sleep off any longer. He would eat in front of the screen, sleep in front of it, and apparently piss in front of it.

              There was a time when he tried to get his brother to break this understandable but counterproductive habit but as his condition worsened over the years Jeremy came to understand his need for escape. It was an opiate for his soul. He even started buying games for Chris. It seemed like a distraction was the best strategy in lieu of a cure.

              It had been two days since he’d learned of his brother’s death, and he hadn’t been able to sleep more than a couple minutes at a time since. Wearily he let himself crash down into the crater in the couch created by his brother’s weight. He could almost feel the springs poking beneath him, the fabric and cushion having been squeezed down so far. Why hadn’t Chris started sitting on the perfectly plump and seemingly unused cushion beside it?

              He thought about going through Chris’ drawers and personal items but he knew there would be no point. There were no clues, no evidence, and no reasons why his brother killed himself, other than the fact that there was basically no reason for him not to; nothing ever changed. No matter how much concern, or help, or anger, or love was spent, nothing ever changed. Even his apartment stayed, frustratingly, agonizingly, the same. Then he realized that he was wrong. Things had changed—they had gotten worse. Much worse. As bad as they could get, he supposed. Once the will to live is gone, what more could be lost?

              He felt the urge to cry start to slowly tickle the back of his throat, and the pressure of the coming tears behind his nose and eyes. But he was afraid that if he started he wouldn’t be able to stop. He had to be strong. If he just got through the funeral and the wake he would be okay. After all, he’d always known that this day would come. His schizophrenia had grown steadily within him since he’d been a child. He suspected even Chris knew it would get the better of him sooner or later.

              He could use some coffee. Or gin. Or both. And a shave, he realized rubbing the stubble on his face. He still had to go and buy a suit for Chris to be buried in.

He got up and walked to the bathroom. He stood outside the door, which was mercifully closed, placed his hand on it and wondered if it had been messy.  He was almost impressed that Chris had the balls to go through with it. Having grown up knowing their father committed suicide, it was something which Jeremy had thought about often, as Chris must also have. It was always a mystery to him how one could willingly take that leap. Was something,
anything
, not better then nothing? Didn’t hope for a better tomorrow exist as long as there
was
a tomorrow? Or was it hope of what awaited us in the afterlife that encouraged them to go? Then again, if there was a benevolent God, or being, or
whatever
, waiting to welcome us into paradise, why was the world He insisted we live in first so . . . fucked up?

No matter what his poor, sick brother believed, suicide took a type of wilfulness he didn’t think Chris capable of. If he had just shown as much determination and conviction for
anything
else in his life . . .

              He couldn’t let himself think about it. He had to just get through the funeral and the wake and the next week or two, and eventually he would be fine . . . he would be fine.
Everything will be okay.

              The apartment was so quiet he could hear water running in the pipes from somewhere in the building. He placed his hand against the cold surface of the bathroom door. Had they cleaned up the mess? Probably not. Of course he would have to do it himself. Metaphorically speaking that seemed about right.

              He gripped the door knob but couldn’t turn it. He just couldn’t. He needed coffee.

A half an hour later he was in the parking lot of Mcdonald’s drinking a large black coffee, thankful that they had replaced that old swill they used to serve. It was actually good now.

              He had the windows rolled down but cranked the AC anyway because it relaxed him.

              Some black kids in an Impala on the other side of the parking lot were blaring a Kanye West song. It was a good song. He thought maybe it was about not being able to find love because he was obsessed with his career. That sounded familiar. It had been somewhat of a big deal when was able to go ahead and cancel the remainder of his appointments for the week. Even Margret seemed surprised. Is that what it’s come to?  His own brother dies and people expect him to what? Just keep on living and working like nothing happened?

He looked down at his watch, contemplating calling it day.  He had to pick up Charlie at 6 a.m. in order to get to the funeral home before everyone else, but wanted to wait for the song to end first.

              The black kids in the car were all in their teens or early twenties. They seemed like good kids. Homies of all colours, it appeared, seemed more friendly and happy these days. The unprovoked cold stares and aggressiveness of the nineties and early millennium seemed to be tapering off. Rap, he thought, also seemed to be on a positive upswing. He was sure the two were connected.

             
And the wheel turns
. He felt his stomach knot up again. That was something his brother had said to him once in one of his rare moments of baffling maturity.

              It was in ‘05 or ‘06. He’d been visiting Christopher, as he often did back then.

              “Have you heard from Aileen?” Chris asked casually from where he sipped his tea at the dining room table.

              Aileen was a woman Jeremy had dated for a few months after his divorce. One day she had just severed contact without explanation. 

              “Strange that you ask actually.”

              “Oh yeah? Why?”

              “I heard from her just last week. She called me out of the blue. Said she was sorry. That she made a mistake and never should have left me.”

              “Did she say why she just disappeared?” Chris asked.

              “Not really, no.”

              “So what did you say?”

              “I told her it was too late and that if she had just explained herself to me, perhaps we could’ve picked things back up again but she didn't even show me that respect so I had no time for her.” 

              Chris put down his tea and smiled slyly at him from across the table.

              “And the wheel turns,” he said.

              The words struck Jeremy. So succinct. So true. Indeed, the wheel turns. After that whenever Jeremy was able to discern karma making its long gradual rotations through all things, he would say these wise, wise words to himself:
And the wheel turns.

              It was always disturbing to Jeremy when he could glimpse past the mask of madness that obscured his brother’s true face. How alike would they have been if not for the mental illness? Throughout his whole life he’d wondered if one day he too might fall ill.

              He felt something cold on his cheek and realized he had begun to cry. Wiping the tears away with the back of his hand he realized he couldn’t hear the music in the parking lot anymore. The car full of kids was gone, his coffee cold. 

              He started the car and pulled out of the parking lot, unaware that the wheel really had, in fact, begun to turn.

Mary was always late. And that was okay because everyone knew it, and had even come to expect it from her. So it was as though she wasn’t actually late at all in their minds, when she’d come into a meeting 20 minutes in. She had her own time zone—Central Mary Standard Time, or whatever. But this time, by even her own standards she was late.

              Careful not to twist an ankle, she click-clacked her heels as fast as she could down the hall towards her office. Her assistant Erin met her at the door, the way a Chihuahua with separation anxiety might greet its owner after they had been away for the weekend.

              “You’re…”

              “—late, I know. Has he been here long?”

              “About an hour.”

              “Shit, okay. I’ll make it up to him. Get together a bag a merch for him.”

              The tiny office just outside of West Hollywood was the home of Rue Morgue Magazine, a monthly horror genre mag, and it was decorated as such.

A framed and autographed picture of the late Bela Lugosi hung proudly on the wall by the front door. It was a promotional photo from the Dracula movie shot in 1930 by Universal Studios. In it, Mr. Lugosi is wearing the high collared black cape which he came to establish as a mainstay of the character’s wardrobe for many years to come. His hair slicked back, his hungry intense eyes accentuated with a perfectly lit swath of light, his regal gentlemanly demeanour offset by a single drop of blood hanging incriminatingly from the corner of his thin lipped mouth.

              Although only a blown-up copy of the original, the picture was still very old by movie memorabilia standards. Mr. Lugosi was far from the only classic horror star who stood sentinel over the small offices. Next to Bela was Boris Karloff the master of horror himself, also from the golden age of the genre, who had immortalized such classic characters as Frankenstein and the Mummy.

Across the room from Mr. Lugosi and Mr. Karloff hung the visage of the iconic Vincent Price. The elegant villain and one of the few American-born horror stars of the classic era. Even Lon Chaney Jr. dressed up as the Wolf Man was amongst this group. A long time ago someone had signed it: Love and kisses, Wolf Man. The joke around the office was that they actually hired a werewolf for the role who they’d taught to act like a human for interviews.

              Of course many readers of the magazine didn’t even know who these fine actors were. The rest of the offices were decorated with props and memorabilia the predominantly younger readership would have much less difficulty recognizing. There were stills from the set of movies featuring kung-fu fighting vampires, an encased goalie mask, a poster of Jack Nicholson jamming his face into the axed shaft of a hotel bathroom door. And near the front door was a mannequin of Edward Scissorhands sporting the actual hedge-trimming digits used in the movie.

              All this made the small offices seem as much like a museum as the headquarters of a moderately successful magazine. Mary was the curator of these ghoulish relics, as well as the editor-in-chief. 

Mary Stien’s image itself adorned the walls in various places; she’d been a ‘Scream Queen’ in the nineties before founding the publication. During her career she had starred in over seventy films. They were mostly all B-movies by horror standards, but would likely be graded as Cs or even Ds when compared with more mainstream Hollywood fare.

She rushed into the small studio they used for photo shoots and interviews and found her afternoon appointment waiting patiently on a chair along the wall.

“I’m so sorry,” Mary said, putting on a big warm smile and extending her black nail-polished fingers. 

The gentleman, Ryan, was a reviewer for Fangoria, the world’s largest horror publication and website. He was an interesting mixture, Mary mused, of part-armadillo part-forty-year-old college kid. He had a complexion that resembled raw chicken, which spoke of a strong intimacy with video games and all night Netflix marathons. Hanging loosely from his rotund body was an extra large Army of Darkness t-shirt which did little to conceal his fast food-induced plumpness.

He shook her hand and kept his eyes eerily fixed on hers in such a way that it was amusingly clear he was trying to prevent himself from staring at her tits. She was used to it, more often than not, if there was an elephant in the room, it was in her bra. 

              “No problem at all Mrs. Stien. I’m like a kid in a candy store here. I’ve been reading Rue Morgue religiously since…well since it came out really. I haven’t missed an issue.”

              “Oh that’s nice. But please, just call me Mary.”

              She turned to Erin.

              “Can you be a doll face and grab me a vanilla latte?” Then back to Ryan and asked, “Anything for you?”

              “I’ll just have a water, thank you.”

              Erin nodded and left for the Starbucks down the street. 

              Mary took a seat and crossed her freakishly long legs, which were covered in black fishnet stockings, part of the usual “Mary Stien” look. A black miniskirt clung to the firm roundness of her stair-mastered thighs, her wine coloured blouse was opened one button past modesty. Normally she wouldn’t dress like this for the office but it was something she always did for interviews. Her on screen persona had somewhere along the line blended with her real self and the outfit was part of the character. She arched her eyebrows, pulled back her shoulders to slip into character and said:

              “Shall we begin, my little pet?”

              By time Erin came back with their drinks the interview was nearly done.

“It has been nearly seven years since you have done a film. Do you ever miss it?”

              “Well, let's see,” Mary started, tapping her well manicured finger on her chin in mock recollection. “I have been shot, stabbed, buried alive, burnt at the stake, eaten by cannibals, mauled by werewolves, and in once instance raped then vaporized by a moon goblin. What's not to miss?”

              Ryan the interviewer laughed a little too hard and Erin broke the awkwardness by bringing them their drinks.

              “Thank you, doll face,” Mary said, enjoying her first sip of caffeine all morning so much so she had to close her eyes and sigh.

              “Well, that's a pretty impressive list of deaths,” Ryan continued, breaking her moment of bliss, “But you left out the second half of your career during which you did most of the killing. During that time—and most significantly in the films you wrote yourself—you created a kind monster-hero role and influenced a trend in the horror and thriller genre which is being referred to as “villain-cinema.” How do you feel about the fact that that trend is sort of taking off at a time when you have stepped away from the industry?”

              Okay this guy was coming in with a little less fanboy and a little more journalist, than she had expected.

              “Well, first of all,” she said, suddenly invigorated by the prospect of having a real conversation, “I don't feel like I'm away from the industry. I still love these stories, I'm just exploring them in a different way now. Through the magazine. But as far as this whole villain-cinema thing goes, I think it's great that people are calling it that. And I guess that does explain the kind of stories I was compelled to tell, but it wasn't some sort of conscious decision to create a kind of cinema. I was just writing what was inside of me. And in the end, that's all you can do, if you're an honest artist. An artist who isn't honest with what's inside isn't an artist at all.”

              Ryan seemed to chew that over for second before he retorted.

              “Horror has always been, well, filled with horrific, bleak, dark stories. With the introduction of villain-cinema, it seems to have... I don't want to say ‘sunken deeper’, because that sounds like a judgement somehow, but I guess I can see how some people would see it that way. I guess the difficulty with these kinds of stories is that there is no clear good guy. The good guy is bad. And even in some way there seems to be this notion that the monster is the true victim. Anybody that has seen the Blood-Witch series or Love Bytes, the movie were you play a sex-bot who grows to feel a sense of violation and anger towards the people that exploited her and then massacres them all in the most horrible ways imaginable, will know what I'm talking about. What do you think it is that compelled you to write stories in which there was no clear line between hero, villain, good-guy, bad-guy?”

              “Honestly, while I was writing them, there was no agenda to write things like that, or create this notion of a monster-hero. I just sat down to write and that's what came out. But now that everyone else has had something to say about it, it’s kind of forced me to look at it and ask myself why it's my natural inclination to write these kinds of stories. And I suppose I just see goodness and evil in all of us. It also is clear to me that people who are criminals or have done, quote un-quote, evil things, many times are victims themselves in the sense that they are suffering from a kind of deficiency of something somewhere in their own existence, making them in a way, victims themselves. I don't know. I don't want to get too philosophical about it. These movies are supposed to just silly fun after all. And like I said, I'm only coming to these kinds of thoughts after the fact.”

              She looked at  Erin, her assistant editor whose eyebrows and lips were travelling in opposite directions across her mousy little face, an expression Mary interpreted as her being impressed. 

              “I would like to read something from an article written about you once.”

              Mary knew of course what article he was referring to. It had proved to be the most important press she ever received.

              “With an illustrious bloody rampage through the annals of cinematic gore and horror, Mary Stien has undeniably cemented her legacy as one of the great beauties of the genre right up there with the likes of iconic figures such as Elvira and the great Vampirella. She has both captivated us as the doe-eyed, heaving-bosomed, victim/survivor, and tempted us as the sinister man eating seductress. With all respect due, it’s in this author’s opinion that neither her great predecessors nor the horde of lesser minions whom she spawned and inspired with her sultry performances, can match her haunting screen presence. If her peers are considered to be the great scream queens of the past several decades, then she is surely the Scream Empress of them all. All hail Empress Mary.”

              “Yes. Which was and still is a huge compliment. Just to be compared with Elvira and Vamperalla, is a dream come true really.”

              “And that it's a monicker that has stuck. Empress Mary.  Do you worry that staying away from film too long will cause you legacy to fade?”

              “Legacy?!”  Mary laughed. “I think that may be a tad dramatic. Look, let's be honest. Most of the movies I've done won't exactly resonate through the ages. If I am remembered in any sort of way for my work it will be... I don't know really. There are maybe one or two films which hopefully will considered cult classics, but most of the film industry itself, aren't even aware of the dark corner of film which is low-budget horror and slashers. My motivation has never been fame or even money. I just love this genre, and I love working with creative, like-minded people. That's what the films were about for me and that's what the magazine is about now. In a lot of ways I'm just the same kid from Sweet River Utah who used to spend Sunday afternoon watching the monster double features on TV and spending all year looking forward to Halloween. I'm in this because I'm a fan. I'm not Empress anything, I'm just Mary.”                    

              Ryan giggled, pleased, and hit stop on his tape recorder.

              “That was great,” he said. “I think that's a great place to stop. Unless there is anything else you would like to add?”

              “No I think that just about sums it all up,” Mary said. She smiled brightly and shook his clammy hand. 

              “That went really well!” Erin said, suddenly appearing at their side.

              “I thought so too,” Mary said, standing up and straightening out her skirt.

              “Yeah it was great. We got a lot of good quotes there,” he agreed.

              “When will it be in print?” Mary asked.

              “I would say in about two weeks. Everyone is really excited about the piece.”

              “Well it was my pleasure,” Mary said. “Anytime you want to do it again just let me know. If you have follow-up questions later, whatever you need.”

              “Thank you very much…I…uh. Sorry to do this, but do you mind signing a few things for me?”

              The slush pile on Mary's desk had become a slush mountain. Flipping through the submissions and query letters she told herself for the umpteenth time that she was going to hire another assistant soon.

              Erin knocked at the open door.

              “Did you see him out?”

              “Yeah he just left. Nice guy. He said he wanted to take you for dinner. I gave him your number.”

              “Excellent. Please be a dear and remind him to bring his Avatar Fleshlight and cosplay wardrobe.” Mary joked dryly and began to pack up her materials for the day. “Well, I am out of here.  I have an appointment with the printer so I’m just going to work from home after that. Are you sticking around?”