Stephen Jones: The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror. Vol 15

Denise and Oz were like that. The places she went and the things she did contained wholly unexpected layers. Up until now I’d only seen her “hallway” face.

But I wasn’t in Kansas anymore.

The trivia litany went like this:

Buddy Ebsen — the original Tin Man — almost died from pneumonia, suffering a bad reaction to aluminum dust from his make-up, which let Jack Haley jump into his metal shoes.

The Cowardly Lion’s costume was so hot Bert Lahr passed out at least a dozen times.

The Munchkins raised so much holy hell on the set that Chevy Chase mined that aspect for Under The Rainbow.

Shirley Temple led the pack for Dorothy’s role. Probably because everyone considered Judy Garland too old and a poor box-office draw. The movie lost money, costing about $4.6 million and earning only $4 million the first time out.

Studio executives cut a groundbreaking dance number that showcased Ray Bolger. They believed audiences wouldn’t sit through a “children’s movie” if it was too long.

Faulty special effects burned Margaret Hamilton at the end of her first scene as the Wicked Witch. This was shortly after Garland arrived in Oz. Hamilton tried grabbing the ruby slippers, but was thwarted by the Good Witch, an actress named Billie Burke. Hamilton dropped below the stage and right into a badly timed burst of smoke and flame…

It went on and on and on, everything you never wanted to know. Peccadilloes, idiosyncrasies; in other words, crap.

Then Denise told me a story about the man who hanged himself during filming — and she claimed the final print showed the incident.

“What? You’re kidding me. I’ve never seen a dead guy.”

Denise licked her lips, imitating a poorly belled cat. “Not everybody does. It’s like those 3-D pictures where you cross your eyes.”

“Prove it.”

Denise paused the video. Onscreen, Dorothy and the Scarecrow were in the midst of tricking the trees into giving up their apples, frozen seconds before stumbling across the Tin Man.

“It’s at the end of this section. I’ll run it through once at regular speed. Let me know if you catch it.”

She hit PLAY. Dorothy and the Scarecrow freed the Tin Man, did a little song-and-dance, fought off the Wicked Witch, and continued their trek. I didn’t see anything strange and shrugged when Denise paused it.

“Nothing, right?” She rewound the tape to a point immediately after the witch disappeared in a cloud of red-orange smoke (this time minus the hungry flames), then advanced the video frame by frame.

Our date had progressed from strange to surreal, and I couldn’t wait for an excuse to leave.

Then I saw him — the hanged man.

Dorothy, the Scarecrow and the Tin Man skipped down the road. Before the scene cut away to the Cowardly Lion’s forest, the jerky movement of the advancing frames highlighted activity inside the forest edge.

A half-shadowed figure moved in the crook of a tree about ten feet off the ground. I thought it might be one of the many birds spread throughout the clearing and around the cabin, but its shape looked too much like a man. The next frame showed him jumping from his perch. His legs were stiff, as if bound. Or maybe determination wouldn’t let him go all loose and disjointed at this defining moment. Before his feet touched the ground, they wrenched to the right. Whatever held him to the upper branches swung his ill-lit body back into the shadows. I think I heard his neck snap, although with the tape playing at this speed there wasn’t any sound. Even at regular speed I knew the only sound would come from the three actors, voicing in song their desire to see the Wizard.

My heart raced and for a minute I worried that its syncopated thrum might attract the Tin Man, prompting him to step into the apartment and take it for his own.

“I can’t believe it,” I said. “It’s a snuff film.”

“Awesome, isn’t it?” Denise restarted the film. I couldn’t picture her smile as kind; it seemed too satisfied. “I stay awake some nights,” she said, “letting my mind experience what it was like. The studio buried the whole thing. Can you imagine the bad press? I even think Garland started drinking because of it.”

On the television screen, Bert Lahr made his appearance. His growls matched the rough nature of Denise’s monologue. As the film continued I offered small talk, made Denise vague promises that I would see her in the morning, and left as the credits rolled.

“I feel as if I’ve known you all the time, but I couldn’t have, could I?” “I don’t see how. You weren’t around when I was stuffed and sewn together, were you?”

“And I was standing over there rusting for the longest time…”

I knew I was asleep, sprawled on my couch. The past five days had stretched me to the limit. I always had a headache. Aspirin and whiskey didn’t kill the pain. My conversations with Denise were forced; she mentioned the movie at every opportunity.

We’d had a second date. I agreed because Denise invited two friends from her work. Stan and Lora were smokers, rail-thin and shrouded in a pall of smoke. I think Denise brought them along (one) so she could look good in contrast and (two) so she had someplace to hide if things went sour. We hit a club and during a busy night on the dance floor I demonstrated I wasn’t a klutz. I guess you could say it was the modern social equivalent of an Army physical. Denise and Lora exchanged approving nods near the end and Stan loosened up enough so that he took a minute between shots of tequila and his chain-smoking to talk to me.

Between all the alcohol and nicotine, I got a contact buzz and found myself obsessing about the hanged man and the way he disappeared into the shadows. Denise was still attractive to me, but I couldn’t forget how pleased she’d looked as she talked about the death.

My thoughts hid me beside the Tin Man’s cabin, watching the trio skip past. I would move onto the road. The hanged man was visible ahead. They must have turned their eyes to follow the road as it bent to the right because they didn’t see him.

But I did.

Denise had seemed like her old self in the mixed company, and I assumed I was overreacting. So I agreed to a third date. Instead of a rerun with the mystery man in the trees, I got Stan and Lora again and a nice restaurant. I was almost happy when I saw their wan faces.

Almost. Denise and Lora left to powder their noses, and Stan asked me a question.

“How did you like the movie?”

“What?”

“You know what I mean. You look like you haven’t had a good night’s sleep in a while.”

“How do you know that?”

“Denise is predictable. I’d be more surprised if she hadn’t shown you the film yet.”

I gulped my beer. “You’ve… seen him?”

Stan shrugged. “What about it?”

“The guy hung himself. She seems so glad.”

“Someone dies somewhere every second. Get used to it. Life will get a lot easier if you do.”

Before I could ask what he meant, Denise and Lora returned from the bathroom.

I had the dream again the next night. It started at the same point. The Tin Man finished his dance, stumbled off the road, collapsed in a heap on a tree stump near the cabin. The others rushed to his side, Technicolor concern painting their expressions.

No one noticed me. I couldn’t hear everything they said. It did seem to change night to night, probably because I couldn’t remember the dialogue verbatim.

The Wicked Witch screeched at the three adventurers from her perch on the roof above, surprising me again. I crouched and prayed she wouldn’t see me. She tossed a fireball at the Scarecrow and even from this distance I felt the heat. The Tin Man smothered the flames under his funnel hat, but not before the silver paint bubbled and blistered on the edge and on several of his fingers.