Halloween: Magic, Mystery, and the Macabre (24 page)

No Boundaries!

Breaching the Divide!

Beyond Audience Participation!

He paused to consider the more interesting ones, coming at

last to a splash of black and orange, a carved face leering beneath a jagged title:

PUMPKIN HEAD ESCAPES!

[181]

[182] PUMPKIN HEAD ESCAPES

A jack-o’-lantern head dominated the poster, crowning a body

that tapered to slender hips and vine-like legs. The feet resembled roots, spreading through a mass of fallen buildings, broken bridges, smashed cars. There were people too, running in terror, eyes wide, hands in the air. Some wore Halloween costumes: ghosts, vampires,

fairy-tale princesses—all screaming from cartoon balloons:

“IT’S REAL!”

“IT’S ALIVE!

“IT’S COMING OCTOBER 31!”

At the bottom of the poster, a line of duotone stills showed highlights from the play: Pumpkin Head smashing through a door, Pumpkin

Head lurching through a city neighborhood, Pumpkin Head standing

before a burning skyline and beating back a hail of bullets . . . or were they missiles? The art left the scale open to interpretation.

Each picture had a caption, bold letters in jagged frames:

YOU . . . see it!

YOU . . . live it!

YOU . . . are it!

“You made it!”

The voice spoke from beyond the posters.

Glenn stepped from the maze of a hall and into view of a familiar

face. It was Elle, dressed in sweater and jeans, a little heavier than he remembered, but looking much better than she had on their last

night together.

Her face had healed.

She offered her hand. “You’re looking well.”

“You too.”

Now what? A long-overdue apology for causing the accident that

had laid her up while he tripped the light fantastic out of town? He’d thought long and hard about the things he might say when he saw

her again, but maybe it was best to leave the past behind them. Elle seemed ready to do that. Why shouldn’t he?

LAWRENCE C. CONNOLLY [183]

“Been a while,” he said.

“Too long.”

An awkward silence.

“You know—” They spoke it together, almost in harmony.

She laughed. “Sorry.”

“Guess I’m still stepping on your lines.”

“No, Glenn. You never—”

“I’m afraid I did.”

“Anyway. You were saying?”

“Doesn’t matter, really. You go ahead.”

“All right.” She released his hand, glanced at her watch. “I should show you the getup. Make sure you’re up for filling in.”

“The show’s really tonight?”

“Like I said.”

“And there’re no lines to memorize? You said that too, right?”

“Right. No lines. It’s all about movement and improv . . . and a

rather unusual suit that should fit you just fine.” She stepped back, looked him up and down. “You’ve kept in shape.”

“The demands of Broadway cattle calls. I’ve been focusing on

dance. Safer than acting.”

“Thirty waist?”

“Thirty-two, actually. Thirty in a pinch.”

“Shoe size?”

“Eleven and a half.”

“Eleven okay?”

“I’m sure I can manage.”

“Hat size?”

“Ah, now that . . . I’m not sure.”

She produced a tape measure.

“Always prepared,” he said.

She measured his crown. “Seven and a half.”

“Is that good?”

“Hold still. Couple more.” She checked the circumference of his

face, then the distance between his eyes.

“So this is my audition?”

She returned the tape to her pocket.

[184] PUMPKIN HEAD ESCAPES

“Have I passed?”

“Flying colors.” She took his arm. “Come on. I’ll introduce you

to your character.”

She led him away from the posters, past a plywood partition,

toward a narrow stairwell. “This building used to be a church. It was gutted and subdivided before we took it over. The stage is through there.” She pointed to a door in the partition wall. “Control booth’s upstairs.” They entered the stairwell. “Wardrobe and props are down here, in the basement.” She led him into darkness, pausing to hit a switch when they reached the final step. Lights came on, bare bulbs in a drop ceiling, three doors in a foamcore wall.

“The guy you’re replacing was a lot like you, physically at least.”

She opened one of the doors. “I don’t think you’ll have much trouble stepping into his skin.” She hit a switch. Fluorescent lights flickered, illuminating a jack-o’-lantern monster in the room’s corner, head

resting on brackets, body dangling from a hook.

He followed her in.

“The body is formfitting.” She took it down, handed it to him. It was a black unitard, almost like a wetsuit, but with extra padding along the chest and waist. “You can put your stuff in here.” She crossed to a closet with a sliding door, opened it to reveal hangers and shelves. “Clothes, briefs, socks—everything. The suit’s made to be worn over skin. I’ll step outside while you put it on.” She was making it clear that their days of casual intimacy were behind them. “The seam goes in the back. I’ll fasten it when you’re ready. And the headpiece . . . don’t touch that. It’s more than you can handle on your own.” She left, closing the door behind her.

He glanced at Pumpkin Head as he undressed: oval eyes, triangular

nose, wide grin with jagged teeth. It seemed to watch as he pulled the unitard over his legs. “Couldn’t they make you any uglier?”

The eyes just stared.

He looked away, tried focusing on what he was doing.

The costume felt a little tight around the waist at first, but the fit adjusted as he pulled the top up along his shoulders. The suit stretched with him when he stood, conforming as he moved, hugging him like

a second skin. He tried a couple dance steps, then a few more. He

was coming out of a spin when Elle reentered the room.

LAWRENCE C. CONNOLLY [185]

“You still got the moves, Glenn.”

“I don’t know. I’m getting old.”

“Twenty-nine isn’t old.”

“It is for a dancer.” He spun toward her, gave her his back. “Zip

me up, dear?”

She tugged the seam. “Not a zipper. Micro clasps. At least, that’s what the designer called them. He studied wearable tech in college.

He’s the one who came up with this design. We based the show around it.” She pressed her hand against the small of his back, slid it toward his shoulders, closing the seam. “That should do it. Turn around. Let me see.” She glanced at his chest. Then his crotch. Nothing personal.

Just business. “The fit’s good.” She pulled a chair from a dressing table. “Have a seat. I’ll get your feet and hands.”

“Shoes and gloves?”

“No.” She opened a cabinet, took out a pile of twisted things. “Feet and hands.” They looked like roots and branches that had grown into talons and claws.

“I’m supposed to dance in those?”

“Not dance exactly. I wouldn’t call it dance. But the other guy

managed some pretty good moves before breaking his ankle.” She

pushed one of the rooty things onto his foot, secured it with another set of micro clasps, then did the other. “It wasn’t these feet that caused the accident, though. It was him. He wasn’t used to taking chances.

There was always a kind of . . . I don’t know . . . like a hesitance about him.”

“Not like me?”

“I always admired your willingness to inhabit your characters . . .

take things to the edge . . .
beyond
the edge.” She secured the second foot, giving him a clear view of the back of her jaw in the process. The scar was there, a pink thread running from ear to chin, a reminder of the last time they’d shared the stage.

“Looks good!” She was talking about the feet, of course. “Now

the hands.” She picked them up. “You’ll want to be careful what you touch with these.” She helped him put them on. “They’re not as sharp as they look, but with enough force . . . well, just be careful.”

“This is quite a costume.”

[186] PUMPKIN HEAD ESCAPES

“More than a costume, actually.”

“Creepy.”

“Yes, that’s the idea.”

“But what exactly do I do with it?” He glanced at the head. It still seemed to be watching. He looked away. “What’s the story?”

“
Pumpkin Head Escapes
.”

“But what’s the
story
?”

“Not really a story, per se. I got tired of that sort of thing after you left town. Healing from the accident made me realize I was through with acting, that I need to try something new. I got into a couple of improv groups, hooked up with an investor interested in audience

integration, and now I’m here—Total Immersion Theatre!”

“So what you’re saying—”

“We’re not about story.”

“But you said we’d have time for a walkthrough.”

“Right. But you’re going to need your head for that.” She helped

him up. “Come on. I can’t bring it to you.”

His feet clicked as he walked, toes coming down in uneven

arpeggios.
Clickety-clack. Clackety-click
.

The monster watched, the darkness behind its eyes following him

as he drew nearer. He turned his attention to the rubber-rimmed

opening in the base of the head. The space within was completely

dark, no light from eyeholes. Once inside, his head would be locked up like a canned ham.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” he said.

“Think of it as a space helmet.”

“Space helmets have visors.”

“Right, but you get something better.” She pushed her fingers into the one of the carved eyes. “Mini cams, one in each socket. They’re mounted way back, completely hidden, and each one’s connected to

an internal viewer. Audio has a similar set up, outside mics, inside speakers.”

“Wouldn’t it be easier to just drill some holes.”

“Not for this show. The stage manager needs to see what you see,

hear what you hear. She’ll give you instructions as needed, make sure you hit your marks before each improv. And if you have questions,

LAWRENCE C. CONNOLLY [187]

there’s a vocal mic near your chin. She talks to you, you talk to her, and the audience never hears a word.”

“I’ll be hermetically sealed.”

“Pretty much. Your head, anyway.”

“How do I breathe?”

“Right! That’s the coolest part. There’re intakes in the back of the mouth.”

“Holes?”

“Not just holes. There’s a series of resonators between the intakes and you.”

“I don’t get it.”

“Resonators. Distortion chambers. That’s how the monster gets

its voice.” She ducked under the headpiece. “Here, I’ll show you.”

She grabbed the support brackets and pulled them down until the

head rested on her shoulders. Her chest rose, inhaling. And then the monster screamed. Terrible sounds: cats in heat, lambs in slaughter, nails on slate.

He winced.

She lifted the headpiece, peeked out, grinned. “All you have to

do is talk, and the resonators do the rest.” She pushed the headpiece higher along its track, giving him room. “Now you.”

The carved face waited, staring with a darkness that seemed

larger than the head itself. He wondered about the mini cams. Were they on? Were they the reason he kept feeling like the thing was

looking at him, studying him?

“Come on, Glenn.” She took his arm, pulled him into position.

“Can’t do the show without your head.”

The rubber-rimmed opening was above him now. He tried making

out what waited within, but it was dark inside—impossibly dark.

“Face front, Glenn. Straighten your neck. That’s it.” She tugged

the brackets. The headpiece came down, snagged on an ear, then

eased into place, enveloping him in a moment of complete darkness

before the view screens came on.

Elle appeared, face glowing with the hyper-clarity of digital

video. She donned a headset, adjusted her mic. “Test your vocals,

Glenn. Say something.”

[188] PUMPKIN HEAD ESCAPES

“Something.”

“Sounds good. Can you see me okay?”

“Crystal clear.” He heard Pumpkin Head’s voice coming back at him

through the earphones, words transformed into distorted moans.

“I’ll secure the seal.” She reached for his neck. “You won’t be able to release it yourself . . . not with those prosthetic hands. When you need to take it off—” She raised a finger. “Hold on.” She turned away, apparently listening to something in her headset, a voice he couldn’t hear. “Right!” she said. “Sorry. I should have introduced you. Glenn, this is Lauren, our stage manager. She’ll be taking you through your paces.”

“Hello, Lauren.” He waited for an answer, didn’t get one. “I don’t hear her.”

Elle frowned. “Hey, Lauren. Try again. Channel B.”

Static.

“Just noise,” he said.

“All right. We’ll deal with that in a minute. First things first.” She gripped the clamps beneath the head. “Brace yourself. Releasing the brackets.” The clamps swung away, transferring the full weight of the head to Glenn’s shoulders. “You all right? It’s a little heavy. Nearly thirty pounds, but you’ll get used to it. Now hold still.” She yanked something from the back of the head. The video went dark, flickered, came back on. “You’re on battery now. Fully charged.”

The video brightened. A strange face appeared, transparent as a

ghost, hovering between him and Elle. It was there for a moment.

Then gone. “Your stage manager?” he said. “Does she have red

hair?”

“Why?”

“I think I just saw her.”

“In your viewers?”

“Yeah. Gone now.”

“All right. It’s the relay. ”

“Is that bad?”

“No. It’s an easy fix, but I can’t do it from here. Can you walk?”

He tried. The head was heavy but balanced. He stepped away

from the wall, turned in place. “Not too bad.”

LAWRENCE C. CONNOLLY [189]

“Can you sit?”

He eased into the chair.