“Who?” I asked.
Natalia’s eyes fixed on a point somewhere behind me. “Him.”
Slow clapping echoed from the back of the theater. He emerged from the shadows, wearing the same sharkskin suit as in the photograph. “Bravo. Well done. I must say, this is quite a surprise.”
“Mr. Scratsche?” I peered out through the haze-dust thrown off by the screen and into those dark, soulless eyes. He didn’t look a day older than he had in 1963.
Mr. Scratsche gave a courtly bow. “At your service. In a manner of speaking.”
His hand went up like a conductor’s. The broken broomstick shot free of the door handles. The hungry, growling creatures staggered inside, shuffling into the rows, taking their seats, mesmerized by the flickering images.
Scratsche smiled. “Ah, you people. You never tire of staring up at that screen, imagining yourselves there—better, beautiful, immortal. Everywhere, it’s always the same: people sitting in the dark, hungry for the light, for validation, for the idea that good defeats evil, for the smug safety of thinking that they will win in the end.”
“You belong here with us, Scratsche, and you know it!” Jimmy Reynolds shouted, falling to his knees. “You escaped only by damning us all!”
“Whoa. Chill, Marlon Brando,” Dani muttered.
“Jimmy, Jimmy.” Mr. Scratsche shook his head like a mildly put out headmaster. “True, I offered all of you up in return for my escape. But you all signed the contract of your own free will.” Like a magician’s trick, Scratsche produced a scroll that unrolled to reveal hundreds of signatures. Another snap and the scroll rolled up and dropped back into his pocket. “I heard you earlier, Jimmy. You tried to warn people. Didn’t I tell you last time that there would be consequences?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Scratsche. I’m just awfully tired of being trapped in this movie.” Jimmy sounded scared and tired. “I’ve been wearing this cravat for fifty-six years. It makes me look like an asshole.”
“Understood.” Mr. Scratsche flicked his fingers toward the screen and sudden flames consumed Jimmy Reynolds. Seconds later, all that remained was the singed cravat and a burned patch on the carpet. “That’s for going off script.”
Dave’s eyes had a glazed look. He’d started humming the Care Bears Movie theme song. It was what he did when the world was too much.
“What do you want from us?” I shouted.
“I believe the question is what do you want, Kevin? What do you all want? Oh. That’s rhetorical. I’ve read your questionnaires.”
Mr. Scratsche strode down the center aisle with the grace of a leopard. He threaded his fingers together. His fingernails were long and curved. “I’ve been thinking that the time is right to bring the film out of retirement. You’re correct that someone needs to keep the story alive. To be its caretaker, hmm? I Walk This Earth—a new version for a new audience, directed by Kevin Grant. How does that sound?”
No adult had ever said anything like that to me before, like they saw me. Like I was worth seeing. “Me? Why me?”
“I’ve been watching you for months. I know what lives inside you. The longing for what you cannot have.” His eyes flicked to Dani, and she looked at me quizzically. My face went hot. “The world is hungry for new thrills. In the past, distribution was a problem. But, my goodness! The things you can find nowadays, right there on your devices. Imagine it, Kevin: Your take on I Walk This Earth, available on demand. Downloadable. Shareable. It only requires a bit of sacrifice.”
The scroll was out again. In Scratsche’s other clawed hand was a pen.
“That didn’t seem to work out too well for these guys.” I jerked my thumb at the screen.
Dave nodded. “You tell him, bro.”
“They don’t have your vision.” Scratsche smiled. I knew it was a trick, but somewhere inside me it was like somebody had opened a bank vault and said, Go ahead. Take what you want. His smile hardened. “Or did you just want to stay home and look after your mother, like a good boy? Maybe end up at the bottom of a bottle like her?”
“Fuck you,” I said, even though my voice trembled. “That’s not my only choice.” And I didn’t know if that was true or if I just wanted it to be true.
Mr. Scratsche laughed. “Haven’t you been paying attention, Kevin? The vampire rises again. The scientist revives the killer’s brain. The zombie horde is reinfected. That’s what accounts for all of those sequels and remakes. You can’t win against evil. Oh, sure. If you were to destroy this last remaining print of the film now, before you’d committed your soul, you would. But the projector is all the way up there.” Scratsche pointed to the thick glass of the narrow projection booth window. “Out of reach. Like your dreams.” Scratsche’s dark eyes blazed. “You’ve been out of options for some time, Mr. Grant. Deep down, you know that. Join me … or you’ll all die. Have you ever been torn apart by demons? I’m told it hurts. Quite a lot.”
On-screen, the fireplace hissed. I looked over my shoulder at the swirling circle of flame and the endless darkness inside, devoid of shape, like my futureless future. My eyes locked on Natalia’s. “Please,” I begged. “Just a hint.”
For a moment, she stared at the floor. Then she whispered, “The movie feeds on your fear. That’s what gives it power.”
Mr. Scratsche put a hand to his chest. Tiny horns had sprouted at the top of his forehead, and his teeth had lengthened. “Ah, me. I really should have cast Yvonne De Carlo.”
He flicked his fingers once more, and Natalia screamed in terror as she flew backward, pinned to the mansion wall, a dagger hovering inches from her neck.
“Be good, now, my dear,” Scratsche said. “I know you’d hate to play out the rest of your contract with a slashed throat. Messy.”
Dave shut his eyes tight and rocked. “Stop feeling fear. Stop feeling fear. Stop feeling fear.”
I pulled the three of us into a tight huddle, draping my arms over both of their backs. I’d never been this physically close to Dani before. We were nearly nose to nose, and suddenly I was flooded with want for that future she’d asked me about under the tree. A future with her. “The movie lives on fear, right? So we have to stop feeding it. Quick! What’s the opposite of fear?”
“Taylor Swift?” Dave said. Dani and I glared. “What? Taylor Swift makes me happy.”
I turned to Dani. “What’s a normal opposite of fear?”
Dani let out a shaky breath. “Um, courage? Joy. Love. Altruism. Hope.”
“That’s it,” I said.
“What’s it? That was, like, five things.”
Shadows and light played across her face. I brushed a drop of popcorn oil from her cheek.
“Hope,” I said.
The old movie’s hazy glow turned me into a ghost of myself as I stepped to the front of the theater. “If these are going to be my last few minutes on earth, then I have something to say.”
“Oh. He’s one of those ‘last profound words’ kids. Won-n-nderful,” Alastair mumbled into his glass.
“You know, you’re kind of a dick,” Dave said. “I revoke your hotness status. I might clap when you go back to hell.”
Alastair shrugged. “I’m a B movie actor. Hell’s redundant, kid.” He drained his glass, which immediately refilled. “This isn’t even real booze.”
“Mr. Grant. This protracted endgame has begun to bore me. I’m not pleasant when bored,” Scratsche threatened.
“Just a sec, okay?” I faced Dani. In those movies I’d made inside my head, I was always cocky and cool, because there were no stakes. I’d been guilty of the very thing I’d railed against. But now, looking into her big brown eyes—seeing the fear and the anger and the worry—I felt all of my emotions at once. I hated that I’d wasted so much time, and I wished more than anything that I could be the hero I wanted to be, the hero worthy of her.