Seven

When Max finally made it home, his office phone rang. Stumbling into the dark room, he answered it in a daze.

Jordan's flat baritone boomed over the line.

"Where the hell have you been? Sticking pins in dolls? Haunting attics?"

"I was at the—"

"I've been trying to reach you all day!"

"Park," Max mumbled, still utterly numb.

"I just got a call from a reporter telling me he heard from the LAPD that Raph Rodriguez died in the mother of freak accidents and that you were there. Also that some father of two teenage girls got run over right before it happened."

Suddenly, Max was back in the sunshine watching some poor slob tumble across the grass until his body broke apart in the runaway car's axle. The red balls thumped off the windshield. A disjointed arm waved from the tire.

A lawn dart quivering in his eye socket, Raphael flinched as if suffering a massive bloody sneeze—

And Max cringed, thinking, Was this me? Did I do this?

"Babe," Jordan yelled. "Are you still with me?"

"Sorry, what?"

"I said, can I hope and pray the starlet you left with last night is still breathing?"

"Sally?" He blinked, and then he was back in his office, a phone in his sweaty grip, wondering how he'd gotten here. "I assume she is. I drove her home."

"Thank God for small favors. What were you doing at that park anyhow?"

"Trying out a camera I bought at an estate sale."

A camera that made horror.

The police had questioned him at length after hearing his description of events. Which they'd found incredible if not unbelievable, especially after finding out he directed horror movies. After confiscating his film as evidence, they let him go with a mild scolding about shooting without a permit.

Max looked over at his office's open doorway and startled at a shadow that didn't belong. Tiny eyes burned in the darkness. His heart caught in his throat.

He switched on his desk lamp to discover Lady Susan still groggy from a long nap and glaring at him.

You left me alone, the dog seemed to say. All night.

Jordan exhaled a loud sigh. "Hell of a thing. Jesus. A lawn dart. What are the odds? How about you, Max? How are you holding up?"

"I'm not sure," Max said. Nothing made sense to him.

Susan huffed and took a few steps forward. Her tongue popped out to lick her own nose before retracting.

The plan, Master. You remember the night plan, yes?

Of course you do. The food. Then the walk. Then the snuggles.

"A good man," Jordan was saying. "One of the best in the business. Salt-of-the-earth type. Quiet and reliable. I'm hosting a little industry get-together at my place Tuesday night to pay our respects. Hope you can make it."

"Yes." Max swallowed hard. "Yes, I'll be there."

Another sigh from the producer.

"Well. If you need anything, let me know."

"Wait," said Max. "What were you calling me about?"

"What?"

"Earlier today. You called me."

"Oh, I wanted to go over the box office numbers with you. Seems inappropriate to say it now, but Jack the Knife III came out swinging and had a happy night. We've got two weeks to rake it in until Nightmare on Elm Street 4 drops. Overall, the new Jack is shaping up to be a profitable addition to the franchise."

Jordan had an uncanny ability to look at the ticket sales on release day and accurately estimate what the film's total gross would be across the entire price discrimination strategy, from theaters to cable TV to Jack action figures.

"I'm starting on a new idea," Max heard himself say. "A new picture."

"Your friend just died, and you want to do a general?" Hollywood-speak for a meeting to talk background and projects.

"I'd like to know if you're up for scheduling a pitch meeting."

A metallic click on the line. The producer puffed on the cigar he'd lit.

"Well, babe, as you're asking, the answer is yes to the meeting, no to something new. Jack is looking to make a killing. So we're doing another Jack."

Max finally snapped out of his shock.

"We ended the trilogy!"

He could almost hear the producer's shrug.

"You're a creative guy," Jordan said. "You'll find a way to make it work."

"You always told me you wanted original material. I'm working on an idea that has never been done before. Something big, bold, and viscerally terrifying. It—"

"It sounds terrible already. So that's a firm no out of the gate."

Max sputtered. "What do you mean?"

"When I say I'm always looking for original material, I mean something already proven with a twist that keeps it fresh. You should know this by now."

He sadly did know it. Making a movie involved 10 percent inspiration, 90 percent bullshit. The hard part started now—convincing someone to hand over a small fortune so that he could turn inspiration into a finished feature film.

The problem was Hollywood loved bold new ideas, only no one wanted to be first to risk investing in them. If a new idea somehow got produced and proved successful, the cash spigots would open for highly profitable derivatives.

But what inspiration. This movie needed to happen. What he'd witnessed at the park… As reality, it was horrible. As cinema, it was beautiful. At last, Max had reconciled fiction and realism. As much as his brain needed to process and compartmentalize his experience, he wished to stay immersed in it. He wanted to internalize it until he understood it and could summon it on command.

Then he could share it with the world.

"Screw the risk," Max said. "This new picture is going to be terrifying. It'll scare the crap out of people and blow their minds."

"Yeah, that's another thing. You have this weird idea that the goal of a horror movie is to make people cry and shit themselves. Our goal is to sell tickets and popcorn, not send half the nation into therapy. It's called show business. Not show… experimental film that gives people freaking nervous breakdowns."

"It will make money. I know it will, on the notoriety alone. All I'm asking is to give me a chance."

"Look, there's still plenty of creative leeway in the slasher trend," Jordan said with grating patience. "The first half of the trend set up the rules. We're now in the second half, where we subvert expectations by bending them. You kinda tied off the story in the last Jack picture, but that's an opportunity to reinvent. How about changing up the Final Girl, make her the new monster? Or go meta for satire? Maybe do something bigger with the dog. Actually, I like that idea. A whole slasher flick from a dog's point of view."

Jack the Knife III's audience chortled in Max's ears.

"You can't be serious—"

"Carve a fresh path through familiar territory is what I'm telling you."

Max sulked. "I can't even give you a lousy elevator pitch."

The producer toked again on his cigar. "Oh, I'm sure it's a wonderful idea. And if you can find someone to finance it, go for it. Perhaps you'll follow in Roger Corman's footsteps and produce yourself. Either way, you'd have my earnest and sincere wishes for success. I can't wait to rip it off and make a killing on that too."

"In that case, I'll do that," Max threatened. "I'll shop the idea around—"

"That's all in the future. In the meantime, we have our inviolable contract."

"Contract?" He hadn't looked at it in years.

"Read the fine print," Jordan said. "You're on the hook for another Jack picture."

"I'm on the hook for one more picture. It can be anything I want it to be."

"Of course. But I have final say. And I say it's Jack the Knife IV."

"Oh," said Max.

"That's the way the cookie crumbles, babe," the producer told him. "You'll thank me later when you're eating it."

Jordan had him boxed with the contract. Flush with Jack the Knife's success, Max had eagerly signed. The terms promised him a three-movie deal—pay or play, meaning if Lyman Entertainments released him, he'd still get paid. Between that and the money he'd be making, it had all looked perfect to him.

But yes, the producer was most likely right about his having final say on what those three movies would be. Which meant Max was screwed.

"Come over," he blurted.

"Sure, sure." Jordan rustled some papers. "I'm available—"

"Come over now. We can talk about where to take Jack." Gritting his teeth, he added, "I like what you were saying about changing up the Final Girl. What if there were, I don't know, two Final Girls? Or two villains?"

"Right now? I don't see how it can't wait—"

"The truth is I'm still shaken up by what happened to Raph. I could sure use the company. To be honest, you're the only friend I've got right now."

Jordan sighed again, betraying what he thought of that notion, but he said, "All right, babe. I'll swing by for a quick nightcap."

"See you soon."

Max hung up, satisfied that his acting had worked. He was tired of being pushed around. This time, he refused to take no for an answer.

Susan glared and stomped her paw.

"Okay, okay," he growled.

He stormed off into the kitchen, trailed by the strutting little dog.

"Jordan thinks he owns my soul, Suse. I made him a lot of money. The least he can do is hear me out on a new concept."

Susan wagged her tail with joy. Max shook some Chuck Wagon into her bowl and mixed it with a little warm water.

He watched her scarf it down.

There's another option, friend,a voice said.

He wheeled. "Who's that?"

It's me, your old pal Arthur Golden, here with some free advice.

"Do you hear him too, Suse?"

The dog looked up to follow his gaze and then returned to her eating.

In its plastic case on the dining room table, the Arriflex 35BL sang, its throbbing hum even louder after his return from the park.

Max approached it with slow, cautious steps, worried about a jump scare, the camera popping out of its case like a jack-in-the-box and punching him in the face.

The voice hadn't come from here, however, but inside his head.

Again, he found himself teetering on a line between reality and fantasy. The game, it seemed, wasn't over. Again, a part of him liked it.

I'll play, he thought.

"What do you want?"

I'm trying to help you, the voice answered.

"I seriously doubt that," Max said. He knew how this worked.

Of course, if you'd prefer to spend the rest of your life basking in praise for making lukewarm, overcooked movies you end up hating—

"Okay! Jeez. Just tell me how you want to help me."

I hoped to make a perfect horror movie. I spent my fortune on it. I lived it. I suffered and eventually died for it. I understand need. I know obsession. I can relate to the hungry black hole that's eating you from the inside out.

I'm like you. You're like me. The million-dollar question, fellow traveler, is will you go as far as I did to get what you want?

"Jordan will hear me out," Max said. "I'll make him see things my way."

And if he doesn't? Because he won't? You're barking up the wrong tree.

"I'm not killing anybody for a movie."

You won't, though. That's the thing. The camera will do it all.

Max unlatched the case and inspected the old scarred machine. The pulsing hum stopped. The sudden silence alarmed him. He gave the case a little shake, but the camera didn't respond, lying still and lifeless.

I mean, accidents happen, right? Sometimes they happen to random strangers. Sometimes to trusted friends and colleagues.

Why not parasitic producers?

"Shut up, I'm thinking."

How far would he go? Was he all bark, or did he also have a bite?

A heart defect had killed his father. Max had the same defect. He pictured spending his remaining years producing drivel for Jordan.

"It's just a game," he said. "It's all just make-believe."

Drunk on lack of sleep and what happened at the park, Max was doing what he always did to process life's horror. He played out his own horror movie, forcing reality into sync with the dark things that lived in his head.

Yes, like a movie, Arthur said. Aren't you dying to know what happens next?

"Answer one question for me."

Of course, friend!

"Are you really here, or am I talking to myself?"

Does it matter?

"It kind of matters."

Just remember what ol' Wes Craven said. The first monster a director can use to scare his audience is himself.

"I'm not that kind of monster." Max frowned. "I'm not. Right?"

Either way, he found himself threading a fresh roll of film into the camera. He watched his hands mount the camera again on the sticks.

"It's not me doing this," he said.

The voice didn't answer.

Obeying the dark impulse, Max aimed the lens at the front door.