D. I. Russell
OUTSIDE
For the drinkers of the Tudor House Hotel, Wigan, 1997-2000
Play
He flicks a cigarette between his lips and canters down the grimy stairs, passing streaks of graffiti on mouldy white tile, kicking aside stray pages of newspaper and empty cans.
Samara wondered: what came first?
The monster?
Or its world?
In the golden age of cinema, the monsters lurked in gothic castles in faraway lands, or the deepest depths for only the brave or foolish to venture. Decades later, bizarre creatures invaded from the stars in black and white science fiction shlock. Hackers and slashers would deliver their retribution among the parties of summer camps and dormitories of the seventies and eighties. Simple creatures would, of course, dine on the simple folk, while the more articulate beasts would stalk the educated, ensuring the challenges of their philosophies were not to be squandered. The mutant freaks hid in the deserts and sewers, sites of human refuse. Demons coveted the innocence of young girls.
New York, but not blockbuster New York. Not the city of CGI invasions and exploding skylines. The low budget underbelly. The alleyways, the bars, the street corners at the dead of night. A place teeming with souls; but on these streets contact was to be avoided, shunned…to be feared. Did the monster seek this place out to call home? Or did the darkness of the city spit her out, a nightmare abortion of hunger and shadow?
The smoker has no name, other than “Man on Train”. He was played by Curt Harris, an actor Samara had yet to see in anything else. He turns a corner on the subway platform, meandering through the commuters exiting the train. Before stepping through the open doors, he savours one last drag of his cigarette and tosses it aside.
In the background, sitting on a bench a little way down the platform, a girl with long dark hair turns in his direction, features blurred, with the shot focussing on the foreground.
Oblivious to the attention, Man on Train lives up to his name and heads through the double doors. Perhaps this is the last train of the night, or maybe it’s heading to the end of the line. We don’t know who this man is. We don’t know where he’s going. It’s late, and he finds a seat in the empty carriage, facing the camera. His gaze drifts as he ponders something. It brings a small smile to his lips. He peers out of the window as the doors slide closed. The train pulls away.
The score eases in, inspired, perhaps, by Oldfield.
Plunging into the first tunnel, the carriage fills with darkness for a moment before the lights flicker back into life. The man looks up with a frown, unaware of the girl now sitting at the rear of the carriage. Her dark hair hangs over her face in a glossy veil.
Watching both players, Samara smiles.
The best bit is coming up now.
The shot cuts to the point of view of the man as he fidgets with his lighter, then cuts back as he sighs. The girl is now a few rows closer, face still hidden. Only the score reveals her advance, as the relentless piano theme steps up a notch.
The man drops his lighter.
“Damn it.” He bends down to retrieve it from between his feet and sits back with a grunt, hiding the girl to his rear. Once again, he appears to sit in an empty carriage, watching the city lights dart past the window.
The girl slowly tilts her head to the side, now sitting directly behind him. She raises a pale, withered hand, her thin fingers snaking over the back of his seat. From the hidden face seeps a low hiss that rises in volume.
Man on Train glances back over his shoulder.
The seat behind him is empty.
No style in a quick kill from behind, Samara thought. Terror lives in the realisation. Dread lives in-between, those sweet and bloody seconds before the realisation hits, hope scattered, the surf hitting the rocks.
The camera angle changes to a wide shot. Across the carriage, the girl sits rigid, hair hanging, hands neatly folded in her lap.
Man on Train peers up and down the aisle, and finding his only companion, smiles in her direction.
“Didn’t hear you get on, cutie.” He licks his lips. “You need help gettin’ off?”
Samara grins. No one said the writing was award-winning. At least they gave Curt Harris a few lines.
The girl ignores him, and his smile descends into a sneer.
“Hey! Hey, I’m talkin’ to you.” He shakes his head and returns to staring through the window. “Fuckin’ freak.”
A side angle now as the hiss slowly builds once more, joining the heightening score, creating a distorted lullaby. In the background, the girl looks up, narrow face peeking out from behind her hair.
And there we have it. The mask slips.
The girl beams in a delayed response to the stranger’s crude come on, her mouth stretching wide, slender jaw dropping towards her chest.
Man on Train starts to turn, starts to scream.
The face of the girl fills the screen in all her horrific glory. The first full reveal, and an effective jump scare as the creature screeches and—
1.
“Samara! Down here, now!”
Her painted black thumbnail hovered over the pause button on the remote control. After a split second of defiance, she slammed her thumb home, squashing the rubber button. The VCR responded with a quiet click. The steady hum from the turning reels ceased. Samara suffered its absence more than the lack of screams and howls. On screen, the distorted face of the demon was trapped, kinetic white bars crackling across the glass, twitching as if nervous of the murderous deity they restrained.
“Samara, for the last time!”
“Okay! I’m coming…” And in a hushed addendum, “for fuck’s sake…”
Samara swung her boots, laced up to the knees and hanging off the bed, to the carpet. She usually preferred something comfortable once she returned home, once again in her bedroom, shutting out the world. Her usual pyjama pants and baggy long-sleeved top still lay in a small heap on the floor beside her bed, cast off in the chilly morning when dressing for college. Her boots, black leggings, and Tool t-shirt, with a long-sleeve underneath to cover her arms as always, were evidence of her excitement on returning home. No time to change. No minutes spared for an interrogation from her mother. Barely a moment to dump her bag in the hallway and slip away to her sanctuary, her prize clutched tightly in her hand.
Every night she imagined a thick, black goop, a cancerous tar that filled the gap between bedroom door and frame. It squirmed and it bubbled, finding every crack and crevice, to glue the door shut behind her. When she heard footsteps coming up the stairs, Samara imagined this slime, sentient and listening to the approaching intruder, tightening its grip, keeping them out, holding her safe in solitude.
It never worked.
She quickly gathered up her art supplies from the mattress and returned them to their plastic toolbox. While watching the film, she’d checked everything was ready for class the following day, preferring to use her own tools rather than the tired, worn supplies at the college. She dropped various pencils, charcoals, and thin brushes into the box. An art knife not yet used for clays or prints, but handy for sharpening. Finally, her pictures cut from magazines as prompts and guides. They’d be pinned up around her canvas for quick referencing.
Rising from the bed, Samara stretched out the kinks in her back from lying on her discarded clothes and turned on her desk lamp. Radiance from the bulb reflected on the glossy plastic sleeve of her new purchase. The video case remained closed. She could only watch it for the first time once, so why not make a night of it? A double bill.