TWENTY-TWO
Jeff Miller, demon time’s director for the last two shows, sat in the middle row of the newly constructed main grandstand and watched as a dozen or more casual Spanish labourers milled around clearing away the construction trash that had built up over the last few days. They were just now finishing sweeping the small stage that would host Dex Dexter and the Demonettes.
He looked up at the brightening mid-morning sky and a smile played across his face as he contemplated the day’s work.
Yes, demon time was the best and worst directing job he had ever had. He got to travel around Europe and who knows? Maybe beyond in the next few months as the show went from strength to strength. Take today, they were setting up this travelling insane asylum in the small Spanish coastal town of Calella which was only a dozen miles or so from Barcelona.
The show was in two days, which gave him ample time to rehearse his set ups for the coming madness. The job was well paid (for the internet anyway) and Miller had almost total creative freedom to film the show as he saw fit.
Sure the producer Michael Davis could be a difficult prick at times and something of a control freak when it came to the production and logistical side of things. But once the location was chosen and the construction began, Miller was then allowed to take over and let his talent shine. After all he was the best damn live director working outside the mainstream and Davis knew it.
These were all ticks in the good job column, but then sitting down there in the shadow of the grandstand was the big red tick in the bad column. The house.
Even in the Spanish heat, Miller felt a chill as he looked down on the house. That two story child’s nightmare of a structure just plain scared Miller. He had only set foot in it once, on his first day and had steadfastly refused to ever enter it again. Even when, like now, that twisted little fuck Minx wasn’t even in residence.
They were just finishing up bolting the last section of the elaborate set into place. The rickety looking (though actually quite sturdy) front porch.
Even from where he was sitting, and in bright daylight he could feel his guts churning in fear. It was a childlike fear, like some half remembered trauma from his past. He knew damn well everyone felt the same. Just some more so than others even though no one would speak of it out loud. Even the hard core construction crew whose sole responsibility it was to build and tear down the monstrosity before and after every show felt it.
They were just better at hiding it than most Miller guessed.
Sure the building had been designed to resemble some kind of classic haunted house of horrors. The roof and walls just off kilter. Its façade weathered to look like it had stood at the gates of hell for a thousand blood drenched years.
Yes it was an impressive piece of set construction there was no doubting that. But it was something more than the mere look of the thing. It seemed, at least to Miller’s over sensitive nerve endings, to almost radiate for want of a better word. Evil.
You could physically feel it, it was as if all the corruption and blind acidic hate that emanated from that pitiful creature when it was in residence, had somehow seeped into the very wood, glass and steel of the place.
That creature has contaminated it until it was more than just a set. It was a living, breathing charnel house. And it terrified him.
The walkie-talkie clipped to his belt spat out static snapping Miller out of his daze. He unclipped it.
“Boss?” It was Keeler, Miller’s head gaffer, who along with his team were in the house setting up the lights and ten remote control mini cameras Miller had instructed them to place in key areas to best capture the mayhem when the action kicked off inside.
“Keeler, how’s it going?”
The gaffer’s voice was more static than words but he could just about make out what he was saying.
“Nearly ready for a camera test. You know you could always come on in and lend a hand?”
“Fuck that,” Miller said under his breath. Then he brought the walkie-talkie back up to his mouth. “That’s why they pay you the big bucks, Keeler.”
The director stood and looked out over the nearly completed set up. A set of electricians were working on the two massive spotlights that would light the house come nightfall when they would do a whole technical run through with the cheerleaders and that clown Dexter.
But thankfully not the main star of the show. That thing wouldn’t be put in place until the very last possible moment and only by Davis himself. A job he was welcome to as far as Miller was concerned.
“I’ll be in the production gantry thank you very much. Come see me there once you’ve finished. I want to see how that shithole looks from there.” Miller said into mouth piece.
“Will do,” Keeler replied and the walkie-talkie fell silent once more.
Miller clipped the walkie-talkie back onto his belt and began to make his way over to the exit stairs at the back of the grandstand. But even with the house out of sight he could feel its presence like rancid breath on the back of his neck.