With the faint cry of ambulances and the audience being led from the theatre, Sam stood up.
“Please, don’t shoot me. I, I’m sorry. It wasn’t my fault. I wasn’t the leader, you see. They forced me to do this. I was a patsy.”
Sam continued to insist on his innocence as two officers handcuffed him and led him out of the theatre.
“Hey, what happened to Flag and Shorty and Bobby?” Sam asked as he was escorted outside.
“They’ve been taken care of,” one of the officers said.
“Good,” Sam said. “I hated those fuckers. Flag, he was the leader, you know. He was the one that set this whole thing up.”
Two men sat under the shady cover of an umbrella, sipping coffee amid the crowded café.
“Okay, Bill, what’s your full name?”
“William Anthony Crivelli. But I prefer Bill.”
“That’s Italian?” The man from the newspaper smiled.
“Yes. My family was originally from Venice.”
The man scribbled on his notepad. “You don’t mind, do you Bill?”
“Of course not. How else are you going to get the story?”
The man smiled and nodded. “Okay. What was your job at the Marty Laffin show?”
“I was the floor manager.”
“How long were you the floor manager?”
Bill inhaled and gnawed on his lower lip. “Geez. A long time. I joined not long after the show started. Took over after Carlo…Carlo, I don’t remember his last name, but anyway, that was, oh, about fifteen years ago.”
“You were good friends with Marty?”
“In a way. Very private man. Didn’t have too many close friends. So I guess you could say I was a friend. I had dinner at his house a couple of times.”
The two men chuckled.
“How are you coping after what happened? I mean, you sound like you’re coping all right, but it’s been, what, only a few days.”
Bill sipped his café latte and shrugged. “I have trouble sleeping; the occasional nightmare. All the usual things. But as you say, it’s only been a few days. My wife has been wonderful, so have the kids.”
“That’s great,” the reporter said. “Family is the best therapy. Now, what do you think when you hear or see the man, Sam Drayton?”
“Hatred.”
“You don’t feel, I don’t know, pity?”
“The man murdered over a hundred innocent people. He was a nobody, a loser who would do anything just to be noticed.”
“Is that what you think?”
“Is that why I think he did what he did? Yes. From what I’ve heard from the police, Sam Drayton was a bum. He didn’t work, he collected money from the government, while he preyed on gullible, destitute people. Kids, some of them.”
“He was an aspiring actor and comedian, did you know that?”
Bill nodded. He took another sip of coffee. “He got rejected from every audition he went for, apparently. Tried for years to become a successful actor or comedian. Never got anywhere. You ever see that movie, The King of Comedy?”
The man from the newspaper nodded.
“I think he got pissed at the industry. Thought the whole world was against him.”
The reporter looked up. “You sound like a psychologist.”
Bill smiled. “That’s just my opinion.”
“You think he did all that for revenge?”
“Well, I think there’s a little more to it than…” Bill stopped when he noticed a man standing by the table. He had long hair and was incredibly thin.
“Can I help you?” Bill said.
The reporter turned around.
“Are you Bill Crivelli? The Bill Crivelli?”
“Yes,” Bill said.
“Wow. I can’t believe it’s really you. I saw you on T.V. man. I think you’re a hero.” The man held out a small book and a pen. “Co…could you maybe sign this for me?”
Bill nodded and took the notebook from the beaming man. “What’s your name?”
“Ray,” the man said proudly.
Bill wrote:
To Ray. If you believe in yourself you can overcome anything. I did.
He signed and dated the page. He handed the notebook back to Ray.
“Wow,” Ray muttered as he read the inscription. “Thank you so much Mr. Crivelli.”
“Nice to have met you,” Bill said.
As Ray shuffled from the table, the man from the newspaper smiled at Bill.
“Do you get that a lot now?”
“Sure,” Bill said. “I get stopped all the time by people who can’t believe it’s actually me. I’ve signed so many autographs these last few days. It’s strange. I mean, who am I? Last week I was just a floor manger on the Marty Laffin Show. Now, I’m recognised everywhere I go.”
“Do you mind?”
“I like it,” Bill said. “I always wanted to be famous. Just yesterday, I got offered a guest role in a hit T.V. show.” He grinned. “Due to legal matters I can’t name the show yet.”
“I understand,” the reporter said.
“I’ve even got an agent now,” Bill continued.
“You’re going to be more famous than Sam Drayton.”
Bill’s smile faded a little. He finished off the coffee and gazed at the young reporter. “Yeah, I guess so.”
More famous than Sam Drayton.
Those words haunted Bill for the remainder of the interview.
My second published story, and my second to be posted on the Horrorfind website. I wrote this back in 2001, just as reality TV was really taking off. It infuses my love of tacky game shows, late night talk shows, and my fascination with cults.
A LIGHT FOR ROSE
The first time Clayton saw the light, he didn’t think much of it.
He was trying hard to fall asleep when a flash of light forced his eyes open. He lay gazing at the window. The light, or whatever it was that had shone at him, was gone.
Thump thump thump thump…Thump thump thump thump…
As the footsteps continued above, a second flicker caught his eyes.
He rolled on to his back and stared up at the darkness.
Lightning perhaps? he thought, even though it was a sultry summer night.
He shrugged it off and was about to attempt another restless slumber, when once again a gleam of light flickered into his apartment.
Clayton sat up.
The light vanished again, only to reappear moments later, glinting through the window like sun reflecting off a car’s windshield.
Only it was night and he was five stories up.
Just what I need, he thought. If the footsteps weren’t bad enough.
He rubbed a hand over his face, felt the prickle of stubble, and sighed.
Thump thump thump thump…Thump thump thump thump…
Tiredness sat heavy on him, like the oppressive heat of the past few days, and even though he wanted to sleep, needed to, the footsteps of his upstairs neighbor kept him awake.
He glanced over at the alarm clock. The red numbers glared back at him: 12:51.
He had ten more minutes of footsteps marching above, and then he would try and get some much-needed rest.
Not if this damn light continues.
Just like the footsteps, it too seemed to have a definite rhythm.
Where’s it coming from? he wondered.
The light blinked on and off for another ten minutes. It eventually stopped, along with the footsteps.
“Finally,” Clayton breathed, lying down and closing his eyes.
He could now try and sleep. The footsteps would be back tomorrow night; hopefully, the strange light wouldn’t.