Horror Business by Ryan Craig Bradford Read Free Book Online Page A

what I tell her. “I just don’t want to rule out any possibilities.”
    “I bet you wouldn’t spend a night in a haunted house,” Steve says while looking at Megan for approval. She’s busy looking at her shoes.
    “Are there any haunted houses around here?” Ally seems delighted at the possibility.
    “There’s the graveyard.”
    “Why don’t we spend the night in the graveyard?”
    “Seriously?” Steve whines. “And get slaughtered like some cheesy 80s movie?” He adds: “G-g-ghost slaughtered!”
    Ally jumps up and down. “And we can have a séance! I’ll bring my Ouija board!” Her eyes get wide and she claps her hands together.
    “I definitely don’twant to do that,” Megan says, rolling her eyes.
    “Fine. You guys can just say you’re scared and we’ll call it a day.”
    “We’re not pussies,” I say. “I’m down for a little graveyard sleep out.” My fear of ghosts becomes trumped by the chance to spend a night out with Ally. I try to send Steve the hint. “It’ll be fun.” I side nod to the where the girls stand.
    “Oh. Right.” I think he gets the message.
    “Cool, this Saturday. We can bike up there. Come up with something to tell your parents.”
    We all nod except for Megan, who only sighs.
    “I thought I was dead,” Ally says. Megan looks horrified. I’ve only known her for a few minutes, but I can’t see why Ally would keep her around as a friend. “I mean”—Ally looks between me and her friend—“I mean, what are we shooting today? Didn’t we already film my death scene?”
    “There’s still a lot of the script that I haven’t shot yet.” I pause. “I’ll just edit it together later. You’ll never know the difference.”
    “Then what scene are we filming?”
    “It’s the disclosure scene, where Ted pretends he’s Sam and—”
    “Hold on,” Steve says. “I thought Brian was playing—” He stops.
    “No, I can play both parts,” I say.
    Steve mutters an apology, but not loud enough. Megan leans back against my counter and smacks her gum. Somewhere out in the autumn afternoon, there is a faint scream of a child. We begin filming the scene.

Brock III
     
     
    I sit on my front porch before school starts and eat my breakfast Popsicle. The sky is overcast. My breath, visible. I put my hands in my sleeves to hold the stick. A couple kids walk by, younger kids on their way to elementary school. Two girls and a boy. When they see me, the two girls whisper something and giggle before scampering off. The small boy shrugs at me and continues on his way. A minivan trails not too far behind them with a stressed-out mother hugging the wheel. They’re always watching .
    Inside the house, Dad turns on the TV and puts the volume so loud I can hear it through the door. More children walk by, bullshitting and laughing until they notice me watching them. I wave, and they run away in the same manner as the others, almost right into my dog.
    Unfazed by his near-collision, Brock saunters up the sidewalk to our yard. I don’t remember letting him out last night, but maybe I forgot to take him in. He looks worn out—his tongue flops out of his mouth and his head is so low that his nose almost scrapes the ground. He carries a wet-dogsmell along with him. I retch from the stink.
    “Hey boy.” I put my hand out to pet him.
    He doesn’t come, not immediately. He stops a couple feet from me and takes a seat himself. He pants and looks around with darting eyes. An early-morning butterfly floats by. Brock becomes enraptured. He can’t seem to focus on it for long, like a drunk failing a sobriety test. He starts whimpering and looks to me, as if for advice, then back at the insect.
    The butterfly bounces close to his snout and with sobering speed the dog chomps down on the bug, severing one of the wings. Pieces of it flutter to the sidewalk. Brock chews absently as the rest of the bug falls out of his mouth. Content on destroying the butterfly, Brock stands up and walks