Norman Partridge - Slippin' into Darkness

He opened the refrigerator and was glad to see that the A-Squad hadn’t left any beer behind. The Diet Coke he took from the bottom shelf was pleasantly frigid. He halved a lemon and squirted juice into a thick glass. Then he added ice and Coke. A few deep swallows and the rusty tang was evicted from his mouth.

Nothing better for a hangover than a lemon Coke.

Shutterbug felt that he was slowly reclaiming his humanity. Routine of the morning rolling right along. Coffee brewing, a croissant with some butter in a few minutes, maybe an orange if he felt that his stomach could stand more acid on top of the lemon and coffee.

Morning routine, part B: while the coffee brewed, check the video decks in the basement.

Eight VCRs-lights glowing, digital clocks flashing-greeted Shutterbug as he descended the stairs. Each unit was manufactured by RCA. Just like his father, Shutterbug believed in buying American.

He hit the rewind button on a remote. The machines went to work. A few moments later he ejected the tapes and set them on a bench. He would label them later. He had hoped to turn out some serious product last night, but that hadn’t happened. Tonight he’d have to get busy. His distributor in San Francisco was breathing down his neck.

Maybe he would stop off at Blockbuster and rent a couple machines-he enjoyed doing that because Blockbuster refused to rent X-rated movies, and it was a kick to turn out his product on their equipment. But Shutterbug decided against it. Not because he didn’t want to spend the money, but because the quality of his tapes would suffer-Blockbuster’s machines didn’t hold a candle to his own.

Shutterbug believed in quality control. It was the single principle that set him apart from his competitors. Most of the other guys who operated on the fringes of the erotica industry were just cheapjack jokers. They didn’t have the talent to do straight fuck movies, so they did the dangerous stuff because it was their only ticket to the big bucks. With Shutterbug it was different. Sure, he was in it for the money. But there was that old familiar thrill, too, the one that came from ignoring the rules.

He broke open a new brick of blank tapes, peeled the plastic wrappers, and fed the hungry duping decks. Cued up the master tape. Sent the mechanical beasts to work with the press of a single button.

Talk about your easy money. But even as he thought it, he knew it wasn’t true. This was just one end of the deal. The other end, that was the tough part. He turned from the dingy metal table and the metal shelves stacked with VCRs and photographic chemicals that never seemed to make the short trip to his shop, and he stared at the other end of the room.

The plush carpet started halfway across the cement floor. Red carpet, and a bed covered with black silk sheets, because white skin looked magnificent against black sheets. Nice rattan furniture for an exotic look. An open picture window on the false wall that stood a few feet short of the cement wall of the basement, which was covered with a mural-sized photo that pictured a beach scene on the isle of Maui.

That was Shutterbug’s set, at least the one he was using now. He had previously used an Aspen ski chalet scene and a New York penthouse scene. He had even built a prison set for some teenybopper-in-the-pen stuff early on in his career.

Now it was Maui, and it was almost real. The bed, the window, the beach. The air would be warm and the sand would be soft and the trades would be gentle.

Shutterbug grinned. He needed a vacation.

He glanced at the VCR and monitor, saw the black wires spreading out from the master machine like the tentacles of a big octopus, saw his latest teeny-bopper protege on the octopus’s black face. Shelly Desmond was wearing one of April Destino’s cheerleading sweaters and nothing else. She was playing with herself. Dressed in the sweater, wearing just a touch of makeup, she looked just right, almost as good as one of the teen queens mounted on his bedroom wall.

The cheerleader’s sweater had been a good deal. It added that little touch of authenticity that his customers appreciated. Fifty bucks in April Destino’s hand, and the sweater was his. He was only sorry that with April dead he wouldn’t have a chance to add some of her other cheerleading outfits to Shelly’s wardrobe.

Damn. Shutterbug stared at the teendream, at the VCRs, and he thought about the money stowed in the upstairs closet. He had almost told those four idiots about his operation; he’d almost started bragging. Christ, that would have been a mistake. Tell some mouths like that, and before he knew it the FBI would be pounding on his door.

Four idiot jocks. Shutterbug was glad that he had outgrown such morons.

He had come a long, long way.

From doing what others wanted to doing things his own way.

From Todd Gould’s basement to his own.

From 16mm to the age of video.

With the last thought, Shutterbug’s grin faded and was replaced by a thin frown. He hurried upstairs. Frantically, he searched the house. He opened the front door and checked the porch, the driveway, even the bushes.

Where was the 16mm projector?

And, more importantly, where was the little loop of film?

Shutterbug tapped his shirt pocket. Jesus. There it was. Right there. Laughing, he fished the plastic reel from his pocket, and a shard of film whipped against his wrist.

The laughter died in his throat. He shouldn’t be looking at the film itself. He should be looking at the white leader. Hurriedly, he unspooled a coil of 16mm and held it up to the light.

He saw Griz Cody leaning over April. But that wasn’t the beginning of the film. He pinched the first frame of film and let the reel drop. It slipped free of the film and rolled across the floor. The film unspooled in a straight line, a line that was less than five feet long.

Shutterbug swore. He’d made the mistake of an amateur. All that damn beer and cocaine had muddled his thoughts. They hadn’t watched the whole movie. The film had broken when Griz Cody tossed the projector. Not realizing that the film was split into two parts on two reels, Shutterbug had grabbed only one. He had less than five feet of a fifty foot film. The rest was on the collection reel.

Shutterbug paced. In the living room, he stepped over the turntable that Griz Cody had destroyed. He stepped on the white scratch left on the pine floor by the stereo needle and reversed direction. The heavy aroma of fresh-brewed coffee in the kitchen did not cheer him, and the buttery smell of warmed croissant wafting from the oven did not stir his hunger.

He remembered the drive-in. Standing there in front of all those people. Seeing through his eyelids. Seeing through their flesh.

No. That was the nightmare. Get it straight.

Okay. They watched the movie. Griz tossed the projector. And he picked up one of two reels. He didn’t pick up the broken projector itself, but maybe someone else did. And then after that…after that-

• they visited the cemetery. Right. That wasn’t part of the dream. They visited the cemetery- • and found a hole in the goddamn ground! An empty grave! It was April’s grave, and someone had stolen her body. Shutterbug wanted to hide from that, but the memory came flooding back, bringing with it a horror which frightened him in a way that no mere nightmare ever could.

He had stared into an empty grave. April’s corpse was gone. But someone had grabbed him, a man…a man who was-

– dead?

No. Not dead. This wasn’t a dream.

Bleeding, then. A man who was injured, perhaps on the brink of death…

Jesus. It really had happened. It hadn’t been part of his crazy nightmare.

But the projector, and the reel that held the rest of the movie.