Life in a Haunted House Read online

  Table of Contents

  Newsletter

  Preface

  The Animator

  The Twisted Face

  The Fan

  The Screenwriter

  The Interesting Son

  The Crooked Frame

  The Photographer

  A Shocking Twist

  The Thief

  The Rumored Boyfriend

  The Date

  Connections

  The Return to Budget House

  The Director

  The Warlock

  The Axe Maniac

  The Lost Reel

  About the Author

  Also Available

  Dedication and Acknowledgments

  Copyright

  LIFE IN A HAUNTED HOUSE

  (A Budget Studios Production)

  by Norman Prentiss

  #

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  Life in a Haunted House

  (A Budget Studios Production)

  by Norman Prentiss

  Other people might tell you they grew up in a haunted house. Maybe it’s a metaphor: haunted by alcohol or drug addiction or abusive parents. Or secrets that eat away at the whole family, growing stronger and stronger, the longer they remain unspoken.

  That’s a kind of haunting, I guess.

  Maybe somebody will make claims about the supernatural. A dead relative or former tenant rattles chains in the night, passes through walls, moans into the ears of people just drifting off to sleep.

  But I’m not talking about metaphor, or some vague supernatural presence.

  I’m talking about real ghosts and monsters.

  You know: the kinds in the movies.

  #

  If you saw Budget Studios’ The Stone Stairway, you’ll understand what I mean.

  I’ve seen that stairway. Walked on it myself. They filmed the movie in Melissa Preston’s house.

  They filmed all the movies in my friend Melissa Preston’s house.

  #

  The Animator

  Today I’m an animator. I’m in tenth grade, bored out of my mind. The teacher is droning on about a book I haven’t read, something called Green Mansions. To keep myself amused, I’ve decided to animate the items on my desk. I push the pencil slightly, remove my hand from view, then imagine the quick click of a camera shutter. I push the pencil again, another imaginary click, and the frame of film advances. The teacher says something about the color green and nature, and a few other students jot down notes. They’re doing something useful with their pens and pencils, and will earn a higher score on the test, so perhaps I should follow their example. But, if projected on a screen at 24 frames a second, my animated pencil would arc across the desk like a thrown javelin.

  I don’t know if the other kids have read Green Mansions, but at least they’re familiar with the concepts from previous lectures. Civilization vs. nature, the exotic “other,” symbolism of the color green—even the teacher seems bored with the obviousness of that last point. It’s still mostly confusing to me, since I joined the class mid-book.

  I’ve joined life already in-progress, which is a familiar feeling. I’m always having to catch up.

  My animated pencil finishes its arc. There’s still a half an hour remaining in class.

  I start to unravel a paper clip. A spiral, then straightened into a small metal snake. My movements are meticulous. I decide that I’ve studied the movements of different animals, to add realism to my animated effects. If I could afford a super-8 camera with a single-frame attachment, if I had skill with constructing a ball-and-socket armature, adding latex muscles and skin over it—if only I had talent as an artist—I know I could make an interesting film. Award-winning, maybe.

  My seat neighbor, Geoff, reaches across the aisle and grabs the paperclip from my desk. He doesn’t really understand the game I was playing, the little mental exercise that was maybe connected to some childish filmmaker dream of mine. And it’s not like he’s ruined an actual film. But he knows he’s taunting me.

  He holds the bent clip just out of my reach, knowing I’m not likely to lunge across the desk at him. He bends the metal back and forth, back and forth. Smiles.

  #

  On the bus ride home, some of the kids start picking on Geoff. He’d missed an easy catch during gym, made a stupid joke about “blue genes” in Biology—that kind of thing—and the natural high school progression leads them to insult his crooked teeth and the pimples on his forehead.

  For once it isn’t me under the microscope of cruelty, and it seems like a good moment where I might join in. I plan to score a few choice digs, ingratiate myself with the pack. Besides, I’m still a bit miffed at Geoff’s interference during English class, and doubly annoyed he sat behind me on the bus, after assigned desks at school had already made me weary of his company.

  So I swing my knees into the aisle and twist around, checking for physical flaws his friends have neglected. Geoff is taking the jibes in stride, nodding his head and shooting back comebacks—No I’m not. Sounds like you’re describing yourself—all so ineffective they merely stir up laughter and further taunts from nearby rows, Geoff half-laughing along with them.

  Then I discover my opening shot. Can’t believe I haven’t noticed this particular detail before, and that his long-time friends had steered clear of it. “His eye,” I say. “The right one seems glazed over and doesn’t follow the left. Is he, like, drunk? Or half asleep?”

  All laughter stops. I’d been poised to expect agreement—somebody else piling on about big ears, at the very least. Our section of the bus grows silent. The driver edges a little close to the curb on Dennison and the wheel goes up on one side, but everyone manages to resist making a snide comment about his steering.

  Kevin, who’s made probably the meanest jokes about Geoff, acts like I’m the biggest jerk on the bus. “How could you be so stupid, Brendan?”

  Until now, these other kids have barely registered my presence. In the half week at my new school I’d deliberately stayed quiet, to avoid exactly the kind of attention they’d been giving Geoff earlier.

  They give it to me now. Some stocky kid I didn’t even know mimics my squeaky voice, and his friend says I walk funny; Greta, who until now seemed sweet-natured, points out that I’ve worn the same plaid shirt two days in a row, and it probably smells.

  As if I’d have known the story about Geoff’s accident, how the whole school responded two years ago after his eye infection took a turn for the worse, each grade making a card for him, adding signatures and jokes and well wishes to cheer him up in the hospital. How, for two years, nobody ever mentioned it, hoping to preserve an illusion that his glass eye was indistinguishable from the other one.

  I know I wasn’t blameless here: joining in with the taunts of a crowd isn’t an admirable way to introduce yourself. But honestly I hadn’t intended anything worse than what my peers were already doing. Why would I intentionally jab at some kid’s forbidden sore spot, with months of agonizing history behind it? Yet all their comments were deemed innocent, while mine was mean-spirited and heartless.

&
nbsp; Damned if I hadn’t made a similar gaffe at my previous school. I’d joined there mid-year as well, and the assistant principal gave me a poorly mimeographed map, and assigned me to a “buddy” who would escort me to my classes the first day. Well, Buddy made himself scarce once we’d left the office, then kids spilled out of open classrooms, and all the halls looked the same. I turned the map 90 degrees, then 90 more, trying to figure out which way was north and what it meant that my locker was located on “Jefferson” corner, and I was nervous I’d be late to class and make a horrible first impression, all out of breath when I finally reached where my locker was supposed to be. Some lanky girl stood in front of it, her back to me, and I said Excuse Me, polite as can be, and she’s a statue, I repeated myself and got the same reaction until I finally shouted, What, are you deaf?

  And of course, she was. Turned out she didn’t notice my rudeness, but everybody else in that crowded hall did, and they all stepped back, prepared to avoid me for the rest of the day, the rest of the school year.

  A moment like that feels like some kind of cosmic conspiracy. Like that deaf girl was placed there by a cruel universe, at that specific moment, just to humiliate me.

  Different school, same story. I’d tried to maintain perfect behavior from the start, but in one moment of weakness on the bus—not even meaning anything—I end up making the worst possible comment. A handful of people are disgusted with me, and I know they’ll share the story the next day, and it will spread faster than an announcement over the morning intercom. New Kid will be branded an insensitive jerk, before anybody ever gets the chance to know me.

  #

  The Twisted Face

  Today I’m the Twisted Face of Edison High. I walk through the crowded hallway, and two tenth grade girls stand in front of the trophy case and share a joke. They are both laughing, and their smiles make them beautiful. The shorter girl’s attention flutters away from her friend, lands on me as I pass, and my hideous presence is enough to freeze her smile then contort it into an awful grimace.

  Her friend turns as well, curious what could have produced such a visceral reaction. She soon regrets her curiosity. Her hand raises to cover her mouth, stifling a scream.

  Neither of them has ever seen a face as deformed as mine.

  They will never get used to it. I will always horrify them.

  #

  I’m remembering a movie I watched with my dad when I was younger—an early production by Budget Studios with the evocative title, The Twisted Face. It’s filmed in black and white, with lots of shadows to cover flaws in the cheap production. The first half of the movie contains scenes filmed from an unusual perspective, as if through the eyes of the presumed killer. You see his hands struggle with a match then light a cigarette, and next smoke billows from the bottom of the frame. You see him open a desk drawer to pull out a large jagged knife. He lifts the knife and twists the blade, catching the light. A pair of superimposed eyes, simulating a reflection, appear in the gleaming metal.

  You see him walk a night-shrouded street, heavy boots scraping along the pavement. A woman leans against a streetlamp, calls to him for a match, but the camera starts to pull back. C’mon, promise I won’t bite, the woman says, and he steps reluctantly toward her, head down, boots entering the circle of light on the sidewalk. The camera tilts up at her, and she finally sees him. Oh God, the Twisted Face! she screams, and then rough hands reach from the sides of the frame to strangle her.

  Daytime scenes follow a police investigation, with other night-walking scenes interspersed as the investigation drags on. In a repeating pattern, the audience sees through the walker’s eyes; whenever he stumbles across other people, they react with disgust and fear, and strangling hands reach forward.

  A change occurs halfway through the film, when a sequence from the killer’s point of view enters the day-lit police station. A woman in the waiting area screams, while a father covers his daughter’s eyes. The desk clerk grimaces and accidently knocks over a coffee cup. The camera moves into the main station area, where an officer’s mouth drops open, cigarette still dangling from the corner. Nobody stops the visitor as the camera heads straight to the Police Chief’s office, then a hand comes from the right side and forces the door inward.

  The Chief is the only one who doesn’t register surprise, though it’s clear he struggles to maintain a calm exterior. “Have a seat.”

  “I understand you’ve been looking for me,” the visitor says.

  Finally the point-of-view breaks. First the Chief’s neutral face from the side, then a pan to the guest chair.

  The monster sits there. We finally see the monster with the twisted face.

  The title’s description is accurate. The man’s head sits large on his shoulders. A growth on his lower jaw twists the orientation of his lips so that his mouth is nearly vertical. More growths balloon his cheeks, the nose is bent crooked, and one eye peers through a bruised donut of flesh. The forehead juts out on one side, forming a horn-like point.

  In the bright lights of the office, the facial deformities are shockingly realistic.

  They should be, since the actor isn’t wearing a mask.

  Bud “Budget” Preston, the producer, director and writer for most Budget Studios productions, made the controversial decision to cast Thomas Hendricks, an actor who suffered in real life from acromegaly—the same affliction made famous by The Elephant Man. Large cysts form on the skin, mutating the face, limbs and body. The growths sometimes press into the skeleton, twisting it into a grotesque posture. In fatal instances, these same growths can swell to crush internal organs.

  Although Hendricks didn’t appear to have skeletal deformities, his facial distortions were a perfect fit for the horror-mystery genre—and of course, saved Budget Studios the expense of creating convincing monster makeup. The film company’s moniker doesn’t specify high or low budget productions, but it’s clear from even a cursory screening that the second adjective applies.

  In some cases, however, a low budget contributes to a film’s ambiance. The night scenes of The Twisted Face have a washed-out, shadowy effect that mimics documentary realism. In addition to the shock-value of Hendricks’ appearance, the actor’s untrained performance manages to earn the viewer’s sympathy.

  His character—spoiler alert—turns out not to be the killer. Instead, he cooperates with the investigation, and the police eventually capture a man who has been wearing a cheap fright mask that mimics Hendricks’ natural deformities. At the end of the film, Hendricks has a wonderful bit of dialogue as he bids farewell to the team of police officers.

  “You think it must be awful to be me. Everywhere I look, I see people recoil in horror. You’d never trade places with me.”

  There’s no music on the soundtrack as the actor struggles to force the scripted words through his twisted mouth. His puffed eye squints in suppressed rage.

  “It’s actually not so bad,” he says. “My world has no illusions. When people react to me, I see their real faces.”

  The film ends with a montage of faces from earlier in the movie, each fading into the next, all of them twisted.

  #

  The memory of this film provides a convenient escape during the school day. The other students avoid me, whisper behind my back. Perhaps the fault lies in the way they perceive me—rushing to condemn a single unthinking comment, as if it represents the inner workings of an evil mind.

  I’m the New Kid, and they should be making an extra effort to welcome me. They should at least give me the benefit of the doubt.

  My innocent-victim status is a little harder to sustain during English class. Geoff has his usual assigned desk beside mine, and at first I’m happy that he’s leaving me alone for a change. I move stuff around my desk as much as I want, sketch pictures in the margins of my notebook, and he keeps to himself. Meanwhile, Mr. Camen draws a Venn Diagram on the board, trying to make some point about intersecting cultures in a novel few of us care about.

  Then I
notice Geoff’s hand moves absently to his face, fingertips hovering near the eye I’d unwittingly mocked. I’m fairly certain I’ve not previously seen him make this kind of insecure gesture. He touches the glass eye as if worried it will fall out, or attempts a subtle movement to shift the eye’s gaze to match its functioning partner. At another point, his fingers reach higher. They pinch a strand of hair, clipped too short to hang past his brow, but he pulls the strand anyway, hoping it would cover his false eye.

  I did this to him. He’d learned to accept his situation, and I’d made the injury fresh.

  #

  In Art class most students are involved in group projects that began before my mid-trimester enrollment. In practice, group work usually means that one or two people finish the bulk of any project while the others talk or wander the room, occasionally joining in to paint a small section of canvas or glue some clip-out letters to a mural. Group-work students sit on stools around large tables, similar to the lab islands in science class. A few students sit at isolated desks, permitted to draw independently in their sketchbooks. That’s what I’ve been doing.

  I’m not very good. I mostly trace images from magazines, then add some half-hearted shading effects to give Mrs. Brinkton something she can pretend to praise. As teachers go, she’s got a pretty good quality: when she’s helping one student or group, her full attention stays focused on that specific project, oblivious to the rest of us. We can do whatever we want.

  I’m near the side wall, keeping my distance from other kids as if it’s my choice. I thumb through an issue of People magazine to find other subjects to trace, while the teacher gives a color-wheel lecture to the painting group across the room. The students who already understand these concepts listen carefully; the others ignore her.