Night Film(154)

This enigmatic stranger, as the priest soon realizes, knows Jinley’s dark secret, that he put his three-year-old bastard daughter on a Brooklyn rooftop, allowing her to teeter along the edge while chasing the roosting pigeons, and then, losing her balance, fall to her death on a sidewalk far below—all the while, Jinley watched from a crack in the window and did nothing. Jinley had his reasons, of course—he believed his little girl to be the devil incarnate. But as for who was watching him that afternoon, who this mysterious person was poised behind the screen, someone who vows in a knowing whisper to tear him apart and make him renounce God—it takes Jinley the whole film to figure it out, the identity of the person even more terrifying than his secret.

I realized the footsteps sounded as if they were retreating down some other passage, the faint light now gone.

I rose a few inches, sitting on the wooden seat just behind me, listening. I appeared to be alone. Had it been this side of the box Father Jinley had been sitting on or the other? Was I on the good guy’s side or the side of evil? Where was that goddamn smell coming from? I leaned forward, staring through the screen, the latticed openings in the form of minute crosses.

I froze in horror. Someone was there.

There was a person sitting on the other side.

I hardly believed my eyes, yet I could hear breathing, the shifting of heavy fabric, and then—as if aware that he was now being observed—he slowly turned to face me.

I was barely able to make out a face shadowed by a dark hood.

The next few moments happened so swiftly, I was hardly aware of what I did: I blasted out of the box, racing past the transept, passing the entrance to Jinley’s office and through a door, which if I remembered correctly led into an underground crypt. It was too dark to see. I reached out, waiting for the feel of cold stones, then realized I’d been emptied back into the soundstage.

I heard pounding, a chorus of neon lights moaning above. The lights were coming on. Suddenly I was drenched in bright light, half-blinded. I stumbled forward, feeling a door handle, pulled it, wheeling out into another freezing room.

But it wasn’t a room.

Real leaves crunched under my feet. Real wind rushed my face. And looking up, I swore that was a real moon over my head.



I didn’t let myself believe it, that I’d actually escaped that soundstage. But after running a few yards, I looked back and saw the warehouse sitting quietly in the woods behind me. It looked innocuous, so wan and blank-faced—no hint of the levels of hell that lay inside.

I was back in cold, hard reality, thank Christ. I ran back down the hill, heading toward Graves Pond. The men must not have realized I’d escaped, because no one was running after me anymore. Who the hell were they? And what had I seen on the other side of that confessional?

I checked my watch, forgetting it was broken: 7:58.

I fumbled in my pockets, taking a quick inventory of what I had—the child’s blood-soaked shirt and Popcorn’s compass. They were there; so was my pocket knife, but my camera was gone. It had been deep inside the pocket but must have fallen out when I’d yanked the coat back on. Berating myself for such sloppiness, fighting the urge to go back for it, I broke into a sprint, the wind hissing punitively in my ears, the moon lighting the way.

A dog barked. It sounded like one of the hounds that had chased me, but frustrated now, tied up, though it was probably just a matter of time until it was set loose again.

I’d come to Graves Pond. I crept to the water’s edge, staring through the foliage to its shimmering surface. There was still no sign of Hopper, Nora, or the canoe—not of anyone. Hopper and Nora. I realized with amazement those names seemed to come at me from far away, deep in my past. How long had I been inside that soundstage? Years? Was it some sort of wormhole, a dimension away from time? I hadn’t thought about them, not their well-being or the mystery of where they’d gone. I hadn’t been aware of anything except Cordova. Those sets were narcotics, dominating my head so entirely there’d been no space for any other thought.

They must have gone for help. They were paddling back the way we’d come, safe. I needed to believe this so I wouldn’t worry, instead devising a new plan. But I knew in my gut Hopper wouldn’t give up on Ashley so easily. Neither would Nora. They must both be here somewhere, then, wandering, running in desperate circles.

Squinting out at the opposite shoreline, the black hill, I spotted another one of the flashlights moving over the crest. The person seemed to be hurrying down the path to the wooden dock. Something was running through the grass. It had to be one of the dogs.

I stepped away from the lake’s perimeter, breaking into a jog, heading east. I could gage my direction from what I knew of the lake’s position. East was the shortest distance to the property’s perimeter and the closest public road, Country Road 112. It was my best bet for help. My priorities had changed. Lives might be at stake now, if Nora and Hopper were trapped somewhere inside here, possibly hurt—or worse.

Considering this as I ran, I’d unconsciously taken Popcorn’s compass from my pocket, clasping it as if it were a prized possession, a last hope. I saw in surprise that though the glass face was cracked, the needle was trembling due north.

I turned in a circle to check its bearings. They were spot-on.

The thing actually worked.

I raced on, every now and then checking the compass to make sure I was on course—just as old Popcorn had checked it, much to the entertainment of the entire town.