FICTION BY JEFF PRESTO
Jeff Presto is an author from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. He is a fan of all things horror and enjoys mountain biking in his spare time. His favorite authors include Chuck Palahniuk, Bret Easton Ellis, and Clive Barker.
THE MANY DEATHS OF THOMAS VALLOW
by Jeff Presto
On the top shelf of a large wooden bookcase, Bret Mullen hid a small portable video camera inside his home office.
The recording device was concealed beneath the cover of a sharply angled book, but the camera lens was exposed to ensure complete coverage of the room. His hands trembled as he massaged the surrounding books back into place. Placing and disguising the video camera had become a more tedious task than he anticipated, but soon it would all be worth it.
Everything was coming together as he had planned. He had once been a famous director, but lately his films had flopped and his income dried up along with his audience. He still had his contacts, however, and one of them was the wildly popular actor, Thomas Vallow. Mullen was thrilled when Vallow personally answered his telephone call and agreed to meet.
To moviegoers everywhere, Thomas Vallow was a household name. Yet there was something different about Thomas Vallow. Audiences looked forward to one uniquely unusual element in each of his films: his character’s death. Thomas Vallow always died in the end.
Despite his popularity, the actor never attended the premieres of any of his films for one simple reason: he refused to watch any scenes involving his own death.
Mullen started thinking that perhaps the movie star’s phobia was marketable and would make for one of the greatest behind-the-scenes moments in cinematic history. He had planned to greet Vallow in the foyer of his home and insist that the two discuss business in his office, but when Mullen would open the door for Vallow to enter the room, he would quickly lock the actor inside. The camera would record Vallow’s reaction as the office television turned on and a career-long montage of his death scenes played out.
It was brilliant! The demand for this footage could possibly rival the demand for the motion pictures themselves. He could sell it to every online and TV tabloid in the world!
His cell phone pinged as he exited his office, and he promptly read the text. Vallow had arrived. Mullen instructed the gateman to allow Vallow onto the property and to have someone escort him inside.
The show of a lifetime was about to begin.
*****
When Thomas Vallow entered through the front door, Mullen was already standing there to greet him. Vallow stood in the entranceway, dressed casually in a powder blue button-down shirt and a pair of jeans.
The actor ran one of his neatly manicured hands through his long brown hair. The innocent smile on his face confirmed to Mullen that Vallow had no idea what was in store for him.
Mullen began. “I value your opinion. I just want to pick your brain over a few scenes from your last film. I want to compare it to a script I’m considering to make sure that the two aren’t too similar. It shouldn’t take long.”
Always the charmer, Vallow said, “Watch out, Mullen. I might want co-director credit on your new project.”
“Then you should know that directors don’t discuss business in the entranceways of their private estates,” Mullen laughed. “Let’s head to my office and get down to business.”
Mullen led Vallow through the halls of his home, engaging in small talk until they finally reached the office. When they arrived at the set of closed wooden doors, Mullen reached his hand forward and held the door open for Vallow to enter.
It was all so casual. By the time the doors had slammed shut, Vallow was already nearing the center of the room.
The doors were locked well before the screaming started.
“Bret!” Vallow yelled through the wooden doors. “What the hell is this? What’s going on?”
Mullen ignored his questions and tried not to laugh with glee as he activated the timer on the television. The doors shook violently and Mullen knew that Vallow was growing more incensed.
“Answer me, Mullen! Whatever you think you’re doing, it isn’t funny. Open the door!”
Mullen heard the television audio from the hallway. Before long, Vallow’s voice could be heard begging onscreen as well as in person. Mullen’s smile widened as he imagined how Vallow must look as he confronted his fears. A swell of dramatic music boomed loudly behind the closed doors. The first death scene had begun.
“What have you done!” Vallow shrieked. “You bastard! What have you done?”
The pounding from the other side of the door suddenly came to a stop. Mullen placed one ear to the door, only to suddenly retract back when he heard Vallow begin to shriek. The wail was earsplitting. A thick, raspy gurgle cropped up in his voice mid-scream and then there was a hiss like bacon grease in a frying pan.
Mullen stood on his side of the door, bewildered. It was not supposed to go like this; it was not in the script. He knew of the actor's phobia, but never imagined it as being severe enough to cause this level of a freak-out.
Suddenly there was the sound of breaking glass.
“Tom?” Mullen called out. “Are you okay in there?”
No answer. In fact, there was no sound at all coming from the other side of the door. Even the film clips that played on the office television were now silent
Mullen hesitated. He felt his own desperation overwhelm him. He felt frozen in place; undecided as to what he should do. His morals argued against each other inside his mind. It would be the right thing to do to let Vallow out of the office. But what about his money? Hollywood didn’t know yet that he was in financial straits. But if he went into bankruptcy, that would end him.
Then he realized again that the television inside the office was silent. He almost collapsed in dejection. The deal was up one way or the other. If Vallow was no longer watching his own death scenes, then there was no video to sell.
And then he thought about the sound of breaking glass. What had that been? Had Vallow thrown a chair against the window…or something worse?
His office was on the third floor. Please don’t let it mean that Vallow jumped, he thought frantically.
He listened at the door for several more minutes, but heard nothing. Mullen decided that the charade had gone on long enough.
“All right,” Mullen announced hesitantly as he unlocked the door. “I’m sorry about the joke. Please don’t kill me. I’m coming in.”
Mullen entered the office and then stopped in horror. Overturned chairs and a collection of scattered papers lay strewn across the floor. A pool of blood lay in the center of the room, along with Vallow’s clothes. Shoes and all, they now sat in a wet pile along the bloodstained floor. It led to a dotted red trail that ended at a broken office window.
Mullen was panicked when he realized the obvious. How could he explain that a famous movie star had jumped to his death out of Mullen’s own home? And oh no…what about the police?
What could he do? What now?
He barely had time to catch his breath before realizing someone was calling him on his cell phone.
“Is everything okay, Mr. Mullen?” the gatekeeper asked. “Thomas Vallow just left the property in a hurry.”
Mullen felt his knees turn to water and he slowly sank to the floor with relief. Vallow was alive!
“Vallow? Did he seem okay to you? Did he say where he was going?”
“No, sir. By the looks of it, it’s probably the hospital. He was bleeding all over and wasn’t wearing any clothes. He just staggered off to his car and left.”
“Open the gates. I’m leaving for the day.”
Mullen hung up and sprinted to the garage. Somehow, he would rescue this situation. He would save himself no matter what, and no matter who he hurt doing it.
*****
Vallow lived in a mansion a few miles away in West Hollywood, but even in a luxury Porsche, it was impossible to cover ground as seamlessly as many action movies depicted. L.A. traffic didn’t help, either.
Mullen wondered how he was going to get into Vallow’s property, but when he finally arrived, he saw that the gate to the actor’s residence was already open. Vallow’s BMW was parked sloppily in the driveway.
Mullen got out of his Porsche. He noted the drops of blood that marked the side of Vallow’s car trailing to the entrance of his home. The front door hung ajar. Mullen hesitated only a moment before rushed into the actor’s home.
Once inside, everything about the home felt wrong. There were no assistants or work staff present, none of the lights were turned on, and aside from the car parked out front, there seemed to be no indication that anyone lived there. The residence more closely resembled a vacated movie set than a home.
Mullen cautiously walked through the house in search of Vallow, glancing anxiously over his shoulder every couple of steps, until he reached a large wooden stairwell. He stood at the bottom and listened carefully. A faint noise could be heard coming from an upstairs room. It didn’t take Mullen long to realize that what he was hearing were scenes from a movie. He crept his way up the stairs and called out for Vallow once more, but to no avail.
The strange audio led Mullen to a large personal theater, where a television played loudly. The LED lighting from the screen cut sharply through the darkened room and drew him in.
The movie onscreen was one that Mullen recognized. It was a heist film and contained one of Vallow’s most celebrated roles. The fact that Vallow would allow this film to be played inside his own home was alarming, given his adamant refusal to watch any of his characters’ deaths, but Mullen continued to stare. The infamous scene was only a few minutes away.
A sudden wave of darkness blanketed the room as the screen flickered between scenes. It lasted for less than a second, but it was enough for Mullen to notice some of the shadows and shapes in the room with him. Mullen’s eyes widened as he realized there were several people sitting in the theater chairs in the room.
Suddenly a lamp shined with light, illuminating everything in the home theater room. Mullen knew that Vallow was somewhere nearby, although he wasn’t sure where.
He heard Vallow’s voice, but he couldn’t pinpoint from which direction it came, because it seemed to come from everywhere. “Look at them,” the voice commanded.
There were four bodies in total, each of which resembled Thomas Vallow. One of the Vallow’s was streaked in blood, with his face caved in and glass protruding from his skin. Another was covered in bitemarks with large gashes across his body, and a third suffered from heavy burn wounds.
The fourth body’s wounds were the most horrific.
They had to be mannequins! All of them!
He backed away in alarm from the three dead iterations of the actor. They were each dressed in the stage clothes of Vallow’s previous roles. Their injuries mirrored their deaths in each of their films.
His gaze moved back to the fourth body sitting innocently in the theater seat. Bloody, sinewy cords protruded from a neck that was missing its head from decapitation. Exposed bone and muscle fiber poked out from the neck like grotesque flower petals.
“Is it like you imagined?” the voice questioned from the doorway.
Mullen spun around, first locking eyes with Vallow and then with the gun in his hand. He found himself unable to speak. His jaw trembled as desperately pleaded, “It was a joke! I’m sorry!”
“What’s wrong?” Vallow grinned. The actor stood in the doorway dressed in the same attire as he’d worn to Mullen’s estate. “I thought I was the one who had a problem with death.”
“Put the gun down, Tom. Let’s just talk,” Mullen pleaded, motioning to the dead replicates around the room. “What is all of this? Why are there so many—”
Vallow ignored that. “Stage dummies, Mullen? Is that what you think they are?”
“I don’t know, but I am willing to listen to you explain them if you put the gun away. They’re all perfect replicas of you; I can see that.” Mullen tried to soothe the actor. “They are all brilliantly made, all exquisite pieces of art. Just put the gun away and I would love to hear how you made them.”
“You want to know the secret?” Vallow whispered menacingly. “You want to know how to make a dummy?”
“How?”
The gun went off in an explosion of sound. Mullen felt the bullet pierce his gut before he ever realized he was shot. His midsection seared with pain as he toppled over backwards and he instinctively grabbed something to break his fall. It was the hand of one of the bodies and he pulled it so that they both landed on the floor.
“It hurts, doesn’t it?” Vallow smiled. “That’s what no one seems to understand.”
“Please, Vallow, I’m so, so sorry! Please call an ambulance!”
“Everyone plays their role, Mullen. It never gets easier and never hurts any less.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? You think you can just run around and shoot people? I’m a Hollywood director, for fuck’s sake!”
“Don’t worry, Mullen. I’m about to make you more famous than you could ever imagine.”
Mullen reached deep into his pockets. It was obvious that Vallow would not help him. He pulled out his phone and frantically began to dial 9-1-1.
“Call whoever you’d like,” Vallow replied. “It won’t matter. You won’t be alive by the time the credits roll.”
Mullen figured he had five minutes left to live unless he received immediate help. Would the ambulance arrive in time? He tried to hit the send button but found that his fingers were numb and no longer obeyed his commands. The phone slipped from his hand, the call unsent.
His pain ceased and he had a last-minute thought that perhaps he was recovering. He felt a lightness in his body and things looked like they had a halo surrounding them as he drifted into unconsciousness and then death.
*****
Vallow removed the cell phone from Mullen’s still-twitching hand.
Some men were meant to die while others lived forever, but knowing your role was all that mattered. Heavy footfalls pounded overhead as Vallow exited the room. There were plenty of other living doubles upstairs to handle anyone who might come looking for Mullen. This wasn’t the ending Vallow had in mind, but it was what the scene called for. Like all the greats that came before him, he had to improvise.
It was time to leave town for a while.
No one would find it odd if he didn’t attend his next movie’s premiere.