Seeds of Fear

SCREAM QUEEN Ronald Kelly

The images on the screen were black and white, grainy with too many dropouts. The sound was bad, harsh and scratchy. The music was even worse, too melodramatic. The scene was set somewhere up in the California mountains: a lot of boulders, dry grass, and scrubby underbrush.

Ted Culman lay on the full-size bed, naked, his eyes glued to the nineteen-inch TV. The landscape was unremarkable, the backdrop for countless low-budget movies made in the fifties and sixties. The only distinguishing factor about the old flick appeared a moment later, rounding a boulder and walking up a dusty mountain trail.

Ted sunk into the pillows at his back, as if settling into the cockpit of a jet fighter. He was in control now. The hand that rested on his belly crept toward his groin. Soon it was fisted around him, stroking. He was already aroused.

The woman who appeared on the screen was a real beauty. Average in height, but noticeably buxom, her breasts swelling behind the cloth of her checkered blouse. She was platinum blond, much in the same style of Marilyn Monroe or Jayne Mansfield. Her lovely face was partly obscured by too much lipstick, partly by a pair of white-framed sunglasses, circa 1956. Ted studied the woman's lower region: flaring hips encased in skintight white slacks, long shapely legs, and tiny feet slipped inside simple sandals.

The woman on the screen made her way up the lonesome pathway, her hips swaying like a pendulum, her delicate jaw working on a gob of Wrigley's spear mint gum. Ted's hand quickened as a muffled roar sounded from offscreen and caused the woman to whirl in her tracks. An atrocious-looking swamp monster — all dangling latex and bulbous tennis-ball eyes — leapt down clumsily from a neighboring boulder, its thick arms extended in menace.

That was when Ted closed his eyes, and let his imagination take over. As his hand went on autopilot, Ted imagined himself to be the shuffling creature. But there was no menace in his monstrous eyes, only desire; a desire shared by the woman he confronted. In a matter of seconds, his claws had torn past her blouse and bra, tossing tatters of cloth and elastic away until her breasts were exposed. The nipples stood out, pink and hard. She reached out for him, and soon they were on the sandy earth. His claws went to work again, hooking past tight cloth, rending it easily. She lay beneath him, completely nude now. They embraced hungrily, a melding of human and alien flesh. Ted felt his bestial member jut from his loins, searching, aching passionately. The woman writhed hungrily against him, then he was there, surrounded by warm wetness.

Ted felt himself quickly reaching the brink. He opened his eyes. The blonde's lovely face filled the screen, just as he had anticipated. Her sunglasses had been knocked askew and one eye stared straight into the camera. Then those luscious lips parted and a shrill scream powered up from out of her throat. But in Ted's ears it was not the shriek of terror that it was intended to be. Instead, it was a cry of unbridled ecstasy.

Pleasure shot through him, exploding at the base of his spine, causing his hips to buck slightly. Then, a second later, it was all over. The scene had changed. Ted was watching a pipe-smoking scientist explaining a screenwriter's theory of evolution, while Ted's penis shriveled in the palm of his hand.

Ted paused the VCR with the remote control, while his other hand shucked a Kleenex from its box and sopped up the juices of his passion. After the strength had returned to his legs, he hopped off the motel bed and walked into the bathroom. He tossed the damp wad of tissue into the toilet, then cranked up the shower and stepped in.

As he bathed, he smiled to himself, recalling the scream of the monster's blond victim. No one could break the decibel level like Fawn Hale. Oh, many had tried, but none had managed to surpass… at least not in Ted's opinion.

Fawn was well-known and appreciated by aficionados of horror and science-fiction cinema, particularly the cheaply made features of the fifties and sixties. Fawn was considered by the majority to have been the premier scream queen of that era, very much the way Betty Page had become a cult favorite in the realm of nostalgic pinups. There had been dozens of others, some even more beautiful and bustier than Fawn. But none had possessed the lungs she had. For sheer expression of horror and vocal power, the actress had no equal. Ted remembered the first time he had heard Fawn scream. He had attended an all-night Halloween fright fest at a run-down theater off campus. Fawn's shriek had overloaded a couple of the theater's main speakers. They had popped with a burst of ozone, incapable of accommodating the high frequency of Fawn's famous cry.

Just thinking about it made Ted horny again, but he ignored the impulse and finished his shower. He had someplace to go that morning, someplace very important. It was so important, in fact, that he had driven nearly two thousand miles just to get there.

Ted toweled off, then dressed. He left his suitcase behind, but unhooked the VCR and took it with him. He didn't want to risk the chance of the maid ripping it off when she came to clean his room. He also took the cardboard jacket of the tape that was still in the video recorder. The movie was creatively titled Curse of the Swamp Monster and sported a black-and-white shot of the beast in all its low-budget glory.

He stepped outside and locked the door behind him. Ted looked around for a second. The Days Inn he had checked into the night before was off an exit on Interstate 24 in the heart of Tennessee. There was only one reason why a California grad student would waste his spring break and make a cross-country journey to the land of the Grand Ole Opry and Jack Daniel's, and that reason could be summed up in two words.

Fawn Hale.

Ted walked to his car — a restored '69 Mustang convertible — and opened the trunk. He set the VCR next to a cardboard box full of videotapes. All were the kind of schlock horror flicks Ted thrived on — the outrageously bad classics of Edward D. Wood and Herschell Gordon Lewis. And two out of three of them featured Fawn Hale and her bloodcurdling scream somewhere between the title and ending credits.

Before he closed the trunk, he picked up a copy of Filmfax that lay on top of the box. It was an article in the movie magazine that had been responsible for his journey south. The story chronicled the history of a dozen popular scream queens and, in the portion devoted to Fawn, had laid the key to a mystery that had bugged Ted for several years. After Hale had retired from films in 1968, she had left Hollywood and seemingly vanished off the face of the earth. But, according to the article, Fawn had returned to her hometown of Cumberland Springs in central Tennessee.

That single tidbit of information had been a revelation for Ted. Fawn had almost become an obsession to him, creeping into his sexual fantasies lately. His dorm room was papered with posters and glossy photos of the B-movie blonde, while Ted's dreams were filled with bizarre images of Fawn being seduced by the monsters she had shared the screen with. It wasn't long before Ted began to imagine himself inside those garish suits of latex and fur, conjuring screams of pleasure from the actress, rather than ones of horror.

After reading the article, Ted simply couldn't put it out of his mind. The closer spring break grew, the more maddening the knowledge of Fawn's whereabouts seemed to be. Finally the thought of driving to Tennessee crossed his mind, lodging there like a splinter. It was during the day of his last class that Ted had made his decision. He took seven hundred dollars out of the bank, packed up his suitcase and VCR, and hit the road. He knew it was foolish and against his better judgment, but he had still gone. Now, three days later, he was only a short distance from his destination.

Ted closed the trunk, taking the magazine with him. He climbed into the Mustang's bucket seat and sat there for a long moment. Across the main highway — which boasted several other motels, an Amoco station, and a McDonald's — was a post bearing two signs. The upper one pointed west and read MANCHESTER — 15 MILES. The one underneath pointed east and proclaimed CUMBERLAND SPRINGS — 7 MILES.

Well, what're you waiting for, Culman? he thought, feeling a little nervous. You came this far. Seven more miles and you'll be able to get this out of your system for good.

He took a deep breath to calm himself, then put the Mustang in gear and pulled out onto the highway.

The town of Cumberland Springs could scarcely be considered one at all. It consisted of only a church, a post office, and an old-timey general store with a couple of ancient gas pumps out front. A few white clapboard houses were scattered around the main buildings, but that was about the extent of the little hamlet.

Ted stopped in at the general store, which was called Roone's Mercantile, and bought himself a honey bun and a Dr. Pepper for breakfast. After he had paid for the food, he regarded the man behind the register. Oscar Roone was a lanky man of sixty with bushy eyebrows and a perpetual scowl on his weathered face. Ted debated asking the man for directions, then decided it wouldn't hurt.

"Excuse me, but could you tell me how to get to the Hale place?"

The old man glared at the overweight boy with shaggy brown hair and glasses. "Why in Sam Hill would you wanna go way out there?" he asked.

Ted was at a loss for an answer at first. He shrugged. "I just have some business there, that's all." Nosy old bastard.

Roone looked like he'd bitten into a green persimmon. He opened his mouth to say something, then changed his mind. "You go on down the highway here about a half mile, till you pass the Knowles farm. You'll know the place. The barn's got 'See Rock City' painted on its roof. Well, you take the next turnoff, a dirt stretch called Glenhollow Road, and head on that way for three or four miles. The Hale place is the first house on the right."

"Thanks," said Ted. He gathered up his purchases and made his way past the tightly packed aisles of canned and dry goods, eager to be out of the shadowy store and back into the sunshine. He glanced back only once and saw the old man staring at him peculiarly. As if he wanted to ask Ted something… or maybe tell him something.

He quickly gobbled down the honey bun and chased it with the soda. Then he started his car and headed farther southward, trying to keep Roone's directions fresh in his mind. He found the Knowles farm without any trouble and turned down the dirt road, even though there was no visible sign marking it as being Glenhollow.

Ted drove down the rural road, his hands clenching and unclenching the steering wheel. The day was beautiful, and the dense woods to either side of him were green and cool. Birds sang in abundance from overhead and the air was rich with the scent of honeysuckle, but those things failed to soothe his frazzled nerves. He felt none of the control he had felt earlier that morning, when he had masturbated to the monster movie.

It seemed like an eternity, but he finally reached the first house on the right side of Glenhollow Road. Ted parked the Mustang next to a drainage ditch, a hundred feet from the structure. It was a simple, two-story farmhouse that looked as if it hadn't been treated to a good roofing or paint job for ten or twelve years. Tall oaks surrounded the house, and the yard was knee-high with weeds. Standing at the side of the road was a single mailbox with the name HALE painted on the side, nothing more.

It was at that moment that Ted Culman wondered exactly what he was doing there. Exactly what had he had in mind when he left California? Had he come to simply tell her how much he appreciated her movies and ask for her autograph? Or was there more to it than that? Ted thought about the fantasies he had been indulging in lately, but they concerned the Fawn Hale of the past. The woman had been nearing her forties when she retired. She would be in her sixties now, drawing Social Security and soaking her teeth in a glass by her bed.

The thought made Ted feel a little nauseous. He had the sudden urge to make a U-turn in the country road, retrieve his suitcase from the motel, and head home. But he knew if he did that, he would always wonder about Fawn and the meeting he had aborted out of sheer panic. He took a deep breath and, climbing out of the car, started up the road to the Hale residence.

As he crossed the unmowed yard, he began to wonder if anyone even lived there anymore. The front porch was littered with dead leaves, and many of the house's windows were broken, most notably those of the upper floor. The steps creaked beneath his feet as he approached the front door, and beyond the storm door he could only make out darkness. From the other side of the screen drifted a scent of mustiness and decay, the odor of a house that had not been aired out in a very long time.

Nervously he raised his fist and knocked on the doorjamb.

At first he didn't think anyone was going to answer. Then a form emerged from out of the gloom. "Can I help you?" asked a feminine voice with a soft southern drawl.

Ted stared at the woman on the other side of the door, and at first, the mesh of the screen caused an unnerving illusion. For an instant it was like looking at a freeze-frame of a grainy black-and-white film. A frame of a buxom blonde, minus the sunglasses and fifties clothing. The resemblance was uncanny, almost frightening.

"Fawn?" blurted Ted, even though he knew that the woman couldn't possibly be the one he had come to see. She was too young; a little older than him, maybe twenty-six or seven. And her hair wasn't platinum, but a more natural shade of strawberry blond. But the eyes were identical to Fawn's, and that mouth. There certainly was no mistake that it had been derived from the same voluptuous gene pool.

The girl smiled. "No, but I'm her daughter, Lori," she said. She stared at him for a moment, waiting. "Uh, can I do something for you?"

"My name's Ted Culman," he said, still stunned by how much she looked like Fawn. "I'm a big fan of your mother. I wonder if I could talk to her for a minute, if it wouldn't be too much trouble?"

The smile faltered on Lori's face and she looked a little sad. "I'm sorry, but that's impossible."

"Please," said Ted, sensing that something was wrong. "Just a couple minutes and I won't bother her again."

"You don't understand," said Lori Hale. She hesitated for a moment, her eyes full of pain. "My mother… she's dead. She passed away about a year ago."

Ted felt as if someone had sucker-punched him in the gut. "Oh, no," he muttered. "But. how?"

"Cancer," she told him.

Ted took a step back, his face pale. For a moment he felt as if he might pass out.

He heard the girl unhook the screen door and open it. "Are you all right?" she asked, concerned.

"I… I don't know," he said truthfully. Even though Fawn Hale had died in practically every movie she had been featured in, Ted had a difficult time accepting the fact that she was actually dead in real life. "Could I sit down somewhere for a minute?"

"Sure," said Lori Hale. "Come on inside."

Ted accepted her invitation and was soon sitting on a threadbare couch in a dusty parlor. The room was decorated with antique furniture, and the walls alternated between old family photographs and glossy eight-by-ten stills of Fawn in her prime, most of them showing off more of her teeth and tonsils than any thing else.

When some of the color had returned to Ted's face, the young woman seemed to relax a little. "Are you sure you're okay?" she asked again.

"Yeah," replied Ted. "I was just surprised, that's all."

"And disappointed, too," said Lori. "I see it in your face. Just how far did you come to see my mother?"

"San Diego," he said.

"California? No wonder you're so upset." She started toward an adjoining hallway. "I'll go to the kitchen and fetch us something to drink. I just fixed a pitcher of iced tea. How does that sound?"

Ted's throat felt parched. "Great," he replied.

A minute later, Lori returned with a tall glass of iced tea in each hand. When she entered the room, Ted couldn't help but admire the girl's figure, clad only in a halter top and a pair of denim cutoffs. She possessed practically the same body that her mother had in her youth: perfectly formed breasts, graceful hips, and long, muscular legs.

Lori seemed to sense his attention, but didn't seem to mind. She sat down next to Ted and slipped a cold glass in his hand. "There you go," she said. She watched as he gulped several swallows of tea. "So you were a fan of Mama's?"

"Yes," said Ted. The tea was a little strong for his taste, but it seemed to calm him down. "I have about every film she ever made on video."

"Really?" asked Lori, impressed. "Even Demon Conquerors from Mars?"

Ted laughed. He knew the film she was talking about. It was a dreadful science-fiction flick made on a shoestring budget of two thousand dollars and featured some really horrendous special effects, such as a sinister robot constructed from an oil drum, and a magnified iguana attacking a shoddy model of a small town. If there was one shining point about the movie, it was the appearance of Fawn as an unsuspecting diner waitress who falls victim to the Martian robots and their oversized lizard.

"I do have that one," he said.

"That was one of my favorites," said Lori. She smiled. "You know, I do appreciate you coming. Mama would've appreciated it, too."

"I'm just sorry I couldn't have met her," he said. Ted thought of the way he had exploited the actress in his own sleazy fantasies and suddenly felt ashamed.

"She would've enjoyed talking to you," Lori told him. "She liked talking about her career." A strange expression surfaced in the woman's eyes. "Well, most of it, that is."

Ted drank his tea, a question suddenly coming to mind. He wondered whether he should ask it or not, then figured it was safe to do so. "Exactly why did your mother retire, Lori? I've read about everything I could dig up on her, but I've never been able to find out the reason."

Lori avoided his gaze at first. "There was a scandal."

"Scandal?"

"Yes," she went on. "It happened during her last picture, Night of the Jungle Zombies. They had finished up a day's shooting on location near Los Padres National Park. It was after dark and Mama was walking through the forest back to her trailer. Before she got there, someone jumped out of the shadows and attacked her." Lori paused for a moment. "She was raped."

Ted couldn't believe what he was hearing. "Did she know who it was?"

"Yes, although she never told anyone," said Lori. "It was a bit player in the picture. A guy by the name of Trevor Hall."

"Trevor Hall," repeated Ted. The name sounded familiar, but Ted had difficulty matching it with a face. There had been hundreds of bit players in the industry back then, some only lasting a picture or two.

Lori stared at Ted for a long moment, watchful. Then she continued. "After the attack, Mama found out that she was pregnant," said Lori. "She decided to leave Hollywood and come home, to this house that once belonged to my grandparents. She had dreams of going back to California and taking up where she left off, but she never did. I was born and that was the end of it."

"Oh, I see," said Ted. He raised the tea glass to his lips, but it seemed strangely heavy in his hand. "You know, it wasn't your fault," he assured her. "It was that Hall jerk who screwed it up for her."

Anger suddenly flared in Lori's eyes. "My father was never as bad as folks made out," she snapped. "He was just. misunderstood."

Ted was surprised. He couldn't understand the outburst, especially considering what the man had done to her mother. Ted couldn't figure out why he was beginning to feel so exhausted, either. He guessed the long drive was catching up to him.

Almost as quickly as her anger had surfaced, it was gone. She smiled, eyeing him in that odd, attentive way of hers. "You haven't told me about yourself, Ted," she said. "What do you do for a living?"

Ted's head began to swim. His eyelids felt heavier than lead, as if they could hardly stay open. "Uh, what did you say?" he asked.

"I asked what you do for a living," she repeated. Her smile was fixed, unwavering.

Ted had to think for a moment before he could answer. "Nothing yet," he said. His words seemed to flow as slowly as molasses. "I'm still in college." He looked over at Lori. Two of her wavered before his eyes. "What do you do?" he asked softly.

"I make movies," she said.

Before he knew it, Ted could no longer sit up. He slumped forward and rolled off the sofa, onto the parlor's hardwood floor. He looked up at Lori, expecting to see a look of alarm on her pretty face. But it wasn't there. Instead there was a peculiar look of satisfaction.

"I make movies," she repeated, as if making sure that he had heard. "Just like my mother." Her smile broadened a little, curling wickedly. "And my father."

Then her face turned into a blur and faded to black.

Ted was in the midst of a dream. One of the dreams that starred Fawn Hale.

He was on a big round bed that seemed to take up the entire room. He was naked, except for his glasses. Even then, his vision was a little hazy, like a camera fitted with a soft-focus filter.

The mattress sagged a little as someone joined him. It was Fawn Hale, also naked, her platinum hair gleaming in the harsh glare of a klieg light. She wore the sunglasses she had worn in Curse of the Swamp Monster, the ones with the white frames. The lenses were pitch black, impenetrable.

Without a word, she crept across the bed toward him with the predatory grace of a cat. He moaned when she reached him and her flesh touched his. A tiny grin crossed her lips as she moved over his midsection and mounted his hips. Ted stared up at those wondrous breasts. They stared back at him, transfixing him, like the eyes of a Svengali. Fawn purred down deep in her throat, then lowered herself. Ted groaned. They joined effortlessly.

The platinum-haired beauty seemed to ride him forever, her head thrown back, her huge breasts bouncing in time to the rhythm. Ted found himself to be powerless. He simply lay there and let the actress have her way with him.

Eventually Fawn could contain herself no longer. Her thighs tightened around his waist and her pace began to quicken. Ted felt himself begin to climax, too. The mounting pleasure in his groin seemed to clear his head a little and the sluggish, weighty feeling began to lift.

That was when he saw the black object at the far end of the bed. It was a video camera on a tripod. Aimed straight at him and Fawn.

Ted remembered something Lori had told him. I make movies.

Suddenly he knew that he wasn't dreaming.

And there was something else. Something that he had failed to recall before. Trevor Hall. He knew who he was now. Hall had not been a bit player, but a stuntman. A hulking stuntman big enough to play a convincing monster. And he had played them, too: werewolves, robots, swamp monsters. But that was not all that Ted remembered about Hall.

The stuntman had been a serial killer. In the early seventies he had been convicted of brutally raping and murdering several dozen women over the span of two decades. The evidence had been what had bought him a seat in the electric chair: an entire library of sixteen-millimeter reels Hall had filmed himself. Snuff films of those he had violated and slaughtered.

Ted stared up at the woman on top of him. He reached up slowly, his arms as heavy as concrete. He removed the white-framed shades. Lori's eyes sparkled down at him. They looked as crazy as the photos Ted had seen of her father. Gleaming with a fiendish satisfaction that was a mixture of ecstasy and blood- lust.

He reached out for the platinum wig, but it was beyond his grasp. Lori leaned in closer, smiling. Her shoulder flexed as she brought her right hand from behind her back.

"Scream for me," she whispered.

Ted felt the coldness of steel against his throat. He opened his mouth, perhaps to reason with her. But just staring into those lovely eyes and seeing the legacy of darkness that danced beyond them, Ted knew that any attempt would be futile.

As the edge of the knife stung his flesh, he braced himself and, regretfully, gave her what she wanted.

The images on the screen were color. Sharply defined, perfectly lit. The sound was minimal. The creaking of bed springs and the low murmurs of passion. There was no music. No sound track was necessary.

Lori Hale lay on the round bed, naked, her eyes glued to the television at the far side of the room. She watched as the image of a platinum-haired beauty straddled the hips of an overweight boy with brown hair and glasses.

She watched the scene unfold, slowly snaking her hand past the flat of her stomach to the cleft just beyond. Soon her fingers were at work, stroking.

The video — one of many — continued at a leisurely pace; finely orchestrated and leading toward a familiar finale. Lori watched as the woman reached be neath the edge of the circular mattress and withdrew a long-bladed butcher knife.

As the scene reached its climax, Lori found herself reaching her own. Her fingers worked furiously as she awaited the command she had given more times than she could remember.

Waves of ecstasy gripped Lori, washing through her, giving way to abandonment. Gritting her teeth, she clutched the bedcovers and felt the stiffness of dried blood in the fabric of the sheets.

Then she closed her eyes tightly and listened for the sound of the scream.