There was a light at the end. He needed only to move towards it.
But his legs were bound. Not just them - his entire body was tied down, with what felt very much like a steel chair pressing against his back. With a few blinks, the brightness he’d mistaken for the onset of the afterlife settled into something mundane and familiar. Film equipment, each with the occasional illuminating flash. This ain’t heaven, honey. You’re on TV!
“What-” His voice came out garbled, as he attempted fruitlessly to manoeuvre his head to look around. Whoever had secured him to this chair had done a damn good job. Professional. The thought sparked a sudden influx of terror, as the reality struck him in the chest. “I…where the hell-?”
“Here it comes, folks! He’s awake.”
He blinked, registering his surroundings as a grand stage. A tall, slender silhouette was pacing across the space, clutching a microphone in their hands. It took some effort to make out the figure’s appearance; white gloves, tie, a dark suit that would’ve perfectly suited a workday or a funeral. And-
“Let’s start now.” The figure finished fixing a familiar mask to their face. Not the real thing, just a replica. “Introduce yourself for the audience, why dontcha?”
“I-” He shook his head. “Strider. My name’s Anton Strider. But what-”
“Hear that, folks?” Turning towards the cameras, the masked figure gave a cartoonish shoulder shrug. “Anton Strider. Is that any way for one of horror filmmaking’s greatest icons to introduce themselves?”
Anton only registered then what lay beyond the cameras; endless rows of seats, all which housed an active and eager live studio audience. But how could he just wake up to something like this? This didn’t just happen - not outside of dreamscapes. But the constriction of his arms and legs felt very real.
“And why are you here? Well - and I’ll answer for you - you’re here to give us one heck of a show this Halloween night!”
Anton blinked dimly at them. Halloween night? It’d only been the 29th of October last he’d checked his phone, which was mysteriously absent from his pocket. But since there was an unknowable length of time while he’d been unconscious, then maybe…no, that couldn’t be right.
“...and in the spirit of that, how about we make this a little scary?” the host continued, doing an enthusiastic little twirl around the stage. “I’ll play the role of a deranged slasher. And Anton here can be the helpless victim character. How does that sound?”
The question wasn’t for him. It was for the audience, who responded with loud cheering, like a pack of hyenas watching one amongst them cannibalise another. (He wasn’t sure quite how hyenas behaved but that sounded about right.)
Just another interview, he thought to calm himself. There was a procedure for these things; act the nihilistic, moody artist until the bright lights and irritating questions went away. Sure some things - like the bondage - were different but the fundamentals stayed the same.
“Then I’ve got a question for you,” Anton said in a low voice. “Tell me - why the fuck are you dressed like Mr Creeps?”
Those masked features weren’t intended to express surprise. After all, they hardly made up a face at all - just a series of eyes and mouths and noses assembled in all the wrong places. Anton had been meticulous about creating unease during the making of that first film, which was being reflected back at him now. Still, the host made a shocked lurch.
“Whoah, whoah, big guy. Don’t start dropping bombs this early.” The fake Mr Creeps chuckled. The custume based on his own designers’ work was fairly accurate, if slightly off. “We’re just allowed one before the producers start getting antsy-
“Antsy? I’m here against my will, you ****stain.” Anton stopped, registering a strange beep emitting from somewhere around his head. It was normal for cursing to be censored live on air but that usually happened in editing, before the footage was broadcasted to people’s televisions. It wasn’t meant to be audible.
“Now, now, play nice with the camera, Anton.” Mr Creeps leaned over towards him. “Or else I’m going have to take you out back and well…”
And stopping just at his ear, they whispered things. Details that felt like they’d be right at home in one of his scripts. Only, they were far too grisly for even him to feel comfortable adapting into footage. There was something disturbing about the interview's voice too, a specificity that felt unsettlingly real.
“-but that’s nothing compared to the torture we’ve all endured waiting for your next instalment!” The host lurched back, tone completely changed, returning to that booming interviewer voice. “I mean, we’ve been waiting years to discover the fates of our favourite characters! Wow, what a cliffhanger, that last film! So what could possibly be the reason for this delay, huh?”
Anton felt his body clench up. He’d already been somewhat shaken by the whispering, as his brain made sense of whatever bizarre joke was being played. But this particular question was also something he’d been dreading for years now. So far, he’d managed to avoid answering the countless anonymous online messages. But this was in-person, where silence was its own answer and there was a large audience ready to pick apart any possible response. “Well…I’m working, I promise. I’ve got the reels. Just need to piece it all together.”
“On July 19th, 2020, you made an online post that said; ‘If I don’t have it finished by next year, then I give you permission to kidnap me and stick enough knives in my body that we both lose count.’” Reading from a phone, the host looked up with a wistful sigh. “Now, I can’t do that Anton. Not because I wouldn’t want to, of course. But because my producers don’t approve of any stabbing on tonight’s show!”
The Mr Creeps impersonator glanced pointedly off-stage, towards where such producers would likely lurk. There was a loud eruption of laughter from the audience, which echoed around the room to ring in the captive filmmaker’s eardrums. Despite such exposure, Anton wasn’t finding the humour in it. Possibly because, unlike them, he could actually see the off-stage area was empty. No producers nor film crew of any kind.
“Well if I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re actually plotting to kill me,” Anton found it difficult not to be a little pleased when that created more laughter from the spectators. Less than before, though.
“Er, we don’t like to use that word here. But wow, wouldn’t that be something? Unaliving a famous horror filmmaker, right on live television?.” Mr Creeps chuckled. In contrast to the outfit, the voice performance was eerily on-point, “Sounds like something you’d come up with. But then, we’d never get that next film, would we? Tell me Anton, would you enjoy being dangled off a cliff indefinitely?”
He didn’t quite know how to answer that. “Well...like I said, I’ve got reels. I’m making progress.”
“True, true.” Mr Creeps was pacing around the stage now. “And I’m sure we’d all love to employ all kinds of techniques to make that progress a little bit faster, wouldn’t we folks?”
“Set his arse on fire!”
“Show him a real director’s cut, alright!”
“Well, what if you like, dumped his body in a peat bog-”
“Lock him in a basement that’s slowly filling with water!”
-and then removed it after a while, once it’s perfectly preserved-”
“Put him in a room with Stephen King and see who comes out!”
“-then maybe you could put it in a display case or something.”
“I’d just make his skin into a poster!”
And they call me the horror artist, Anton thought. Even now, some sick, demented part of his brain was jotting these ideas down for a future project. No greater tragedy than letting a good thought go to waste.
“Now, now, those are all lovely ideas,” Mr Creeps murmured. “And perhaps, if we have a little time at the end… but right now-”
Moving to a large pile wrapped in a tarp, they removed the cover in one smooth motion. Underneath, there were a number of round metal objects. The uninitiated might not’ve recognised them but Anton could practically sniff out film reel at this distance.
“Behold! When our dear Anton says he has reels, I think we should believe him. Unfortunately, I don’t think they’re quite what any of us are hoping for.” Mr Creeps’ head drooped towards the ground with dismay. “I’ve seen the rough cut myself. And I can confirm that it is, in fact…a rom-com. Not just that - it’s a musical. The very first non-horror project of his career. Nobody even dies in it!”
There was a loud gasp from the audience. Anton, bound as he was, felt his heart race furiously within his chest. This wasn’t how things were supposed to go. This project wasn’t meant to be revealed like this, with its creator in easy throwing distance-
Turning towards Mr Creeps, Anton spat his next words.“Hey, **** you.” He was done playing the participant in this game. His body may have been tied down but his mouth was free to say what it wanted, censorship aside.
“Language, Anton-”
“No, from the depths of my rotting heart, go **** yourself. You and that dumb**** mask that’s followed me around my whole career. I don’t own you a damn thing.” Facing the audience and the cameras, the filmmaker released a larger wad of spit. ”Any of you.”
There was a pause. No laughter, no applause, not even any insults, the audience just stared back. Each face had morphed into a grim mask of its own, features twisting and distorting in the light. Or maybe that was just his imagination. It was notoriously overactive.
“Okay, since we can’t torture Anton physically here tonight. With knives and poisons and other such things.” Mr Creeps sighed wistfully. “I decided to settle with tormenting you psychologically. Creatively. Artistically.”
Returning to the pile of reels, the host selected one at random. They methodically withdrew the black lines of tape from within - Anton didn’t quite realise what the intention was until their gloved hand withdrew a lighter from their pocket.
“Wait, what are you-”
“You don’t get to make a musical without being made to suffer for it,” said Mr Creeps.
The flame met with the tape and it was suddenly burning away. Hours of footage, shot especially so as to avoid anything leaking. He’d wanted it to be a shock to the system; for audiences to arrive in theatres expecting horrific thrills and instead discovering an uplifting tale of true love. Musicals were criminally overlooked as a genre these days.
And all that hard work was burning right before his eyes.
“Stop-” Anton fought against his bonds, just as he’d resisted every producer, every corporate exec who’d tried to suppress his art. And just like those times, it accomplished nothing, only sapped his energy to continue. They were sticking knives into him - not his body, but his creative soul, which writhed and screamed in defiance.
Burning through the entirety of a single line of tape, the torturer reached for another. Then hesitated, letting the lighter flick out. There was a small pause where hope returned to Anton. Maybe the lost footage could be salvaged, with a reshoot or two.
Then, the mask came off. The roll of tape was hungrily brought to the person’s lips.
“Lwook at thwis! I’m conswuming your contwent,” cried the unmasked Mr Creeps, with a mouth full of tape, much to the glee of the crowd.
“No, stop it, please-!”
But they didn’t stop. Instead, more and more lengths of tape were hoovered up by their gaping maw. And from the look in those eyes, uncovered at last, Anton was certain of one single thing.
They surely intended to devour him whole as well. Mind and body. Once those cameras stopped rolling.
Comments