Read The Cutting Room: Dark Reflections of the Silver Screen for Free Online Page B

future. Dorothy and the Scarecrow ran to help him. But she looked middle-aged and the Scarecrow was the rotting bag from my car. Once, all three stared at me. The screen thinned to gauze as thin as the dust coating its surface.
    And the Wicked Witch screamed to life on the roof—a gangrenous, misshapen version of Denise.
    I stopped the tape.
    I waited in my car for two hours before Denise exited the apartment. I didn’t want to meet her in the hall. She had started the avalanche of fear that buried my senses, and I wasn’t ready for a confrontation.
    Stay away from the Hanged Man.
    Talk to Stan. . . .
    I stayed at least a block behind her. She worked at a department store in the mall and liked to arrive early. I parked in the side lot. She was inside by the time I walked to the front entrance. I hovered there, wondering if I was too late. Entering the store wasn’t an option. If Denise caught me inside, I didn’t have any excuses. She’d know I’d followed her. Besides, I worked at a union job shop, creating ads on a computer, and I caught hell when I missed a shift.
    Ten minutes later, Stan entered the lot.
    I ran over and hovered as he locked his car. I’m not sure what I expected from him.
    “I need help,” I said.
    “What are you doing here, Michael? Don’t you have to work?”
    “I’m taking a sick day.”
    Stan nodded, lit up a cigarette. I could blame my imagination, but I thought his hands shook. “So? What are you doing here?” he asked again. He didn’t seem in any hurry to get to work.
    “The Scarecrow told me to talk to you.”
    Stan didn’t laugh. His mouth twitched, though.
    “You know about it.”
    He shoved past me. “You’re crazy,” he said, walking briskly towards the store.
    I followed, grabbed his arm. I glanced around the lot to see if anyone was watching. No one was close.
    “Don’t call me crazy,” I said. “The Scarecrow popped in and out of my car like a damned ghost and he brought the Wicked Witch along for the ride and I’m scared. This is all Denise’s fault, and you know something. You asked me about the movie. Don’t dare tell me you don’t know what I’m talking about.”
    Stan jabbed his lit cigarette against my hand as I held his arm. I jerked it away, hissed with pain, put my mouth over the burn. Stan backed up and pinned a sneer on his pale face.
    “Get away from me, Michael.” He paused. “If you don’t, I’ll tell Denise.”
    I stood there, silent, and watched him leave.
    This time I observed the speed limit on my way home. A ghostly Dorothy rode shotgun this time. Toto sat in her lap. I didn’t recall seeing the mutt before. A taxidermist had worked him over, mounting him to a wood base, so he traveled well, no tongue flapping out the window, no prancing from one side to the other, nails digging into your thighs. The Scarecrow and the Tin Man held the rear seats.
    All four were quiet, which didn’t bother me. Maybe the daylight silenced them. I parked in my slot, killed the engine. When I climbed out, chaff and aluminum dust and the ripe scent of a dead dog floated through the empty interior.
    The apartment hall was empty. I pressed my hands against the cold surface of Denise’s door. The number and letter glimmered as each reflected the fluorescent light, incandescent with a promise like prophecy. I knew now that I wanted to see. The knowledge might release me.
    My fingers ached where I touched the door, as if the wood sucked at my bones, robbing them of warmth. The 2C pulsed and my breath frosted the air, crystallizing inside my chest until I forgot to breathe.
    Then my legs buckled under fatigue and gravity, and the door answered my weakness with its own, selling its solid soul so I could fall through into the reality that lay beyond.
    Dry grass rustled beneath me as I fell to my knees. A brick-paved road ran past, its surface a river of yellow pus baked solid under a neon-strobe sun. Disease festered in the scabbed cracks, more efficient as a