Snuff

Helen Smith was in an Internet café, waiting for her appointment.

She was an actor, not the best, not Hollywood level, although she firmly believed she could reach it. She was twenty, with the rest of her life still ahead of her.

It was 2 o’ clock. Her informal meeting was due to begin in ten minutes. She was still nervous.

Mainly Helen did action films, as well as quite a few fantasy ones, but this new one was different. This new film that was coming up, currently called My Life Underground, was meant to be a revolutionary take on the life of a thief in the United Kingdom, in Victorian times, with special, never before seen special effects. Of course they would need lots of special effects; they always did these days.

She bought herself another coffee and waited.

The thump of a bag on the table startled her. She looked up to see a young man, about twenty seven, near her own age. He was smiling, but it did not reach his cold grey eyes.

“Hello,” The man began. “I presume you are Helen Smith. I am sorry if I frightened you.”

“Not at all.” Helen took a deep breath.

“As you probably already know, I wish to cast you in the role of Miss Edwards in the upcoming film My Life Underground. Let me fill you in on the film.”

He opened his bag and pulled out a thick wad of papers. He began to read aloud.

“Miss Araminta Edwards. Set in Victorian times, she has lost her family after trying to marry a working class boy, and her family turn her out. She goes on the run, stealing what she can. Can she escape the police and marry her true love?”

He shuffled the papers.

“So, you see, it’s a historical tragedy. I forget to mention; as in Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet, both of the lovebirds die in the end. Are you still up for this?”

Helen nodded her head.

“Good.” The first glint of a real smile came into his face, and touched his eyes. What was slightly creepy was that it had an almost predatory look. He extracted a contract from the mass of papers. “Please sign here. You know the formalities.”

She did not bother to read it through; there were over fifty pages and besides, most films were exactly the same. Benefits, pay, stunt obligations, accident insurance and the like.

“Now you are not a new actress; you’ve starred in a few films. When this film is over you’ll have amassed quite a paycheck. Who would you have it go to?”

“I’m sorry, did I hear you correctly?”

His grin showed his white teeth. “Oh yes. It was all in the contract.”

Helen began to panic.

“What was?”

“You should have read it through. Section 27 subsection 8 clearly states that this film is what is known as a video nasty, meaning that it contains real, strong violence. In this case, we have your character Araminta dying after talking to one of the policemen. We have very good video editing, don’t worry.”

“But-“Helen spluttered. She stopped dead.

She saw a light flickering under his jacket, a red, flashing light.

The light of a video recorder.

House In The Woods

Do you remember that house in the woods? That one you were too scared to go into?

That day you were out playing among the trees, happily dancing about and laughing. You delved deeper and deeper into the wood, believing the trees were benevolent, might protect you.

Have you ever been more wrong?

I wonder if you’ve ever told anyone what you found that day.

The house in the woods.

It must have been beautiful once, a grand, great mansion. By the time you found it, the wilderness of the forest had overrun it again. All that was left was crumbing stone, breaking down, covering dark hallways and damp corridors.

Faint traces of gold paint was the scent that inspired you to begin your hunt, small, worn patches of glittering colour. What were you expecting? Treasure?

How fast your heart must have beat as you passed the leering gargoyles that hung from the roof, old and decrepit. Terrifying to a poor young child such as yourself.

The candle you brought only made things worse, the small light throwing shadowy objects into grotesquely distorted monsters.

On you tiptoed, through the house. Through the house in the woods.

I still wonder if you dare to tell anyone the tale of what awaited you up the stairs. As you drew your candle closer to the door and found the star etched on the old wood, did your heart flutter?

When you pushed open the creaking door and found it there, did you scream?

If nobody is around to hear a child in a forest scream, do they make a sound?

It hung from ropes, strings, from all corners of the room.

Like something from a horror movie, its entrails spilling from its slashed body and the old blood dried on the wooden plank floor.

You never did tell anyone what you saw.

Hearing a noise, you turned, only to find the door locked. No windows in this room either.

Slowly your body responded, screaming out for sustenance. No amount of shouting and banging the door would get attention. Only I could hear you, watching from the other side of the door. Smiling.

A starving man will turn aside from whatever values he holds dear, if he will otherwise die.

The body that hung in the centre of the room frightened you at first. Soon you began to think of it not as a source of terror, but a source of food.

They say that a man who eats the flesh of his own kind will be cursed by the gods to be eternally hungry, ever eating yet never full. Their thin form is terrifying, with bones protruding almost through the skin. This is called a Wendigo. Have you ever heard this legend?

The food ran out, of course. Meat does not last forever. They eventually found your body, in the old house in the woods. Can you imagine their shock and terror when they found the door, locked from the outside? With no key to be found.

Tearful days and sorrowful nights passed. They buried you in a graveyard, with a beautiful angel statue over your coffin. Much good that would do you, lying in the dirt, worms eating your flesh.

But that will all change now. Six months it’s been, but it feels so much longer. It’s night. I crouch beside your freshly dug grave.

I whisper to you.

“Time to get up, child.”

Rise again, child.

A Wendigo will howl tonight, its terrible hunger fuelling its anger. They say they first go for those it knew in life.

It’s been six months, six long, lonely months.

Will your dear parents still recognise you?