Pamela ’s Bio:

Pam Allison lives in a historic community near Atlanta, Georgia with her husband. Currently she divides her time between revising her novel manuscript, writing book and movie reviews, and submitting short stories and articles. She’s had several articles, a poem, and illustrations published. An active participant in online critique sites, Pam will attend a writer’s conference later this year. Every day she adheres to her writing schedule, looks for new markets, and researches agents. She enjoys reading, bird watching, volunteering, and spending quality time with family and friends. This year she will also graduate with a degree in Accounting.

Ten Past Midnight

By Pamela Allison

 

Piggy stands at the entrance, holding two trash bags full of popcorn and glaring at me with her mean eyes. Her name tag reads Doris, but we call her Piggy. Don't ask me why. Ask me why I'm scrubbing off witty gems like Mariska eats it! and Jesus saves and invests written on the tile. It's a stupid job for stupid pay, cleaning reeking bathrooms for the Hollywood consuming public. I hate the demeaning feel to it. But what I hate more is Piggy riding my ass when I'm working as fast as I can. I mean really, at midnight does it matter how quickly I refill the quarter cranked tampon box?

"You about done in here?"

I turn, my scrub gloves yellow movement in the mirror. Piggy thinks managing is the same as nagging. A burgundy vest cinches her rolls like a corset squeezing dough. I'm not the only one who suspects Piggy lives up to her name with the concessions inventory.

"Yeah. Just about."

"Hurry up, I'm ready to lock down. I'll be in the lobby."

She leaves. I roll my eyes and curse her firstborn under my breath as I push the mop bucket toward the last stall. Muffled gunfire, music and loud talking drift through the walls. Customers long gone, we leave projectors rolling to keep ourselves company. The noise of fake life is comforting, you ever notice that? It's like living alone and going to sleep with the television on—it helps keep the creeps away.

I clean up after a nasty person apparently devoid of hygiene skills before soaping and rinsing my hands. The face of a haggard girl stares back from the mirror. I need a haircut. I need to go to college. I lean in and inspect a new blemish when a real scream—shrill and awful—registers. Popping off the water, I listen. Nothing except movie sounds, but my gut knows what it heard.

The hallway is too dark and shadowy. No sign of John or Annie. Probably sweeping or making out in an auditorium. I want to call out. I know better. Instead, I grab the mop handle and make like a hood looking for trouble. Piggy said she'd be in the lobby, but all I see are gleaming cases of overpriced carnival food. Moon silvered cardboard and poster actors watch me. I wish they'd mind their own damn business. From the corner, the arcade section clangs and dings and whoops its garishness at ghosts. Uneasiness traces a finger up my spine when I notice the fallen bags of popcorn and red prints on glass. The trail rounds the concession counter but I can't see past the soda stand. The far entrance to the other wing sucks itself into a pitch black maw.

"Pig—Doris?" I say, taking another step. A satisfied grunt. Wet smacking.

Here's a fact about the human mind: the eyes register everything, but the brain interprets. Sometimes our mind refuses to accept what it is given, and shock wakes us up. Not until the thing stands, sees me, and leaps over the counter does my subterranean survival instinct kick in. With blood in the air and a stench fouler than any bathroom, I run; I blaze past a poster of smiling chipmunks, past a garbage can and empty bench, past a confused John who steps out of theater three, past his gurgling screams, and through the last door on the right.

The auditorium's cool air and lingering smells calm me. This is familiar and real, not that abomination my mind refuses to see. The mop handle slides easily through the double door handles. I wait, forgetting all about the exits. Stealthy steps, raking claws, snuffling at the door. Taking in my scent and wanting more.

I float to the highest aisle on adrenalin, desperate for safety. Hunkered behind seats, I pray and weep and hope to God Annie got out. I don't want to die, not now, not here. On a sticky floor of a stupid room, working a stupid job with a woman I no longer hate because she is dead. Shame fills my thoughts for every bad thing I've ever wished on her and I cry harder. I'd give anything to hear Piggy's voice boss me around.

The mop handle splinters and I'm no longer alone. A humped shape drifts between seats, sniffing and grunting. Yellow eyes narrow and spot me. It grins. It climbs.

I can only watch.

***