That quiet man with the long black hair is in the movie, too, and he’s the one making the star scream. When the screaming stops, the movie ends.
Vi tries to give a standing ovation but keels over on the dirt floor.
"I see you enjoyed that."
"Oh, so much. Can I watch another one?"
"Of course you may. We have many. But first…"
Here comes the mask of joy.
# # #
Sometimes the three captives watch the movies together, filling the basement with their strange laughter and rolling around like idiots in the pile of spent whippits.
Their favorite is Headless Harry. Luther graciously plays it for them again and again.
# # #
One night, Luther sits on an old couch in that dim screening chamber of the basement, watching Beth and Vi, sprawled out on the floor, engrossed in the tape he made of Horace Boone.
Andy sits rocking in a corner. The gas hit him wrong tonight, so he’s shaky and panicky and having a conversation with his dead brother.
Beth turns suddenly and looks up at Luther as Horace’s screams reverberate off the stone walls. Even through the fantastic haze, she registers the black absence in his eyes.
"Can I have one?"
She points to the bag of Lemonheads in Luther’s lap. He hands her one.
"Here," she says cheerfully and offers him a condom swollen with nitrous oxide. "Why don’t you come down here and watch Flamin’ Boone?"
Luther reaches forward, pinches the lips of the condom above Beth’s fingers, and leans back into the couch. After hyperventilating for twenty seconds, he brings the mouth of the prophylactic to his lips and inhales the gas. When he’s done, he flicks the limp rubber across the room, and his eyes fix on Horace, now charred, smoking, and softly groaning.
Beth still eyes Luther, so high on gas that the sounds from the television throb through her like waves.
"Quit looking at me," Luther warns.
"Why are you so sad?"
"I’m not sad. I’m not anything. Watch the tape."
# # #
Maxine Kite unlocks the door and enters the small, dark cell. She sets the candle on the floor. Its flame throws shadows and light upon the stone.
Vi sleeps on the floor. Maxine kneels down beside her and jams the needle into her backside. Vi stirs, moans softly, and turns over to face the old woman. Her eyes barely open. She’s hung over horribly from the nitrous oxide, as she has been every night for the last two weeks.
"What are you doing?"
"I came to read to you while you sleep," Maxine says. "Rufus thinks it helps."
"Will you promise me something?" Vi asks.
"No promises here."
"Please."
The lucidity of the young woman alarms Maxine. Rufus would be furious. She should’ve injected the sedative into a vein.
"What is it?" Maxine asks.
"Don’t give me the drugs when I have my baby. I want to feel it. I want to remember it. Please. You’re a mother aren’t you?"
The old woman hardens, her weathered face beautiful and haunting in the candlelight.
"I said no promises here."
# # #
Once more, Andy’s eyes close at the urging of the hypnotic drug. Though he’s conscious, he doesn’t feel Rufus slip on the headphones and the light frames. The soundtrack consists of a binaural beat—two pure tones, close in pitch, one amplified into each ear. Every seven seconds, the diodes emit a burst of red light. This goes on for nearly an hour, seducing his alpha waves. Then he sees things.
# # #
Orson occupies a rocking chair on the porch of his cabin in the desert. Andy approaches, having walked here from some great distance. The day is brilliant, sweltering. He’s sunburned and thirsty.
"Hello, Orson," he calls out.
No answer.
"Could I have some water?"
No answer.
Andy steps up onto the porch. Orson is beyond still. Andy reaches out and palms his brother’s shoulder. Orson’s entire frame shifts slightly—he weighs nothing, a rigid dried-out shell, as hollow as the exoskeleton of a cicada.
# # #
"Mom, me and Orson want to play in the woods."
Jeanette stops cutting the onion and wipes her eyes.
"Orson’s dead, young man. But you’re welcome to go."
# # #
The rapist, Willard Bass, chases little Andy and Orson through the tunnel. In the distance, the circle of light at the end grows larger and brighter. Andy stops suddenly and spins around. Willard stops running, too. Filthy, wide-eyed, and breathless, he stares at the boys.
"Our turn!" Andy yells, and now the twins chase Willard back into the darkness.
When running in this direction, the tunnel has no end.
"Guilty, Your Honor. So very guilty."
# # #
Andy stands behind a lectern in an infinite bookstore. The crowd goes back for miles and miles. Every face in the audience glares at him. He looks down at the page he will read from, but the words are gobbledygook. He turns the page. More nonsense.
"I can’t read this," he says into the microphone. "It doesn’t make any sense."
"Read it anyway," someone shouts.
"But it’s meaningless."
Several boos emanate from the crowd.
"All right, all right, I’ll try."
Sweat beads on his face. He looks down at the page and reads aloud, slowly and with great difficulty.
"smf ejprbrt ,idy nr s vtrsypt om hppf smf rbo;. brto;u. jr ,idy gotdy nr sm smmojo;sypt smf ntrsl bs;ird/ yjid yjr johjrdy rbo; nr;pmhd yp yjr johjrdy hppfmrddz’ niy yjod od vtrsyobr/"
The crowd roars with affirmation. Now people are standing and clapping and shouting, "More! More!"
# # #
A giant onion stands in a kitchen, chopping up Andy’s mother, its eyes watering profusely.
# # #
Andy enters the study of his lake house. A man sits at his desk, typing on his computer. Andy stands behind the writer, listening to the patter of fingers on the keyboard and trying to read the text on the monitor. The writer glances back, just a small boy now.
"You better not read it," Orson warns and then goes back to typing. Andy leans forward and squints at the computer screen. The words are gobbledygook.
"What are you writing?" Andy asks.
"It’s a story. About you."
"What happens in it?"
"You go insane."
# # #
They lower me into a squeaky leather chair. The warmth of a fire laps at my face.
"Thank you, son. I’d like to talk to him alone now."
A door closes. The quiet pandemonium of the fire fills the room. I cannot recall the last time I’ve had such presence of mind. The recent past holds all the clarity of a coma, and the shards of memory I do have are not worth keeping. I wonder if it’s Christmas yet. I wonder many things.
As I lift my head, the textures of the room begin to materialize and vivify.
It’s night. Beyond the windows, I hear the tinkling of ice pellets. I recognize this room—the empty bookcases, the hearth, the satellite photograph of the Outer Banks, the oil painting of Luther Kite. I don’t remember when or why, but I’ve been in this room before.
Luther’s father sits across from me in an identical leather chair, legs crossed and stately in his black, satin robe.
"Don’t be afraid, Andy," Rufus says, smiling. "It’s my great joy and privilege to be sitting here with you."
I manage to home in on the details of his face. Rufus Kite must be at least seventy-five years old. But aside from a field of wrinkles and a few liver spots, he appears to be in phenomenal physical condition. He possesses the eyes of a young man—hard, vital, and thrilled with his place in the world. I can see the reflection of flames in them. His white hair is combed back and damp, as though he just stepped out of the shower.
"When is it?" I ask.