Ghosts in the Attic (4 page)

I have grown somewhat offended by the boy. By his inaction, his inability to take advantage of his youth. I am an old man, and to see someone with the vitality I lack who does not appreciate or utilize that vitality, it is like a stinging slap to my face.

One afternoon, near close, the boy rambling on about some science fiction novel he is reading which sounds like every other science fiction novel he has ever described, I lean over the counter and tell him I recently got in a collection of early Orson Scott Card novels. The boy’s eyes light up as if I’ve just told him he has won a million dollars in the lottery, and he hungrily asks if he can see them.

Telling him they are still boxed up in the storeroom, I lead him to the back of the store, pausing to lock the door and flip the sign to CLOSED on the way. The storeroom is dark and dusty, stacked boxes turning the cramped space into a labyrinth. Daniel follows me deep into the room without hesitation or fear.
The innocence of youth
, I think, then correct myself:
The ignorance of youth
.

We turn a corner and Daniel stops, and I hear him gasp in the darkness. There are several dried-up husks on the floor, colorless and flaky, looking like shed snake-skins but too large to be that. He asks what they are, but instead of answering, I take him into my arms.

Daniel stiffens when my lips find his. He struggles against me, probably thinking he is being molested, but my hold on him is firm, and I pry his lips open with my tongue. As I breathe in, I feel his body wither beneath my hands, his skin drying up and hardening, his flesh melting away. When I finally pull back and let go, another dried-up husk drops to the floor at my feet.

I raise my arms above my head and stretch, feeling stronger than I have in quite some time, rejuvenated and alive. It will not last, but my body has quickened once again. I look down at the shell that was Daniel, and I feel no guilt for borrowing his youth.

After all, it’s not as if he were using it.

PERRY DAVIS MAKES A COMEBACK

“In entertainment news, Oscar-nominated director Taryn Quint is currently in pre-production on a biopic of late actor Perry Davis. Davis, who suffered a fatal coronary last March, was most famous for a string of highly successful romantic comedies in the 60s and 70s. In later years, he became more known for his erratic and eccentric behavior than his acting prowess, most notably a 1999 Oscar appearance during which he refused to announce Yolanda Harris as Best Actress because he felt she did not deserve the honor. In a surprising move, Quint has cast athlete-turned-action star Wes Xavier as Davis. Although Xavier’s films have grossed more than 600 million internationally, he is considered by many to be one of this generation’s most limited actors…”

* * *

Wes Xavier muted the large, flat-screen television and tossed the remote onto the glass-topped coffee table. On the screen, the entertainment correspondent’s mouth was still moving but Wes could no longer hear what she was saying. Not that he needed to; it was always a variation of the same tune. Wes can’t act, Wes can’t emote, Wes can’t can’t can’t. Hell, the closest he’d ever come to anything resembling a positive review was a critic who’d written, “Wes Xavier is slightly less wooden in this role than previous films.”

Slightly less wooden
. Not exactly the rave of the century.

Still, Wes didn’t take it too personally. After all, here he was sitting in a fifteen million dollar home, six obscenely expensive cars in the garage, the finest wardrobe money could buy, guaranteed entrance to all the hottest clubs and restaurants. All the critics might agree that Wes couldn’t act, but it hadn’t stopped the public from flocking to his films and padding his bank account.

Wes stood and walked across the room, over the Oriental rug that had cost him what most people made in a year. He stopped at the mantel to admire his awards. Four Razzies, the opposite of Oscars, awards given to celebrate the very worst Hollywood had to offer. Four Razzies for Worst Actor in a Motion Picture. Most actors who had received these awards were embarrassed and didn’t like to talk about them; Wes displayed them prominently. After all, the four films he’d won Razzies for had all been substantial hits.

Wes had no real passion for acting. It wasn’t his life’s dream; it was just something he’d fallen into after a back injury had prevented him from continuing in professional football. It had made him wealthy, and it was loads of fun. Whenever he heard actors complaining about the long hours and the hard work, Wes just had to laugh. They were playing make-believe for a living, and they were going to complain? Not Wes. He knew how good he had it.

Crossing back to the coffee table, Wes picked up several DVD cases and shuffled through them. Taryn Quint had sent over seven of Perry Davis’s films for Wes to study. He’d tried watching one earlier in the evening.
The Things Money Can’t Buy
, an exceedingly silly romantic comedy in which Davis starred as a billionaire masquerading as a butler to win the heart of a beautiful chambermaid. Wes had made it through only twenty minutes of the film before he’d had to stop. They just didn’t make movies like that anymore—thank God!

Wes knew that Taryn Quint had not wanted him for the film, but the studio had pushed hard for him. The executives were concerned over the marketability of a movie about an actor whose films most of today’s teen audience had never seen. They figured casting a proven bankable star in the lead was a good bet to up the potential box office. Wes didn’t really give a damn what Taryn Quint thought of him, but he also did not want to feed any tension that might exist during the shoot. If she wanted him to study Davis’s work, Wes would go along.

From the pile of DVDs, Wes chose Perry Davis’s last screen role, playing an unscrupulous judge in 1993’s courtroom drama,
Contempt
. Wes remembered this movie; industry rumor was that Davis had scored the highest paycheck for the film even though he appeared onscreen for only twenty minutes.

Popping the disc in the player, Wes sat back on the sofa, crossing his feet on the coffee table. Wes found himself laughing often at the movie, despite the fact that it wasn’t meant to be funny. Davis’s performance was particularly laughable; the man sat behind the bench in his black robe like some sort of Jabba-the-Hutt creature, bloated in his old age to well over three hundred pounds, and his eyes had the glassy blankness of a drug addict. He recited his lines in an almost unintelligible slur, and he seemed monumentally bored by the whole production. For an acting legend, Davis gave the worst performance in the film. And that was saying something, considering that the lead was played by Pauly Shore.

“And who are you, De Niro?”

Wes squealed and tumbled off the sofa, catching his elbow on the coffee table and giving it a hard knock. He scrambled to his feet and spun around, searching the room for whoever had spoken. His cleaning lady had gone home for the day, and there shouldn’t be anyone else in the house but Wes.

“Over here,” the voice said from behind him.

Wes turned to find a young man in a leather jacket leaning casually against the archway into the foyer, cleaning under his fingernails with a pocketknife. Wes recognized him instantly; it was Perry Davis.

Which was, of course, impossible. Not only was Davis dead, but this was not the obese, balding man Davis had been at his death. This was Davis in his prime, tall and thin, thick head of sandy hair, devilish smirk on his pouty lips.

“I’m dreaming,” Wes said softly, rubbing the welt on his elbow. The pain there seemed awfully real for this to be a dream, but what other explanation could there be? Wes had obviously fallen asleep while watching
Contempt
and was now in the midst of some bizarre nightmare.

Davis closed the pocketknife with a practiced flick of his wrist. “I did not come all the way from the Beyond just to waste time on a round of is-this-real-or-isn’t-it. I’m real, I’m here, and me and you gotta have a little talk.”

Wes watched in stunned disbelief as Davis crossed the room, snatched the remote from the coffee table, and turned off the television. If this wasn’t a dream, if Davis had actually come back from the Beyond like he said, then that made Davis a ghost. But could a ghost pick up a remote? Could a ghost sit back on the sofa, ankle crossed over his knee, as Davis was doing now?

“Hey!” Davis said sharply, irritation written across his face. “I don’t have a lot of time here. Be a man, suck it up, and have a seat. As I said, we’ve got things to discuss, you and I.”

Still too astonished to speak—or form any type of coherent thought—Wes found himself crossing the room and sitting on the opposite end of the sofa. He wasn’t aware of his brain giving his legs the command to move, but he moved nonetheless. Drawn toward the dead movie star like a lemming to the cliff’s edge.

“Good boy.” Davis raised his arms above his head and stretching his lanky body. “I know it’s a bit of a shock, finding me here in your sitting room like this, but when I got wind of the movie they’re going to be making about my life, I had to pay a visit.”

“To give your blessing of my casting?”

Before Wes even had time to register the movement, Davis’s hand shot out and backhanded Wes across the left cheek, snapping his head back and making his eye feel like it was going to pop.

“Don’t be a fool,” Davis spat, his expression twisted into a Halloween mask. “You’re not an actor; you’re just a hack.”

Indignation cut through the awe that was keeping Wes paralyzed in a hypnotic daze. “Hey now, that’s not fair. My last picture,
The Only Way is Down
, broke box office records opening weekend.”

Davis laughed. “Just because people watch your movies doesn’t mean you’re a good actor. People, by and large, are stupid and lacking in taste. Acting is an art, a craft to be honed and nurtured. Someone like you will never be able to grasp that.”

“So you returned from the grave to tell me…what? That I’m a lousy actor?”

“You don’t need me to tell you that,” Davis said with a lopsided grin. “You know you’re a lousy actor. You may have a bit of success right now, but you won’t be remembered. Ten years from now your name will be forgotten; you’ll be a footnote, an insignificant blip. I, on the other hand, am a legend, a celluloid god. That you have the audacity to think you could in any way capture my greatness is an insult and an offense.”

“I didn’t cast myself; this was the studio’s idea.”

“That doesn’t mean you had to accept the role; you could have turned it down.”

“Are you crazy? The script isn’t even finished yet, and this is already the most anticipated movie of the year. No way I could pass that up.”

“Listen to me,” Davis said, leaning forward, his voice low and lethal, “I will not allow my memory to be sullied by having a no-talent like you portray me on film. We’re talking about my legacy here. I don’t want people to associate me with the train-wreck I know this biopic will be if you’re allowed to play the part.”

“But you don’t mind being associated with this shit?” Wes said, holding up the DVD case for
Contempt
. Ghost or no ghost, Wes wasn’t going to just sit around and let himself be insulted this way. “I think you did a fine job of destroying your
legacy
long before your death. There’s a scene in this movie where you can actually be seen
nodding off
, for Christ’s sake.”

Davis fist rose in the air and hovered, shaking with tension as if he were barely able to hold it back. Taking a few deep breaths, Davis lowered his fist to his lap but did not uncurl his fingers. “I’m giving you a chance here. Back out of this project; do not make this movie.”

Wes stood abruptly. “You think I’m intimidated by your Ghost of Hollywood Past routine? No one tells Wes Xavier what to do, got that?”

Davis became very still, his face an unreadable mask. “Is that your final word on the matter?”

“Damn straight.” Wes started from the room then turned back to find himself alone. He searched the room, even bending to check under the sofa, but Davis had vanished. “Hmm,” Wes said and left the room.

* * *

Wes was wearing a thick parka, knitted cap, goggles, and an unwieldy pair of skis. He was sweating profusely under the hot studio lights, and the goggles were chaffing the bridge of his nose. He felt like an idiot.

“Okay,” said the photographer, a young woman with unlikely red hair, “bend your knees, lean forward, and put the poles under your arms, like you’re going downhill.”

Wes complied. He was standing in front of a painted backdrop of snow-covered mountains. Photo shoots were always a bit awkward, but this one was utterly ridiculous.
Rolling Stone
had thought it would be fun to get some shots of Wes as characters from various Perry Davis films. Currently he was copying the look of Davis in 1974’s
Slippery Slope
.

The photographer snapped numerous shots of the pose. “Now, put the goggles on your head, lean on the poles, and smile into the camera.”

“Still trying to be me?” Davis asked, materializing out of nowhere.

“Didn’t I tell you to get lost?” Wes barked.

The photographer froze, lowering her camera. “Excuse me?”

“Not you.”

“She can’t see me,” Davis said, standing with his arms folded across his muscular chest. “Only you can see me.”

“Are you alright?” the photographer asked.

“I’m fine, let’s just get this over with.”

“I looked much better in that outfit,” Davis said, walking around behind Wes and giving him the once-over. “
Slippery Slope
was a big hit for me. I actually helped write the screenplay, you know.”

“Well, good for you. You’re a regular jack-of-all-trades.”

The photographer hesitated, gave Wes a suspicious look, but said nothing.

Davis came back around and stopped directly in front of Wes. “Did you think you’d gotten rid of me? Did you think it would be that easy?”