Horror by Ronen Divon

The screams coming out the young dirty-blonde woman were disproportionate to her small-size frame. Who could have imagined that this petite figure would be able to produce such range of octaves, let alone at that many decibels? Yet she could and she did. Holding her hands to both sides of her head she shouted like she was about to be murdered. And in fact she was; an arm holding a long knife entered the frame from the left. A moment later it was coming down rhythmically at the direction of the victim’s chest. The shouts subsided as the dirty-blonde’s body collapsed with a thump out of sight. Jessie took a deep inhalation, pressed ‘Pause’ and removed the earphones. One more scene edited; five additional to go. The night was still young and this job had to be finished by eight AM. She sent a tired hand towards the cup of coffee carefully placed at the far end of her editing table. The mug felt cold. A quick sip confirmed that the coffee was past its hotter primetime. It was time for a refill. Jessie could use the stretch. This horror B film had loads of short scenes, 92 to be precise, almost twice the number of scenes an average film has. At a pace of one dead victim every 5 scenes, “Trapped, The Sequel,” no doubt had a large line-item in its budget for fake blood. Yes, Jessie could use a breath of fresh air. Walking down 14th Street, the New York City chilled late November air felt wonderfully reviving. Yet, after a few minutes, Jessie started feeling the cold. Past the initial good feeling of stepping out of an overheated room into a cooler environment, she realized she was underdressed for the night’s temperature. She hastened her pace and reached the corner Deli. Behind the counter Hamid welcomed her with a wide smile. By now she and he knew each other on a first name basis. Despite his good English, he was fairly new to the Big Apple and didn’t learn yet how to curb his friendliness. Jessie handed over her mug. “Empty already?” said Hamid, his Indian, or was it Pakistani, accent audible, reaching out to take it. Jessie smiled a weary smile. Hamid was a nice fellow but not exactly her type. Filling the mug, Hamid asked, “Another long night?” “So it seems,” she answered trying her best to add a warm tone to her voice. “What are you working on tonight?” Hamid continued. “Oh God,” thought Jessie, “Not again. He is trying to make small talk. I really don’t have the patience for this tonight,” and to Hamid answered, “just a silly film, nothing worth mentioning. How much do I owe you?” “Oh, nothing. You bring your own mug, you buy here often, this one is on me,” Hamid answered smiling widely. “Not good,” thought Jessie, “I don’t want to be his friend; I don’t want to be in any debt to him which will force me to be nicer to him than I need to be.” And aloud she said, “I insist – how much is it?” “You are offending me,” replied Hamid, his face wearing an expression Jessie was unable to tell if serious or amused. Jessie took the filled out mug Hamid handed over, smiled politely and said “I will be coming here again tonight. I expect to pay. But thanks for this one,” and without giving Hamid a chance to respond, turned and walked out. “Have a good night,” Hamid called after her, “see you again soon – very soon I hope!” Without seeing him she could imagine his continued smile.

Half a block away from the Deli Jessie slowed her pace. Why was she so unpleasant to him? He is a nice fellow, always so kind to her. Maybe he is not trying to make a pass at her; maybe he is just from a friendlier culture. “Next time,” she thought, “next time I go there I will make small talk with him.” It occurred to her this is not the first time she is making this promise to herself. Turning a corner Jessie headed to the basement level of the building where Simon, the filmmaker behind “Trapped” rented the editing suite. It was quite dark. A streetlight, aimed at keeping the area bright, was dying, sending an occasional flicker which flashed like lightening. Jessie wasn’t comfortable with the dark, a fact that didn’t escape her as an editor of horror movies. Holding the mug with the left hand she sent her right to her pocket, feeling for the keys. A sound behind her made Jessie startle, causing hot coffee to spill on her hand. She cursed softly. Turning her head around she saw nothing. A little shaken Jessie found the keys and was trying to locate the correct one to open the building’s entrance door. The keys all felt the same. “Damn it,” she muttered and bent down, placing the mug by the left side of the door, gaining use of both her hands. There was that noise again, sounding like rustling footsteps. Jessie didn’t look back. Her heartbeat racing, she located the right key and quickly opened the door, rushing inside. The dim corridor light welcomed her. She sighed in relief, making sure the entrance door locked behind her. “I really need to find work in another genre. Romantic comedies would be nice,” she thought walking to suite B, her editing room. As she was placing the suite’s key she burst out, “Oh crap! the damn coffee.” In her rush she left it by the building’s entrance door. A moment of hesitation. As the “I can do without it” argument lost to “I need my caffeine kick”, Jessie turned back. “All I need to do is open the door quickly, not even step out. Grab the mug and close the door.” A moment later Jessie was rehearsing her moves: open, bend, grab, pull the door close; 30 seconds at most. She took a deep breath. Hand on handle. Press down. Open. Bend. Reach out, and… Nothing! There was nothing there. Her hand was floating for a moment longer. She pulled it back and shut the door close. “This is impossible,” she muttered softly, a habit of a person used to be her own for long hours. “I know I placed it there.” She took another deep breath and tried again. The mug was not there. “Maybe I hit it with my shoe when I rushed in?” She got up. “I am not going for another one just now; maybe later.” Jessie headed to Suite B. As she placed her hand on the handle, intending to unlock it, the door slid open. She froze. “I am quite sure I didn’t open it earlier,” a horrifying thought struck her. She stood there for a moment unsure what to do. Maybe she should call someone. Maybe Simon? He would just laugh at her. No. She is a big girl. Enough with this nonsense. She can handle it. Jessie pushed the door open but remained standing by the entrance. The room seemed exactly as she left it; same yellowish light, same dump smell, the image of the dead dirty-blonde woman, smeared with blood still frozen on the editing suite monitor. Everything seemed okay. Jessie stepped in. As she approached the editing table something caught her attention. Her coffee mug. It was sitting at the far end of the table. Light curls of steam rose off it. She blinked. This was impossible. Was all this a dream? No need to pinch herself - she was wide awake. A shadow of an arm holding a knife rose slowly on the wall in front of her. It took a moment for the image to register in her mind. When it did, she turned quickly to face her assailant. She screamed like she didn’t know she can. The knife came down repeatedly. It was all turning red and black. She collapsed with a thump to the ground.

Tina presses the ‘Pause’ button. She rubs her eyes. This horror B movie does not want to end. It is already way past midnight. Twenty more scenes to go. “Trapped – Part III” must be completed by the morning. “A film editor as a victim of a serial killer? Really?” she mumbles her thoughts aloud. ”Is that how desperate horror filmmakers are for new themes?” She looks at her coffee cup. It was time for a refill.