*PREFACE: As I'm in the midst of the insanely
busy production of The Edeneth Chronicle, I've been
rather pressed for time. However, I was determined to get this out on Halloween
(a deadline I've missed by mere minutes, unless you're west of my timezone), so
the draft seen here may not be as refined as I'd like to be. If I make changes,
this post will be updated to reflect them. But who knows. Maybe I'll wake up
tomorrow content with the result. In the meantime, enjoy this spooky little
horror story and have a happy Halloween!
The
Retreat
By
Ralphael Pacheco
Four weeks, at minimum.
That was what we set out to do. Four weeks. No internet. No 4G. No
distractions. Only my grandfather’s old library for research material. Ideally,
this would culminate in our first feature screenplay. But of course, as they
say, “not everything goes according to plan.” Which is a mantra that should
really be corrected to: “almost nothing goes according to plan.”
I
first pitched this little retreat to my buddy Sean over dinner. We’re no Cohen
brothers, but our joint efforts had gotten us a few scripts produced. And by
scripts I mean shorts and by produced I mean premiering at small-time festivals
across SoCal. Living that LA dream, right? I at least had the advantage of
growing up in the city. See, we attributed the success (?) of our writing
partnership to the diversity of our lives. We came from such different
backgrounds and experiences that we figured no gap would be left unfilled by
our combined minds. I was an introvert that grew up in a city. Sean was an
extrovert raised in a small town. I’m a mixed Latino. He’s as white as a snowball.
I’m a comic book nerd that never leaves home. He’s an outdoors enthusiast
enlisted in the Army. The list goes on ad nauseum, but somehow we hit it off. When
we found each other at a seminar, we thought it was a creative combo made in
heaven, but we’d be deluding ourselves if we said either of us were okay with
our charted career paths. So I kindly -- and might I say, rather profoundly --
suggested we take unpaid leave of our day jobs to hammer out a feature script.
My father inherited a house from his father in the hills outside Pasadena. I figured
it was prime real estate for a peaceful getaway. Ol’ pops didn’t want to move there,
so he hired a caretaker to maintain the property in his absence. I called my
dad, who was all right with it, and called the caretaker, who more than
welcomed the company. Sean left his wife with the kids, I left my cat with my
sister, and soon enough we were in business.
We
passed the hour-long trek jamming my 80’s synth-wave playlist in Sean’s Jeep
Wrangler (I think he secretly disapproved). The sun was just on its way down as
we arrived, but the impending darkness was amplified by the surrounding
hilltops. The west-setting sun cast a long shadow right over the house, giving
an ominous outer glow to the modern architecture. The nearby trees lent
themselves nicely to the picturesque cabin-in-the mountains vibe we observed as
Sean pulled into the driveway of the double decker house. He killed my music
along with the engine, and suddenly we were in silence. Deep silence.
“All
right, Oliver,” Sean said through his righteous beard. He’s very proud of that
beard. “If we’re gonna do this, we’re doing it right. Leave your phone in the
glove box.”
“Hold
on, I know I’m the one that brought up the caveat, but can’t we just bring them
in on airplane mode?”
He
gave me a stare. “You trust your discipline that much?”
“…Fair
play.”
The
phones went in the glove box.
We
didn’t wait long after ringing the doorbell before Francis, the caretaker,
opened up. He was a tall, heavy-set fellow who greeted us with a warm smile. “Hey
gentlemen. Welcome, welcome, come on in!”
We
carried our bags inside and set them down by the living room coffee table,
across from which was a cozy fireplace already lit for the evening. The
hardwood floors were polished squeaky-clean, and the high ceiling gave the
entire area a chamber-like feel. Sean took a good while to take it all in with
his jaw wide open.
“Man,
this place is massive,” he remarked.
“Yeah,
I wasn’t kidding when I said gramps had it going,” I replied. “But beyond this
house, can’t say much of it dribbled down.”
Francis
locked up the front door and joined us, a giddy grin on his face. His
altogether look gave the impression of a jolly Santa Claus. I couldn’t help but
smile with him.
“Ah,
welcome to the abode!” He looked over to me. “You must be Oliver.”
“That’s
right.” We shook hands.
He
looked over to Sean. “And that makes you Sean.”
“Yes,
sir. How do you do?” They also exchanged a handshake.
“Why,
I’m excellent, it’s a delight to have you two.”
He
sustained that big warm smile all the while. “You seem awfully excited to see
us,” I pointed out.
“Well,
as I’d said over the phone, I don’t get much in the way of visitors.”
“Not
even family?” Sean asked.
“Oliver
Sr. requests that there be as little traffic through here as possible. Plus,
after three divorces, I doubt they want to see much of me anyway...... SO! Who
wants the grand tour, huh?”
Sean
and I exchanged a look, both eager to escape that big downer we were headed
for. Francis gave us the rundown: three bedrooms and a bathroom on the second
floor; and a bathroom, kitchen, and dining area beyond the ground-level living
room. We unpacked our belongings in our respective guest rooms, and then
planned out the next month over supper, courtesy of our host. The schedule
seemed crystal clear: one week of outlining, followed by three weeks of
scriptwriting – one week per act. Simple. Effective. Systematic. But, of
course, “not everything goes according to plan.”
Week
one was rough. I found it hard to sleep in a foreign bedroom, so for the first
night I tossed and I turned and I stared at the wall until morning. I got out
of bed creatively unenthused. I could tell by the lack of trim on his beard
that Sean woke the same way. Bickering ensued. The living room which had become
our base of operations – with our papers and pens and laptops (sans Wi-Fi, mind
you) scattered about – soon became a battleground. Worse yet, we were routinely
interrupted by Francis when he came through each day with a broom or mop. Invasive
though it seemed, we were his guests, and he was the housekeeper, so we obliged
as best we could. Still, little work got done. We could hardly be said to have
anything that resembled an outline by the end of the week. But time was
precious, so we forced the process forward, despite our disagreement on a
conclusion to the story. Sean wanted a happy ending where everyone could ride
off into the sunset. I thought that was cliché, and pushed for a tragic ending
where all of the principal characters died.
By
week two, sleep deprivation became a pattern. It might’ve been the stress, but
Francis’ interruptions seemed to grow more frequent. Strangely, we saw little
of him outside of that. It was almost as if he did nothing but mop the floors,
vacuum the rugs, sweep the dust, and wash the windows, day in, day out. What
stuck out even more was the afternoon Sean and I got into a big argument over
our protagonist’s motivation, which ended in him kicking the coffee table. The
glasses resting on it shook enough for Sean’s beer to spill out onto the rug,
right before Francis’ eyes. He claimed an expletive as soon as he realized what
he’d done. “Sorry, sir, I’ll clean that up.”
“No!”
Francis shouted. “I’ll take care of it!”
“No
really, you don’t have to,” Sean insisted, already heading to the kitchen for a
paper towel.
“NO.
THIS IS MY HOUSE!” Francis snapped, and proceeded to spray and scrub
vigorously. Sean and I side-glanced at one another, unable to stop him, and
unwilling to correct that it’s not technically his house.
The
lights were out and I was on my way to the sack that evening when I stopped
outside the master bedroom… It sounded like Francis was talking to someone
inside. The door was slightly ajar. Out of curiosity I peeked inside. It was
dark, but moonlight shined in from the window. I could see only a shadow of a
man rolling around on the bed, whispering coarsely to himself. What little I
could make out was completely nonsensical – “No I don’t wanna not why am
thisisallthereis seventysevenknots whyami” and the like – but it bothered me
enough to lock the door to my room that night. Granted, this did little to
alleviate my poor sleeping habits. I’d gotten better since arrival, but still
what little I could gather was forced to be enough.
Sean
was already up at ‘em, surveying our notes and scripts in the living room by
the time I crept out past my door the next morning. I was startled awake by a series
of sharp banging sounds from outside. I proceeded with caution.
“Sean?”
I called as I descended the stairs.
“Yeah?”
“What’s
that noise?”
“Francis
is out back chopping wood for the fireplace. He’s been at it all morning.” I
breathed a sigh of relief, somehow less afraid by the sheer fact that it was
less unknown. “How’d you sleep?” Sean asked, without lifting his eyes from the
page in front of him.
“Hard
to tell… You?”
“I’ve
been up all night.”
“Doesn’t
that bother you?”
He
shrugged. “Meh. I slept less in the Army.”
I
nodded. There was an air of unspoken reconciliation that I couldn’t quite
explain. “So. Where are we at on this screenplay?”
We
sat together and worked in solidarity for the rest of the day. Pride was set
aside, and critical story solutions were found. Needless to say, it was the
most productive day of our time there. However, that periodic chopping sound
continued throughout. We grew increasingly aware of Francis’ absence in the
afternoon upon stopping for a lunch break. It was Sean who decided to go out
and fetch him, which I approved since he was better with people.
I
observed their exchange from the kitchen window, which gave a view to the
backyard. It was my first time seeing it that day and I was uncertain how long
it’d been in the condition I found it in. The grass could hardly be seen under
the sea of wood blocks covering the ground. One might’ve thought Francis spent a
year cutting the entire surrounding woods into lumber. I watched Sean get waved
back inside, where he reported that Francis had no interest in joining us.
We
went on eating and drinking as we cranked out pages of text until the sun went
down. For once, we’d gone hours without interruption. It was a full day of
inspiration, or the muse, as some
might call it. We hit our stride and had no intent of slowing down. That was,
until the front door creaked open... I raised my head, looking over Sean’s
shoulder to see what was up. The lamp we had shining inside made it difficult
to see what was out. All I could discern was a tall, dark figure standing in
the doorway, completely silhouetted by the flood-lamp shining onto the driveway
behind him. His contour was one large, black mesh, but another shape took form
as his arm adjusted – a lumber axe hanging low to the ground.
“What are you doing here?”
The voice was unmistakably that of Francis, but different somehow, like it was
pitched low into a primal growl.
“I’m
sorry?” I said, confused.
“This is my house…”
Now
Sean, as taken aback as I was, turned around to give his undivided attention.
“Are you all right there, Francis?” he asked, a steady composure in his voice.
“You were out there all day.”
Francis
entered with slow, steady steps, dragging the axe along the hardwood floor.
Sean and I jumped immediately to our feet. We’d be idiots to miss the intent
here.
“What are you doing
here?”
he repeated.
“Whoa,
whoa, Francis, it’s us!” I sputtered. “Oliver and Sean, we’re your guests,
remember?”
He
kept walking. We started backing up.
“You don’t belong here…”
My
heart was beating out of my chest, and my body began to tremble. “We cleared
this with you. We’ve been here three --”
The
axe swung through the air, knocking out the lamp that’d lit our table. This was
a good distance away from us, but the suddenness forced a jump (and a very
emasculating screech) out of me. It became apparent that this lamp was the main
source of light in the house, because the impact was followed instantly by darkness.
That’s
when all hell broke loose.
I
couldn’t tell if what followed was loud, or if my own screams were just really
loud to myself, but in either case there was a lot of confusion. I could hear
the axe tearing through something behind me after picking a direction and
running. My run was stuttered by walls, and furniture, and other obstacles
until I stumbled into the kitchen.
My
eyes began to adjust. I could see just enough to reach for, close, and lock the
kitchen door. I surveyed my surroundings. I had no idea where Sean had gone in
the chaos. I wanted to call out to him, but didn’t want to broadcast my
location.
The
doorknob shuddered, followed by the axe crashing through. To my surprise, the
wooden door gave about as easily as scissors through paper. I turned tail and
dashed for the back. The axe could be heard repeatedly striking the door behind
me, but I didn’t dare stop to look.
I
exited out into the backyard, where piles of lumber now covered every inch of ground.
I made an attempt to climb over them, but inevitably lost footing over one of
the thousands of logs and fell onto my hands, splintering them against a rough piece
of wood in the process. Looking back, I could see the looming figure of Francis
giving chase. He walked out onto the wooden blocks, keeping balance like it was
nothing. I made a desperate attempt at rising to my feet, but it seemed I’d
sprained an ankle in the fall. In front of me, I could see Francis’ shadow
raising the axe overhead for a finishing blow. But before my life could flash
before my eyes, Sean came and stuck a kitchen knife into the behemoth’s back.
Francis cried out, striking Sean away and redirecting his attention to this new
prey. With his back to me, I could see the knife handle protruding from
Francis’ right shoulder. It struck me as inhuman how easily he shrugged it off as
he began his slow, menacing stride forward. His overwhelming size and physical strength
was suddenly worth worrying about.
Sean,
cornered, retreated back into the house. “Get to the jeep!” he yelled as he
disappeared through the doorway. “I keep a Smith & Wesson in the back!”
And
suddenly there was hope.
I
climbed up onto my weakened feet and stumbled over the field of chopped wood
towards the driveway, refusing to look back no matter how awful the noise.
After moving beyond the lumber floor I fell onto the asphalt, which was a comfort
by comparison. My sprained ankle was giving out, but the adrenaline pushed me
forward. I could hardly be bothered to notice the shower of sweat running down
my clothes amidst the terror of the moment. There was a choir of anonymous
screams resonating from inside the house. But there was hope in the form of a jeep
at the end of that driveway, and to my sight it was only getting closer and
closer, one painful step at a time.
However,
when finally I reached the back of the jeep, I found only an open trunk and an
empty duffel bag. By the time I looked up from it, I could see on the other
side of the vehicle’s windows: Francis dragging a decapitated corpse in one
hand, and a Smith & Wesson revolver in the other. The thought that Sean had
forgotten to lock up the jeep hadn’t occurred to me. And even if he did, I
didn’t have the keys on hand. In short: there wasn’t a way to cut the situation
in which I wasn’t screwed.
In
that moment the fear lapsed, and I could only laugh. To an outside observer, I
must’ve looked the psychotic one in this scenario. Guess I got the ending I
wanted after all.
END
