Read Horror Business for Free Online

muffled sound of the wind and then the abrupt stop of the image going black. It doesn’t stop. The scene continues: my brother and Ally keep making out. I’ve never seen this before. Brian keeps copping a feel and Ally doesn’t stop him. They’re lying next to each other—she lets him put his hand up her shirt. The camera zooms in, and he isn’t being gentle with her, pinching and tugging. She writhes. She doesn’t do anything to stop him; she’s lost in the passionate kiss. He climbs on top, straddling her now with both hands up her shirt, violently kneading what’s underneath. Her hips gyrate in the air. Suddenly his shirt and hair are different—spiked up like how I like to wear it. As soon as I notice this, Brian stops making out and looks at me. He gets off Ally and starts walking towards my voyeur spot.
    There’s a glitch in the tape and he’s in front of the camera. His face takes up the whole screen.
    He’s looking straight through the screen at me .
    His eyes are deep black. He cries dark tears.
    His teeth are large and sharp.
    He shouts something at me, but there’s no noise except the muffled sound of wind.
    The camera rises high above him, up over the park, above the rolling mountains surrounding our town, above the graveyard, until finally pointing right at the sun and cutting to static.
    The timecode remains at 00.20.28.
    The image cuts from the static to the interior of my room. The angle is low and slanted—the original resting place before I picked it up. It’s hard to see because the room’s so dark. Everything looks muted, flat and brown.
    Then, from behind the camera, the sound of a door opening. The lights click on. Someone giggles.
    Feet step over the camera and stand in front of the lens. They’re bare and filthy, with black dirt caked under the toenails. A pair of jeans comes down and covers the heels, dragging threads from where the cuffs have been stepped on. I can’t see up past the knee, but whoever it is keeps wiggling their filthy toes. Because of the camera angle, I never see above their knees.
    The feet move to the bed and then to one of my dressers. I hear the sound of drawers opening and closing and things on top of the dresser being pushed around. The feet go to my bookshelf, and a couple of the books fall on the floor. I look up from the LCD monitor and see the Stephen King books on the floor. The cymbal-banging monkey on the cover of Skeleton Crew stares at me with red eyes. I turn my attention back to the video. The feet step away from the bookcase and hesitate, the toes pointing back at the camera. Finally, as if coming to some sort of conclusion, they turn and walk to my closet. The door opens, the feet go in and the door closes behind them. I still hear muffled giggling behind the closet door. Then static.
    The static lasts a couple seconds before clicking back on to the scene when I enter my room. I know how it goes from here. The image cuts to black when I jump back, startled.
    I shut the LCD screen, make sure the lens cap is on tight, and place the cursed machine under my bed. While my arm’s under the bed, I probe around for something heavy and blunt, something that can take care of—
    That’s right, Caligari says.
    Whatever it is, is still in the closet.
    All the poster monsters break out into a hellish chorus of laughter.
    My hand falls on a baseball bat, a present from my parents a couple years ago as an effort to lure me away from the video camera, which they thought I was spending too much time with. It didn’t work, but right now, at this instant, I’m thankful enough that I would consider trying out for the team if they asked me. The bat has good weight to it, and there are black lightning bolts down the side. Outside my window, the wind blows dead leaves against my window.
    Bat raised, I open the closet door.
    Nothing.
    Only the faint scent of dirt.
    And restrained laughter.
    I shove the bat into the hanging clothes. Shirts fall off their hangers