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The guts of pumpkins are strewn out in the street this morning. My heart jumps and I feel a panic coming on as I look out the front window and see the seeds and fleshy remnants of a night of mischief. We slept soundly in our beds while the massacre occurred right outside our windows. We didn’t hear the laughter of teenagers, didn’t hear the splat of the busting gourds. We didn’t miss a wink.
I run outside to the front porch to see our two pumpkins, sitting safe, round and orange on the swinging bench that overlooks the front yard. We were lucky. Our pumpkins were spared. Still, if they did get smashed last night, it would’ve just been some bad karma on my end. In my youth I was responsible for many a smashed pumpkin. I feel as though I would have had it coming.
We haven’t carved ours yet. My wife, Theresa, bought a couple of those carving kits where you can make the really ornate with the detailed designs. I think Pumpkin Masters is the name of the brand. You put this little pattern on the pumpkin and you use these jigsaws to carve a design that would otherwise be impossible to do: skeletons with all 206 bones, Jack-O-Lantern faces expressing every human emotion possible, black cat faces with visible whiskers, and replicas of real life giant haunted castles.
Nathan, our youngest, will only get to watch. His tiny hands aren’t coordinated enough to work the little saw and punch out the pattern. Plus, it’s a sharp object and the blood of a four year old won’t look good on the design I’ve got picked out. Maybe he can scoop out some of the seeds and stringy pumpkin goo.
This year I’ve picked out the obligatory “pirate skull face”, complete with eye-patch, bandana, and golden earring. You can even make out all of the teeth in his leering grin. I’m not sure what pattern Theresa has picked out, but I’m sure that it is the most difficult pattern in the box. She enjoys the challenge and will be slaving away at that pumpkin skin canvas long after Nathan and I are done.
Sheridan, the teenager that happens to reside in our house will most likely abstain from the festivities. She’s no doubt got better and more important things to do. Hell, I’m not so sure that it wasn’t her boyfriend and his buddies that were responsible for the massacre outside. Maybe our pumpkins were spared because of who we are, safe by association. I’ll have to check the front door to see if she sprinkled some lamb’s blood out there, a pumpkin Passover.
***
Life is funny this way: Once I roamed the neighborhoods getting into mischief and mayhem like the young ruffians who slaughtered the countless pumpkins in our neighborhood. Me and my buddies reigned terror upon the middle-class suburbanites who had bought the seasonal squash for display upon their front porches. Now the shoe is on the other foot and I never thought that I would be the middle-class square, fearing for the safety of my own pumpkin.
My friends and I had always dabbled in our share of egg throwing, teepee-ing, and such, but had never pulled off something as monumental as what we were about to do. When it was all said and done, it would forever be known as The Great Pumpkin Holocaust.
Blake had just turned 16 and this afforded us many new opportunities. His pickup truck was a better mode of transportation than a bicycle. It served as our getaway vehicle and also a tool to wreak havoc on the unsuspecting denizens of our small town.
On our most glorious night we hit up a subdivision that was nestled in the hills just outside of downtown. It was somewhat isolated and had many exits and entrances to utilize. It was a week or so before Halloween and the pumpkins still had plenty of use left.
We were creative and ruthless in our methods of destruction. Jesse carried a small bottle of lighter fluid at his side and would give a hefty squirt into lit pumpkins. It’s a wonder that no houses got burned down that night. We rolled some down hills, chucked others on roofs, and many more were crushed under our thoughtless boot heels. But for the vast majority of the pumpkins we had much more sinister things in store.
Dozens were taken captive and held hostage in the back of Blake’s truck, awaiting a bleak fate. They only needed to be joined by their fearless leader before being advanced to the next stage.
It was the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown, and he sat magnificently displayed on a front porch owned by an elderly couple. A spotlight shone on it as it sat upon a throne made of hay bales in front of a giant picture window, visible from the street.
I don’t know where they had obtained a pumpkin so big, but it must have won some blue ribbons at the county fair in its day. Maybe they knew a farmer who pumped a batch of mutant growth hormones into his patch.
Cinderella only wished that she could’ve ridden in a carriage as big as this pumpkin.
Blake sat in his idling truck a few houses down, waiting to pull forward to pick us up. As we crept along, undercover by shadows, Jesse and I could see the old couple through the picture window, sitting in their living room watching TV. We just knew that they were watching the thing out of the corner of their eyes.
We were just out of sight from the window at the corner of the house, waiting to make our move. On an adrenaline fueled count of three, we dashed towards the giant orange thing, got on either side of it and lifted. Man it was a heavy bastard. There was no way one of us could’ve carried it alone.
We were in the lawn when the front door opened, sidestepping down the lawn with the pumpkin in between us like a wounded comrade. Blake’s headlights appeared as the old man shouted behind us, scaring us like enemy gunfire. We heaved the giant pumpkin into the back of the truck and followed suit. Our bodies rolled off the bouncing and chaotic gourds as Blake hauled ass out of there. The old man’s shouts chased after us as we sped away, laughing like demons into the night.
It didn’t stop there, but it was about to. All of our pillaging and plundering was about to culminate into one final cruel mischievous act. We hit the back roads for a while, laying low and waiting for the cops to leave the neighborhood and for the residents to go back to sleep.
There was a large hill that overlooked the high school football field and Jesse had somehow managed to stash a homemade trebuchet in the bushes. How he pulled this off, I’ll never know.
We spent an hour or two launching pumpkins onto the football field below. Blake played the song “1979” on repeat, the song by the oh-so-apropos titled band Smashing Pumpkins.
Blake, ever the pyro in our youth, had graduated from Black Cats and M-80s to gunpowder and gasoline and a new type of product called Tannerite. He drilled a hole in the giant pumpkin and loaded it with explosives. One would only have to fire a gun at the thing and the bullet would serve as a detonator of the Tannerite. A chain reaction would occur and the pumpkin would explode, raining its guts down over everything.
The exploding pumpkin was the grand finale. We hefted that thing onto the 50 yard line, the splattered carcasses of its brethren scattered all around. We asked if it had any last requests. It didn’t respond.
Jesse was in the bed of the truck with a night scope and a thirty aught six. We were 300 yards away give or take. There was the blast of the single shot of the rifle that bled into the much louder explosion of the giant pumpkin, a deafening KABOOM that reverberated off the bleachers and stadium and echoed throughout the sleeping town in a way that we never could’ve anticipated.
We hauled ass out of there into hiding and were never caught. The front page of the town newspapers detailed the outcome of our exploits: scores of pissed off townsfolk, a crater in the middle of the football field and a relocation of the next game to the junior high field, pumpkin guts that were found a mile away,
Man, do I have it coming.
***
That was over two decades ago and I’ve long since moved far away from the hometown of my youth. I’ve never looked back. I didn’t make it to any of the high school reunions that have occurred over the years. I didn’t do this out of some sense of contempt for the place or my past; I just never gave it much thought. It was time to move on. I took a scholarship to a school out east where I would meet the woman that would become my first wife.
I didn’t keep up with Blake or Jesse either. Yeah, I guess I was one of those friends. But there was something that had happened our senior year, some falling out that I can barely recall, a rift involving jealousy and girlfriends. I can’t even remember whose. I wasn’t one for social media either, so as years passed I didn’t really have a means of touching base with them with the ease of typing in their names.
Besides, I didn’t really feel the urge to. Life had moved on. I was now on my second marriage, the Theresa I mentioned before. I have a toddler of my own and a step-daughter and piles of leaves in the front lawn, pumpkins on the porch. Things were good now*.* No sense in looking back.
* * *
“Is my pumpkin dead?” Nathan asks through the screen door as I examine the aftermath from the night before.
“No, buddy. See?” I say and hoist up our intact pumpkins.
“Good.”
“Did you see or hear anything last night?”“Just the Pumpkin Man. He was in the trees.”
“Oh,” I say. Nathan has an overactive imagination and is prone to nightmares and strange dreams. The bizarre things he says at times that has me Googling child psychiatrists and whether or not schizophrenia can manifest in kids his age.
“He had four elbows.”
“Four elbows? Wow. I bet he was pretty funny with all those funny bones.”
“He wasn’t, Daddy. Not funny at all. Can I have a Pop-Tart?”
“Sure, bud.”
What the fuck.
Later on in the day, there’s a flyer on our front door. It’s orange and black and festive.
NEIGHBORHOOD HALLOWEEN FESTIVAL AND COOKOUT it reads.
PUMPKIN CARVING CONTEST it reads.
FIRST PRIZE: $250 AMAZON GIFT CARD it says.
The festival will take place in the park behind our house a week from today. There will be hot dogs and hamburgers and cider and a costume contest. I’m thinking that I could use that two hundred fifty dollar gift card. Sheridan could, too. Between my wife and Sheridan and myself I think our odds are pretty good of winning this thing.
***
I can’t stop buying Oktoberfest beer. Every time I’m at the grocery store or gas station there’s some new brand I’ve gotta try. It doesn’t help that as we get closer to November they’re starting to put it all on clearance. With prices that low how can I say no?
I like to drink a couple or three in the evenings after work. I tell myself that I have to sample all of the brands, decide which one’s the best. The night keeps coming earlier and earlier and most of the leaves have started changing. It’s peaceful out there in the backyard. I make efforts at raking leaves, but mostly it’s an excuse to hang out in the waning sun and drink beer.
I’m drinking a Spaten and pretending to rake the leaves. Nathan is running around in his ninja costume, jumping in my piles. He’s been putting a lot of miles on that costume, the one he’s chosen for Halloween. We’ve definitely gotten our money’s worth this year.
A strong wind blows leaves down onto our heads and carries with it an overwhelming sense of nostalgia. The air is crisp and there’s the smell of something burning off in the distance. The alcohol fuzzes my brain and that nostalgic feeling fills my gut with a deep sense of yearning for things passed. I pull my phone up and consider looking up Jesse and Blake, but I don’t have social media and I’m not about to create an account for this fleeting moment.
Still, the feeling persists and later that evening I bug Sheridan to look around for me. She doesn’t have Facebook though. Only Instagram and Snapchat and TikTok. They’re nowhere to be found on those platforms.
The next option is Google, but the feeling has passed by now. It won’t come until the next morning, after the nightmare.
***
“Long time, no see,” Jesse tells me and I suppose this is a double meaning because his eyes, they’re gone. He says this while relaxing in a camping chair across from me. It’s late evening, not quite dark. A hundred feet away there’s a cabin.
“Yeah man, whatcha been up to? Too good to keep in touch?” Blake asks. He’s tending to a charcoal grill, a can of beer in his hand. His eyes, they’re normal.
“I...I just kinda lost touch. Life got in the way. You know how it goes,” I respond.
“No, I don’t know how it goes. I guess when you fuck your buddy’s girlfriend that tends to get in the way.”
“I thought y’all were on a break. Besides, we didn’t go all the way or anything like that.Whatever happened to Christy?”
“I married her,” Blake says. He takes a long pull from his beers, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows and swallows. Slowly, the piss colored liquid that he just chugged leaks and dribbles out from the bottom of his camo hunting jacket. He crushes the can in his hand, tosses it.
Jake looks over me with his hollow eyes, smiles. He flicks open his hunting knife and I can feel myself tense up. The vibe has started to go all wrong here. I need to leave, to run far away. He places the blade in his mouth and starts prying around in there, I can hear blade against enamel. My gums burn and my jaw aches just watching him.
He spits out a tooth. It’s his front one. There’s a gap in his bloody mouth. He does one on the bottom and then another on the other side.
“Jesus, fuck!” I manage to say.
Jesse and Blake both cackle at my reaction.
“Hey Blake, I might need some help on this one,” Jesse says, his speech all
mushy. He takes the knife and points the tip right at the crown of his skull. He grips the handle with both hands and thrusts downward, meets resistance. There’s the soft thud as it buries into the initial topsoil of his hair and scalp.
By now I’m screaming and running and everything goes black. In an instant I’m out in the dark woods all alone. I can see the glow of the cabin off in the distance. It’s full on nighttime now. I make my way towards the light.
On the front stoop of the cabin’s front entrance I can make out flickers of candle light. I see glowing faces leering at me from afar, Jack-O-Lanterns. One is much bigger than the other.
The skin is orange, spray paint. There are two triangles punched out of what I can only assume is Blake’s chest, right where his nipples would be. A smaller triangle makes a nose right below his sternum and there is a jagged grin carved into his abdomen. Flames dance from somewhere within his body cavity.
Jesse’s head is shaved and his face is orange. His eyes are still hollow and his nose is gone. The knife is buried to the hilt at the top of his head. His punched out sockets glow candlelight and his jaw is propped open while the spotlight of his now crooked grin dances across the ground.
Both of their remains suddenly burst into flame and topple against the side of the cabin—and because this is a dream with its own logic—the cabin bursts into flames.
My scream is paralyzed in my throat and I awake gasping for air, jerking and tangled in the sheets. Theresa rolls over half asleep and clings to me and I cling to her until I slowly acclimate to reality, my body wide awake until the morning comes.
***
There’s a creeping dread as I go about my morning routine. I try to leave my phone on the charger as long as possible. I wouldn’t be able to resist the urge to enter their names.
It was all just a dream. Nothing really happened.
Yet I can’t focus. Can’t eat breakfast. Can barely force myself to drink a few gulps of coffee. It’s like a scratch I’m trying to ignore.
Do it.
You have to know.
I pull up my phone, open Google. I enter their names, Jesse Stephenson and Blake Phelps. The top result is a sledgehammer to my balls. I double over and gag, choking on the splash of coffee and stomach acid that works its way out.
The date for the headline was November 1st. It occurred on Halloween. It was ten years ago.
The article doesn’t report the state of their bodies, if my two former classmates' bodies had been turned into gruesome Jack-O-Lanterns. I imagine that a fire like that, there’s not a lot of information that can be determined. Yet the article does report an unnerving fact, that Blake was survived by two children and his wife Christy.
Christy, that was her name. I do vaguely remember fooling around with her one semi-drunken night and the fallout that occurred. I never knew they got married. Not until I read the article. Not until Blake told me they did.
I can’t shake the feeling. The feeling that this happened ten years ago. On Halloween. The feeling that maybe this happens in cycles, in ten year cycles. The feeling that my luck has run dry and my number is up, the feeling that Halloween is only six days away and I’m next.
Part 2 / Finale
~~~[ll]

Bonnie Blue Bones was my hero. On late Friday nights, she was my constant companion. The best friend Sandra Hicks never had.
So what if I didn't actually know her? Bonnie was brilliant. Pale and flamboyant, she wore her long black hair in a beehive. And even with an average figure, still showed off her body in tight Gothic clothes. Her bright eyes so radiant. Her Southern accent a perfect blend of playful hokeyness and friendly warmth. Her curved smile tailor-made for terror T.V.
Bonnie had a proud, ferocious screen presence. She was a true movie geek. And her sets were amazing. Even when she curated great films, her bookends on TCM Underground always stole the show. And beyond her style, Bonnie's wit and passion enthralled me. She was Tales From The Horror Hipster. And always there for me on those lonely Fridays.
But after a few years dominating my weekends, Bonnie became a casualty of Turner Classic Movies' firing squad. Without a host, TCM Underground and its catalog of eclectic horror and cult cinema continued airing every Friday at 2 A.M. But it wasn't the same without Bonnie. Like a death in the family, I felt alone.
All I had was the awesome memories. Bonnie Blue inspired me. Inspired Sandra Hicks The Filmmaker. My movie education started right there on Underground. Bonnie the only film professor I'd ever need. There were the scary black-and-white horror classics like Freaks and Carnival Of Souls, the blaxploitation gems like Coffy and Black Caesar, the sleazy slashers like Two Thousand Maniacs! and Silent Night, Deadly Night, the forgotten 1970s vampire movies like Let's Scare Jessica To Death and Lemora... And so many more.
I was only fourteen when the Underground debuted. I was a loner, for sure. A quirky young emo without a cause. Worst of all, this was the dark days before YouTube and Twitter. All I had were my parents and Bonnie. No one else to share my passion for classic horror and scary shit with. So yeah, I was an awkward teen. And I became an even more awkward adult.
Now 28, I was a freelance filmmaker in Tampa Bay, Florida. With a degree and some financial support from the folks, I made a decent living. Just shooting commercials, corporate videos. Nothing too creative. In my spare time, I wrote as much as possible. Still chasing the dream of shooting my own scripts and being the next John Carpenter one day.
Far from skinny or fat, I was just your average slacker black girl. My "Bohemian" fashion a result of laziness and clearance-rack bankroll. I kept my hair short and aloof. And thankfully, the combination of late night writing, coffee, and alcohol still hadn't hurt my youthful face. Or my restless spirit.
But soon, curiosity got the better of me. When TCM showed Carnival Of Souls the other night, the reminiscing returned.
So I looked up Bonnie Blue Bones. And to my surprise, she was enjoying quite the resurgence.
In the last few years, the industry had changed so much. With the rise of the internet, streaming, and podcasts, Bonnie Blue fought back against the major corporations who rejected her. And now she had a YouTube empire.
On her channel BonnieBlueBonesHorror, Bonnie showed all public domain cult movies. Complete with her hosting and critiques, of course. Her livestreamed Q and A sessions a new addition to Bonnie's brilliance.
After all these years, Bonnie was still so charming. Still wearing those tight black dresses and suits, she hadn't aged, gained a belly, or become jaded. She was still the Queen Of Weird Cinema.
In July, I binge-watched the shit out of her channel. And then I shot Bonnie an e-mail. I introduced myself, said I was her biggest fan. And yeah, I mentioned that I was an O.G. going all the way back to her TCM Underground days...
Her reply greeted me a day later. One from Bonnie herself. She wanted me to come film her hosting segments. Out at her home studio in Tallahassee, Florida.
The once in a lifetime opportunity hit me hard. Yeah, the pay was decent. But the dream proved more alluring. The nostalgia.
A quick phone call sealed the deal. Bonnie's charismatic voice just as potent on the line as it was on the air. Her Southern accent still strong.
So I made the trip. Soon, the interstate gave way to rural highways. The palm trees of South Florida replaced by kitschy restaurants and sleazy nightclubs. Not even the Capitol building and marshland could hide Tallahassee's college town aesthetic.
Around midnight, I pulled up into Bonnie's driveway. Parked behind a few Toyotas. Her suburban two-story brick house was just... normal. Like a snapshot from a bland lifestyle magazine. A wooden front porch held bland rocking chairs. Bonnie's lawn so clean and void of life besides a few metal flamingos. Honestly, I was disappointed to not even see a fake tombstone...
I scanned the suburbs. The houses all looked the same. The lights off in every window. Every house was asleep... except for the one before me.
Holding my bags, I stepped out into the late breeze. Heard the front door swing open and a beloved voice ring out.
"Sandra!" Bonnie yelled.
My eyes darted toward the porch. There a smiling Bonnie stood. The lights from inside decorated her smooth skin and black pajamas. I could sense excitement. Then again, her glass of red wine was probably helping...
Trying to suppress my anxiety, I grinned. "Hey!" I said in my deep baritone.
"Welcome home," Bonnie teased. Splashing wine everywhere, she waved me inside. "Welcome to The Underground!"
Bonnie's house was theatrical. The ceilings high. A home theater system. And unlike the outside, her cinema obsession was well on display. There were obscure posters and movie props galore. Everything from original Chucky dolls to a Maltese Falcon statue replica. And all of this was just in the living room and kitchen... you know, the "normal" areas.
Like she was back on set, Bonnie played the host, showing off everything. Every one of the bedrooms even had a theme. I got the Friday The 13th one complete with blood red walls and a glow-in-the-dark Jason hockey mask. Not to mention speakers playing the series’ iconic score.
As we journeyed down the hallway leading to Bonnie's "basement" studio, the air got colder. The lights dimmer. Hologram lightning flashed. Overhead speakers portrayed a ferocious storm.
At this point, I was two glasses of wine in. But not even drunk Sandra could contain her enthusiasm.
Bonnie and I hit it off immediately. Two movie geeks in our element.
"Honestly, I thought you'd be living in a haunted castle or something," I joked.
Together, we passed a tall Wolf Man statue.
"Like a morgue," Bonnie chuckled.
Taking another sip, I confronted the double red doors looming in the very back. The studio entrance.
"It just looks so normal," I commented. I flashed Bonnie a smile. "Until you get inside."
With a flourish, Bonnie pushed the doors open. "That's the point!"
Into the studio we went. The lighting was dim save for center stage. But Bonnie's recreation of her immortal Underground set was vivid and precise. A meticulous restoration.
Sparks still shot from the crude lab equipment. Chemicals boiled in their cauldrons. Coffins collected dust and cobwebs. Hologram lightning flashed through the fake windows. Speakers played a scary soundtrack of sound effects and horror music.
Bonnie smiled at me. "You like it?"
Chuckling, I walked toward an operating table. Toward a white sheet draped over a tall corpse. Always a "regular" on the shows. "Yeah!" I beamed. "This is amazing!"
"I spent weeks getting it all back together."
Curious, I grabbed a hold of the sheet. Eager to see what lied beneath.
"IndieGoGo was a fucking lifesaver," Bonnie went on. "All the fans were so supportive."
I turned to face Bonnie. "I bet! I think I even donated-"
The corpse sprung to life. Through the sheet, their harsh grip snatched my arm. Their tormented scream overpowered the soundtrack.
Panicking, I yelled and struggled to break free. Struggled to escape the corpse and its muffled cries.
All I could make out was bony fingers. And the outline of a manic gaunt face.
"Bonnie!" I cried.
Then the screaming stopped. So did the storm. The entire set.
Uneasy, I looked all around me. Still felt the corpse clinging to my arm.
Laughter erupted.
Cackling, Bonnie ensnared me in a sorority hug. "Oh my God, that was perfect!"
I confronted the laughing corpse. They released me straight into Bonnie's embrace.
"What?" I said, confused. "What is this?"
Like a playful magician, the corpse tugged off the sheet for a slow reveal. Instead of a pale dead body was a pale beautiful blonde. A coed clad in nothing but a black bikini and fake blood. Her smile pure pearls. Her eyes sparkling blue.
"Gotcha!" she cooed with Southern delight.
Bonnie motioned toward her. "Meet Marsha. Marsha, this is Sandra."
Oozing confidence, Marsha hopped off the table.
I stood, dumbfounded. Still recovering from the shock.
Bonnie patted me on the back. Sarcastic reassurance. "She's my... acquaintance."
Wiping fake crimson off her lips, Marsha stepped toward Bonnie. "I like to think I'm more than that."
"Oh, do we now?" Bonnie teased.
They exchanged a wet kiss right in front of me. Their make out session complete with constant ass grabbing. Fake blood got all over Bonnie's pajamas, all over her smooth skin. But I don't think Bonnie cared...
After Marsha threw on some tight jeans and a white tank top, we escorted her to the front porch.
Bonnie grabbed a hold of her hand. A sweet, gentle grip. "You know I want you to stay-"
"You got work, I know," Marsha teased. Grinning, she locked lips with Bonnie once more. A sloppy vampire kiss.
Later that night, Bonnie took the party to her room. Bonnie's bedroom a fusion of horror lore and gaudy camp. Windows showcased the dark yard. Painted spiderwebs decorated the room's black walls. Various framed awards hung by the closet. A tall wooden desk displayed a huge flatscreen and vintage vinyl record player. Even a skull lamp from the 1960s... A skull with either really sticky rubber or real flesh lodged into its eye sockets.
Like a scary sleepover, Bonnie and I chilled together on her queen sized bed. Right beneath her Vampira poster. Each of us held glasses of wine. A half-empty bottle at our disposal.
"Aw, man, you were an original!" Bonnie said.
"Totally!" I responded. "Going back to the Underground!"
Leaning up, Bonnie entered a nostalgic silence. A brief one. Hosts never stayed quiet for long... "Honestly, I'm really glad I made an impact," she said.
"What do you mean?"
Bonnie motioned toward me. "I mean with you! It's amazing, really." Getting closer, she sat campfire-style right in front of me. "I mean all these cool people loved me on Underground. And now they watch my show, they say I influenced them to make movies and to watch all these classics."
"You did," I commented.
Bonnie caressed my shoulder. "But at the end of the day, you're one of the most talented filmmakers I've ever seen, Sandra."
Blushing, I avoided eye contact. Even teared up... I couldn't help it. This was the praise Sandra Hicks always wanted.
"I've read the scripts, seen your videos," Bonnie went on. "You've got serious talent, babe." Her calm grip squeezed my shoulder. "And I ain't just saying that, Sandra, trust me. I know movies."
Chuckling, I looked into her beaming eyes. Her big wide grin.
"You know I do," Bonnie said. "You're like an Ida Lupino or Jack Hill, you've got that wild vision I love!"
My heart jumped for joy. Bonnie's comments elicited nothing but electricity.
Keeping her movie star poise, Bonnie leaned back. "I watch so many movies and read all these scripts for people and fans." She kept her eyes on me. "But you're the best, Sandra. I mean it."
I nodded, unable to suppress my grin. "Thank you."
"I'm glad to have you aboard!" Bonnie held her glass toward me. "Cheers, bitch."
Excited, I clanged my glass into hers. Not even flinching when I felt red wine splash over me. Now Bonnie and I matched. Blood sisters.
A subtle panic overtook Bonnie. "Oh shit!" she yelled. "What time is it?"
I took another sip. "Why?"
Bonnie checked her phone. "Damn! Ten thirty-five!"
Amused, I watched Bonnie put her glass down and snatch a remote control. Faster than fourteen-year-old Sandra on those late Friday nights...
"I'm missing Raven's Home!" Bonnie said. One frantic hit turned on the flatscreen.
"Raven's what?" I asked. "Like the Disney channel?"
Clutching the remote, Bonnie confronted me. "Yes! It's a new episode!"
I let out a drunken laugh. "Oh, well put it on."
Shushing me, Bonnie looked back toward the T.V. Toward the candy colored Disney cheese.
The show was cringey at best. Honestly, I had no idea Raven Symone had a Disney homecoming.
Yet Bonnie sat right there, riveted. As if she were watching Coffy or Freaks on TCM Underground. And she never once spoke to me. Her laughter aligned with the canned studio audience. Hysterical laughter...
Raven's Home drove me to another glass. During a commercial, I attempted to make contact. "Hey, Bonnie," I said.
"Shh!" Bonnie responded. Confronting me, she pointed toward the T.V. "Just listen!"
The volume rose and Kylie Cantrall's "That's What I'm Talkin' Bout" exploded before me. A corny yet captivating middle school rap song... and I'll be damned if it wasn't the catchiest thing I'd ever heard.
The music video was dominated by a cute thirteen-year-old girl full of swag and more close-ups than a Hitchcock suspense scene. And Bonnie ate it up. She rapped along to the lyrics, knowing every one of them. A true fangirl.
The Disney onslaught lasted well into the night. And well into another bottle. There was Sydney To The Max, Bunk'd, and the Millennial staple Jessie. Our sleepover had apparently traveled back to the seventh grade... Not that I was complaining. The drunker Bonnie got, the more she at least talked to me. Never before had I discussed Brian De Palma with Andi Mack on in the background.
We passed out around three A.M. Morning sunlight woke me up. As did the brief hangover. I was all alone in Bonnie's bedroom.
Loud cries and screams grabbed my attention. Not to mention the blaring fake "thunder." Still half-asleep, I stumbled out into the living room. Right toward Bonnie's cult movie playland.
Through the storm sound effects and through the Friday The 13th movie playing in Bonnie's home theater (Part VII: The New Blood to be exact), I could hear moaning. Thrusting. Carnal excitement. And no, the pleasure wasn't stemming from a Friday The 13th sex scene...
Entering from the hallway, I came to a sudden stop. I didn't quite gasp. Or flinch. Just watched in stunned silence. Aroused silence... Hey, this girl hadn't got laid in quite some time. And the sight before me was hottt...
On a leather couch, Bonnie and a younger man made love. Passionate, hot, sweaty sex. Bonnie in just a bra, the man completely naked. Bonnie's moans coincided with the constant thunder. Her lover's powerful thrusts with Jason Voorhees's slashing.
I could tell the hot guy was yet another college kid. Barely twenty-one. Possibly a football player judging by the physique, bubble butt, and biceps. His long brown hair draped down to his wide shoulders. And he was full of energy...
Leaning up, Bonnie saw me. Rather than embarrassment, her trademark smile appeared. "Oh, Sandra! Hey."
"Oh shit!" I heard the stud exclaim.
Laughing, Bonnie pushed him away. "It's okay, she's cool."
I couldn't help but grin. I wasn't complaining... especially with a front row seat to the action and eye candy.
"Sorry!" the guy said as he grabbed his clothes.
Sliding on her panties, Bonnie motioned toward him. "That's Henry!" She threw on a pair of jeans and Texas Chainsaw shirt.
I waved at him. "Hi." Henry putting on his tight shorts held my gaze. Henry was tall. His teeth perfect. His bright eyes fiercer than that Southern accent.
"Yeah, sorry about that," Henry said. He threw on a FSU tee. "She said you were sleeping."
Like a queen on her throne, Bonnie leaned back on the couch. I saw another glass of wine in her hand. "She was," Bonnie remarked. "I let her sleep in."
"You didn't say she was hot," Henry teased.
I blushed. "Oh, thank you," I stuttered out.
Leaning over, Bonnie slapped Henry's bouncy ass. "Alright, hit the road, Jack!"
"Call me later," Henry replied.
Later on, Bonnie and I made the descent down to The Underground. Sitting at the operating table, we let the scary soundtrack swirl around us. A Bonnie-curated mix veering between sound effects, iconic horror soundtracks, and Halloween rock.
Using Bonnie's laptop, I scrolled through her latest segments. The footage raw but potent.
"You think you can work with these?" Bonnie asked.
"Yeah, definitely," I replied.
Bonnie put down an empty glass of wine. "Ugh, I'm so glad I got an assistant." She gazed around her horror bunker. "I got tired of shooting everything by myself."
"I bet." Following Bonnie's eyes, I took note of several weapons positioned on a brick wall. These weren't props but real axes and knives. One axe in particular featured a hand-carved red handle. "Did you really shoot all the wraparounds?"
"Yeah. The fans kept wanting more and more." Bonnie smiled at me. "And well, you know how I am."
Straining, I struggled to see faint stains on the axe's blade. Dark scattered stains. I figured they were just decoration. Or at least, I hoped.
"I gotta please the fans," Bonnie went on, her tone more melodramatic. "They want content, and I gotta feed them. I mean you saw those college kids! They love me, Sandra!"
I watched Bonnie soak up the spotlight. And she was right. Over the past few years, she had become more popular. A YouTube rejuvenation led her from cult obscurity to horror superstardom. And deep down, I actually felt a little jealous... Hipster fandom was a complex thing.
"So, let's do this together," Bonnie said. Full of warmth, she grabbed my shoulders. Her sincerity shined through the camp. "With your help, Sandra, the segments'll be amazing. We got the movies. We'll be a great team."
Comforted from the cold air, I nodded. "I know. This is just amazing... Thank you." Turning, I looked back at the laptop. Another clip showed Bonnie dancing to Jack And Jim's "Midnight Monsters Hop." Her stage complete with plastic skeletons and a fake cemetery.
I struggled to fight back the reflective tears. "This is a dream come true," I said. "Honestly."
Supportive, Bonnie wrapped her arm around me. "And we'll share the dream. This is it, Sandra."
"Thank you," I told her. "I'm serious, I'm really excited."
In producer mode, Bonnie stood up. Ready for business. "Well, you wanna see your first movie?"
Amused, I watched her walk toward the living room. "Uh, sure."
Bonnie pointed at me. A twinkle in her eyes. "Just wait right there."
Left alone, I turned my attention to the laptop. A list of other raw Bonnie intros greeted me: Bonnie doing scary stand-up. Parodying a cooking show. Even an aerobics episode.
The smile stayed on my face. Diving further into the filmography, I scanned through Bonnie's other files. She had plenty of public domain horror movies ready for the show. Lost 80s VHS classics. Not to mention some more modern microbudget movies I'd never heard of. Low-budget exploitation, most of it shot in Florida.
Aside from the movies, I discovered Bonnie's Disney Channel library. There were full episodes, music videos. The Disney fluff such a strange balance to Bonnie's darkness.
"Alright, I got it!" I heard Bonnie yell.
Startled, I clicked off all the Disney data. Back to YouTube. "Cool," I replied.
Bonnie rushed up to a small flatscreen. Excitement both on her face and in her pace. "I just need you to shoot the outro for me." She placed a DVD in the player.
"Yeah, no problem."
"This one was actually shot in Tally!" Bonnie continued, her voice and movie knowledge entering manic mode. "By an FSU grad! She's a big fan like you."
Helpless to her charm, I released a smile. "So is this recent?"
Bonnie stepped toward me. Away from the T.V. "Yeah, it just came out," she said.
"Wait, like this year-"
"Just watch!" Bonnie interrupted. Teasing me, she put a finger to her lips and backed off toward the lab.
Intrigued, I watched the movie play out. A synth score and dark red font greeted me. The Lanaed Drive Slaughterhouse
I gotta say it wasn't bad. For once, we had an 80s throwback slasher relying on a cool storyline rather than pretentious "style." Not to mention amazing kills... The gore was visceral rather than theatrical.
Throughout the screening, I noticed Bonnie watching from the cauldrons. Her wide eyes glued to the screen. A woman possessed by the movies. Riveted by every scene. She even digested the cheap slashers like a studious film scholar.
Near the end of Slaughterhouse, a character gave me deja vu. Unease hit me. The movie featured a hot blonde tied-up in a kitchen. Bound-and-gagged in duct tape, she moved about in her seat, sending her long hair everywhere. Her desperate attempts to escape remained restrained. Her cries muffled.
And through the movie's bright lighting, I recognized the girl. The coed. Marsha. Not even the running mascara could ruin her luscious beauty. And neither could her abundance of bleeding cuts and scratches.
Deep in my sickened gut, I realized Marsha still wore the same jeans and tank top. The outfit I last saw her in...
I stole a glance at Bonnie. She wasn't watching me... Instead, Bonnie had her arms folded tight. A euphoria built up inside her from the sly smile to the compulsive trembling.
A revving chainsaw brought me back to the flatscreen. And the movie's masked slashers descended upon Marsha. The killers dressed in black robes. Their faces disguised by intricate masks: one wearing a skull mask, the other an old hag. The chainsaw was long and lean. And the other killer held a vicious axe. The blade sharp and steady. The axe with a familiar red handle...
The deja vu decimated me again. I knew the weapon was from Bonnie's collection.
I forced myself to keep watching. Carnage ensued. An eerie church organ score became Marsha's funeral bells. Or what I hoped was only her character's demise.
Marsha's reactions felt real. Her pain up close and personal. Blood re-decorated the kitchen. Thick guts tumbled from Marsha's chest. An avalanche of gore. The evisceration beyond precise. I wanted to keep telling myself it's only a movie, it's only a movie. But it was a reassuring mantra I just couldn't believe. There was no way Marsha was that good of an actress...
On screen, the killers got to work on Marsha's limbs. Deliberate, slow sawing took off the legs and arms. Then in a flourishing final cut, Marsha got decapitated. Her corpse now nothing more than a coed of cold cuts.
From there, Lanaed Drive wallowed in more scares, suspense, and bloodshed. But Marsha's death stayed with me. The massacre haunted me.
After the movie, Bonnie turned off the T.V. Like an eager filmmaker, she went one-on-one with me. "So... what'd you think?" she asked.
Still uncomfortable, I hesitated. Too fucking scared to talk. "I-I liked it," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "It was really good."
"See, I told you!" Bonnie gushed. "The local filmmaking scene's amazing out here! We got all these indies that deserve love, man. We can give them a platform!"
Playing along, I sifted in my seat. "Yeah. You're right."
"I don't wanna just show the usual public domain stuff or even the classics," Bonnie went on. She leaned in closer. Her smile brighter than sunshine. "We can breathe life into these new ones! I mean these are the cult filmmakers of our times, Sandra!"
I nodded. Just hoping I disguised my unease. "True."
Bonnie motioned toward me. "Like you, Sandra! Hell, soon enough, I'll get you out there and get your scripts produced! We'll get a production company, I can see it now! Bonnie Blue House Productions!"
Forcing a chuckle, I looked over at the T.V. "Yeah..." I confronted Bonnie. "But why was Marsha in it?"
Bonnie gave me a weird look. "What do you mean?"
"I mean that was her in the end, right? The girl all tied up and getting... you know, slaughtered like a sacrifice."
Back in host mode, Bonnie let out a smug cackle. "Aw, yeah! Of course." She fixated her eyes on me. "Marsha wanted to be in it."
"Oh."
"These are all FSU kids. They work together. I mean shit, who wouldn't wanna be in a movie?"
Staying strong, I sat up in my seat. "But I didn't know she could act."
Bonnie chuckled. "I mean shit, she can't! Did you see her!" Dismissive, she waved toward the T.V. "That's why she had no lines!"
"Aw, I see." I looked toward the door. "Is she coming over tonight?"
Keeping her smile from slithering away, Bonnie just stood there. "Not tonight." She clapped her hands together. "Come on, we got work to do."
I followed orders. Against my better judgment and common sense. Against my intuition. But I had no choice... This was Bonnie's house after all. Not to mention my job.
So we filmed a cheesy sequence for the end of The Lanaed Drive Slaughterhouse. And honestly, Bonnie's segment was fucking awesome. We shot her in a ridiculous police uniform. Bonnie a cop harassing a couple of fake corpses. We finished the shoot in just over an hour.
Staying professional, I joined Bonnie for a mini-wrap party. Just her and I hanging out in her bedroom. The Disney Channel our background. Pizza and wine our dinner. At least, the booze soothed my shivers. Another sleepover a welcome distraction from the disturbing "death" I witnessed earlier.
"I feel like today's climate is just so different," Bonnie reflected. "We've got more movies now, so what I do is even more important. I'm no longer the graveyard of failures for the artists who couldn't get into theaters or home video." She took another sip, spilling red wine over her chin. "Streaming's changed the game. And now we're just pushing it further, Sandra."
Suppressing my fear, I kept watching Raven's Home. "Yeah, that's true," I commented.
Bonnie grabbed my arm. A persuasive grip. "We can really do this, girl! We'll have more than just a channel!"
I stared into her beaming bright eyes.
"We'll be filmmakers, producers!" Bonnie continued. "The whole shebang, man!"
And a few hours later, Bonnie Blue Bones was out. An early drunken slumber.
On my fourth glass, I stumbled back to my bedroom. Dazed and disoriented but the fear kept me awake.
"That's What I'm Talkin' Bout" followed me the whole way. Up until the storm effects drowned out Kylie. And then the chilling "kill, kill, kill" Friday The 13th theme hit me in my guest room. Amidst my unsettled state, I realized I had no way of turning it off...
Lying down beneath the Jason mask, I scrolled through the comments on Bonnie's YouTube channel. Her Facebook group pages. Twitter account. All of Bonnie's fan sites. Her following was so strong... and she had a rabid fan base at that.
They all adored the new movies. Best gore ever! So sick! read some of the comments. The perfect mix between cult classics and future cult classics! A new hotspot for aspiring filmmakers, courtesy of Bonnie Blue Bones's Approval! gushed the reviews. My investigation made me realize Bonnie had that rare commodity for a YouTube channel: a community consensus.
I knew Bonnie's intentions were honorable. I mean if I'd known she showcased indie cinema, I'd have shot my first feature last year. But then there was the gore. Marsha's violent on-screen death stayed with me. Her tormented expression even entered my nightmare.
Around eight A.M., I woke up with a start. Hungover from both the drinks and terrifying dreams. For once, the house was quiet. There were no movie themes or relentless thunder. Just steady silence. And yet I was still scared.
Cautious, I stepped out of bed and made my way down the hall. Bonnie's bedroom awaited me.
"Hey," I said in a weak voice. I stopped in the doorway. But no one was there. Just Bonnie's open laptop sitting right in the center of the bed.
I checked the living room for good measure. Then the kitchen. But Bonnie was gone. Here I was home alone in this horror museum.
Curiosity forced me back to Bonnie's room. I logged into her computer. Bonnie's e-mails stared back at me. The most recent one from Daisy Gerstad. The message's subject: New movie
Like a hacker, I scrolled through the thread. Several of Gerstad's lines stood out: It's gonna be hard to cast him FSU football player would be our biggest name yet
Bonnie's persistence stood out. For the first time, I got to see Director Bonnie on display. Just cast him! she responded. Just fucking do it, Daisy!
Another thread caught my eye. E-mails from Johnny Browning. The subject was only one word... but just enough to send chills down my spine. Marsha
Full of dread, I turned away. I noticed Bonnie's closet was cracked open. Wide enough for me to get a peek.
Sharp metal glistened back at me. I could see a long dagger surrounded by other knives. Bonnie's closet yet another arsenal in her house of horrors...
Thunder roared outside. Scared shitless, I jumped off the bed and whirled around.
Through the windows, I saw rain come pouring down. Lightning flashed. The sudden storm had surprised me. A real storm. I saw no sign of life in suburbia either...
I stood there trembling. The frightening posters and memorabilia weren't helping. Not even Disney Channel or red wine could alleviate my fear at this point. Not when I'd descended this far into Bonnie's dungeon.
"Sandra!" a booming Southern accent hollered out.
Hesitant, I stumbled over toward the doorway. Struggling with my sinking gut...
"Come in here!" Bonnie yelled.
I forced myself into the living room. Toward the smiling Bonnie.
Eager, she stood right by the towering T.V. Her Gothic attire of black robes and skull-flavored headband helped make Bonnie ready for her close-up.
She held up a burnt DVD. Crude black marker handwriting spelled out a title: Wholesome Werewolf
"I got a new one!" Bonnie beamed.
Ferocious thunder shook the house. I turned and looked out at the storm. The rain became heavier. The lightning more vivid. The storm settling in for good...
A hard pull brought me closer toward Bonnie. Her tight grip squeezed my arm.
"I just got it this morning!" she said, her voice on a rapturous rampage. "Daisy Gerstad did it, she's an amazing talent. She goes to FSU, loves classic movies like you!"
"Oh, okay..." I stammered.
I noticed a spiked box sitting by the T.V. Stacks of burned DVDs piled up inside. All of them horror. The Lanaed Road Slaughterhouse sat at the top of the heap. And so many more selections were there for Bonnie's channel...
Bonnie jammed Wholesome Werewolf into the player. "Here, check it out!" she said. Her excited eyes faced me. "Daisy just finished it!"
Growing more nervous by the second, I looked all around the room. "Is Marsha coming over?" I confronted Bonnie. "What about Henry?"
Chuckling, Bonnie waved me off. "Naw, bitch!" She stopped next to me. "It's just you and me." With that, she motioned me toward the flatscreen.
Wholesome Werewolf started off with a bang. The footage was smooth. The soundtrack a harrowing mix of snarls and scare chords.
And there was Henry in the opening scene. Clad in his tight shorts and FSU tee. The clothes he had on when I last saw him.
Breathing heavy, Henry stumbled around a dark forest. Through a village of tall trees and high grass. His visible fear at an apex.
All the while, the camera stayed on him. Henry without much screen presence. Without much awareness.
He leaned against a tree, exhausted. His good looks besieged by raw fright. A piano chord rang out. Then came yet another savage howl.
Henry looked all around the nocturnal wasteland. His helplessness obvious. No escape in sight.
I noticed Bonnie's smile only grew bigger. Her eyes ate up the hunk and footage. Excitement entrenched itself in her constant manic tics.
The camera got closer and closer to Henry. Closer to his fear.
Weeping, Henry held on to the tree for dear life. His expression veered from frightened to hopeless despair.
Trembling, I turned away. What I was watching wasn't fun or entertaining. Just downright disturbing.
Bonnie snatched my wrist. With a killer smile, she stared into my soul. "Just keep watching, Sandra," she said, her Southern politeness disguising a cruel demand.
Like a prisoner, I faced the screen. Forced to face Henry's horror. His acting debut.
Another snarl pierced through the soundtrack. This one the loudest, most sadistic howl yet.
Henry closed his eyes. His tears kept rolling. His fingernails dug deep into the bark.
"Oh boy!" I heard Bonnie mumble.
The consistent piano chords matched Henry's heightened dread. "Help!" he screamed. "Somebody help me!"
From behind him, a werewolf emerged through the darkness. A tall, terrifying beast. Its red eyes focused, its teeth so damn sharp. Tufts of clunky black hair encircled the monster's long protruding snout. Dry blood stains were scattered all across its thick fur.
And then I realized what an unsettling mask this Wholesome Werewolf had. Its plastic face a canvas of sloppy paint and crude latex. But still, this was one Hell of a jump scare. One Hell of a monster. And then came one Hell of a kill.
The werewolf grabbed Henry's arms. Caught by surprise, Henry had no chance. No matter how much he squirmed and tried to throw a punch, the creature's death grip was too much.
Saliva dripped off the snout. Then the beast revealed its army of extended claws and ripped out a chunk of Henry's throat.
The camera secured the close-up. All the mangled flesh a feast for Bonnie's eyes. A gruesome money shot.
Blood spurted across the lens. Henry's mouth dropped agape. His life nothing more than intermittent trembling. Blood spilled on to his garnet and gold t-shirt. His neck like a gory puzzle missing crucial pieces. His exposed muscles pulsated, leaking nothing but crimson.
Terror conquered me. I knew the gore was too real. Too elaborate for this budget. More medical video than torture porn. And a football hunk like Henry wasn't gonna be that great of an actor.
On screen, the werewolf lunged into Henry's neck. Their howls more murkier the more flesh they consumed. Their gruesome buffet of blood grew messy but the camera never wavered. Never squirmed from the massacre.
Next to me, Bonnie yelled in delight. And I just stared on at the gore, horrified beyond belief. My stomach in knots. My soul ravaged.
Henry's head titled back. His eyes blinked somewhere between life and death. Like an exploding blender, bits of flesh sprayed through the woods. Red paint for the trees and shrubbery. Henry's neck got skinnier and more mangled by the second.
I staggered back. "Turn it off!" I yelled.
Bonnie turned and looked right at me. Her smile still there. Her staunch gaze a spotlight to my shivering state.
"Turn it off, Goddammit!" I cried.
Behind Bonnie, the flatscreen continued the carnage. The werewolf's paws now tore through Henry's stomach, ripping out innards with the ferocity of a child digging through a goody bag.
"God... you're crazy," I muttered. Fighting back tears, I glared at Bonnie Blue. "You're fucking crazy! You killed them!"
Bonnie took a confident step toward me. "Now why do you say that, Sandra?"
Breathing heavy, I stopped next to the kitchen doorway. Doing my damnedest to keep glowering... even as I felt nothing but fear.
"We love movies, you and I," Bonnie's accent cooed. "That means movies of all styles. All subgenres." She got closer, inches away from me. "Even the really gory and edgy ones."
Uncomfortable, I entered the kitchen. Bonnie's quick footsteps followed after me.
"Sandra," she said.
I came to a terrified stop. Seated at the kitchen table were slaughtered corpses. College-age corpses. The four of them positioned like an art exhibit. I only recognized two: Marsha and Henry. Or what was left of them.
Their torsos sat in the chairs. Their severed pieces and guts scattered all across the table.
"Oh God!" I screamed. I turned to confront the grinning Bonnie. "You fucking killed them!"
Back in host mode, Bonnie Blue Bones chuckled. Her elaborate outfit made her look right at home. The kitchen now her set. Our conversation an ominous outro for Wholesome Werewolf.
"How could you!" I yelled. Unable to restrain my fear, I motioned my trembling hand toward the table. "You didn't have to kill anyone, Bonnie! You were already famous!"
Bonnie's smile stayed stagnant. "And I didn't," she remarked. "I never killed anyone, Sandra."
A pair of calm footsteps startled me. I turned toward the doorway.
Three killers stood there. Three stars. The slashers of Lanaed Road dressed in their robes. Their skull and old hag masks. The Wholesome Werewolf stood next to them. Mask or not, Daisy's costume was brilliant. And just as scary in person...
Rather than weapons, the three of them wielded cameras. Even the werewolf. I was positive Johnny Browning was the skull or hag. Before me were three different filmmakers...
With a theatrical cackle, Bonnie pointed at them. "They're the ones who do it, Sandra! Not me!"
The killers stood strong. Regal. Behind the masks, I knew they were looking right at me. And in a sickening epiphany, I realized we at least had something in common: all of us were aspiring filmmakers on a mission.
"I take submissions, Sandra! I give them an outlet!" Bonnie went on. She grabbed my arm and leaned in closer. Fiery intensity overtook her horror shtick. The passion of Bonnie Blue Bones now in overdrive. "If they wanna kill for it, I let them! This is cinema, Sandra!" She waved her hands around in a wild flourish. "This is what you, I, and all the fans want!"
Unable to say a single word, I backed away. Straight into a wall. Surrounded by corpses, psycho directors, and the great Bonnie Blue Bones herself. Surrounded by cinema.
"I've got a whole production company lined up, Sandra," Bonnie went on.
The three masks stared on at me. As did their unflinching cameras. This cinema cult wanted me, that much was certain.
Bonnie stepped toward me. A singular seriousness replaced her grin. "Now, Sandra, this is one Hell of an opportunity." She grabbed my shoulder in a harsh grip. "Now do you want to stay? To be a famous director. To shoot my intros and outros and shoot your first movie." She leaned in closer, her piercing eyes emblazoned deep into my flesh. "Or do you want us to just cast you in a supporting role instead?"
14

Bonnie Blue Bones was my hero. On late Friday nights, she was my constant companion. The best friend Sandra Hicks never had.
So what if I didn't actually know her? Bonnie was brilliant. Pale and flamboyant, she wore her long black hair in a beehive. And even with an average figure, still showed off her body in tight Gothic clothes. Her bright eyes so radiant. Her Southern accent a perfect blend of playful hokeyness and friendly warmth. Her curved smile tailor-made for terror T.V.
Bonnie had a proud, ferocious screen presence. She was a true movie geek. And her sets were amazing. Even when she curated great films, her bookends on TCM Underground always stole the show. And beyond her style, Bonnie's wit and passion enthralled me. She was Tales From The Horror Hipster. And always there for me on those lonely Fridays.
But after a few years dominating my weekends, Bonnie became a casualty of Turner Classic Movies' firing squad. Without a host, TCM Underground and its catalog of eclectic horror and cult cinema continued airing every Friday at 2 A.M. But it wasn't the same without Bonnie. Like a death in the family, I felt alone.
All I had was the awesome memories. Bonnie Blue inspired me. Inspired Sandra Hicks The Filmmaker. My movie education started right there on Underground. Bonnie the only film professor I'd ever need. There were the scary black-and-white horror classics like Freaks and Carnival Of Souls, the blaxploitation gems like Coffy and Black Caesar, the sleazy slashers like Two Thousand Maniacs! and Silent Night, Deadly Night, the forgotten 1970s vampire movies like Let's Scare Jessica To Death and Lemora... And so many more.
I was only fourteen when the Underground debuted. I was a loner, for sure. A quirky young emo without a cause. Worst of all, this was the dark days before YouTube and Twitter. All I had were my parents and Bonnie. No one else to share my passion for classic horror and scary shit with. So yeah, I was an awkward teen. And I became an even more awkward adult.
Now 28, I was a freelance filmmaker in Tampa Bay, Florida. With a degree and some financial support from the folks, I made a decent living. Just shooting commercials, corporate videos. Nothing too creative. In my spare time, I wrote as much as possible. Still chasing the dream of shooting my own scripts and being the next John Carpenter one day.
Far from skinny or fat, I was just your average slacker black girl. My "Bohemian" fashion a result of laziness and clearance-rack bankroll. I kept my hair short and aloof. And thankfully, the combination of late night writing, coffee, and alcohol still hadn't hurt my youthful face. Or my restless spirit.
But soon, curiosity got the better of me. When TCM showed Carnival Of Souls the other night, the reminiscing returned.
So I looked up Bonnie Blue Bones. And to my surprise, she was enjoying quite the resurgence.
In the last few years, the industry had changed so much. With the rise of the internet, streaming, and podcasts, Bonnie Blue fought back against the major corporations who rejected her. And now she had a YouTube empire.
On her channel BonnieBlueBonesHorror, Bonnie showed all public domain cult movies. Complete with her hosting and critiques, of course. Her livestreamed Q and A sessions a new addition to Bonnie's brilliance.
After all these years, Bonnie was still so charming. Still wearing those tight black dresses and suits, she hadn't aged, gained a belly, or become jaded. She was still the Queen Of Weird Cinema.
In July, I binge-watched the shit out of her channel. And then I shot Bonnie an e-mail. I introduced myself, said I was her biggest fan. And yeah, I mentioned that I was an O.G. going all the way back to her TCM Underground days...
Her reply greeted me a day later. One from Bonnie herself. She wanted me to come film her hosting segments. Out at her home studio in Tallahassee, Florida.
The once in a lifetime opportunity hit me hard. Yeah, the pay was decent. But the dream proved more alluring. The nostalgia.
A quick phone call sealed the deal. Bonnie's charismatic voice just as potent on the line as it was on the air. Her Southern accent still strong.
So I made the trip. Soon, the interstate gave way to rural highways. The palm trees of South Florida replaced by kitschy restaurants and sleazy nightclubs. Not even the Capitol building and marshland could hide Tallahassee's college town aesthetic.
Around midnight, I pulled up into Bonnie's driveway. Parked behind a few Toyotas. Her suburban two-story brick house was just... normal. Like a snapshot from a bland lifestyle magazine. A wooden front porch held bland rocking chairs. Bonnie's lawn so clean and void of life besides a few metal flamingos. Honestly, I was disappointed to not even see a fake tombstone...
I scanned the suburbs. The houses all looked the same. The lights off in every window. Every house was asleep... except for the one before me.
Holding my bags, I stepped out into the late breeze. Heard the front door swing open and a beloved voice ring out.
"Sandra!" Bonnie yelled.
My eyes darted toward the porch. There a smiling Bonnie stood. The lights from inside decorated her smooth skin and black pajamas. I could sense excitement. Then again, her glass of red wine was probably helping...
Trying to suppress my anxiety, I grinned. "Hey!" I said in my deep baritone.
"Welcome home," Bonnie teased. Splashing wine everywhere, she waved me inside. "Welcome to The Underground!"
Bonnie's house was theatrical. The ceilings high. A home theater system. And unlike the outside, her cinema obsession was well on display. There were obscure posters and movie props galore. Everything from original Chucky dolls to a Maltese Falcon statue replica. And all of this was just in the living room and kitchen... you know, the "normal" areas.
Like she was back on set, Bonnie played the host, showing off everything. Every one of the bedrooms even had a theme. I got the Friday The 13th one complete with blood red walls and a glow-in-the-dark Jason hockey mask. Not to mention speakers playing the series’ iconic score.
As we journeyed down the hallway leading to Bonnie's "basement" studio, the air got colder. The lights dimmer. Hologram lightning flashed. Overhead speakers portrayed a ferocious storm.
At this point, I was two glasses of wine in. But not even drunk Sandra could contain her enthusiasm.
Bonnie and I hit it off immediately. Two movie geeks in our element.
"Honestly, I thought you'd be living in a haunted castle or something," I joked.
Together, we passed a tall Wolf Man statue.
"Like a morgue," Bonnie chuckled.
Taking another sip, I confronted the double red doors looming in the very back. The studio entrance.
"It just looks so normal," I commented. I flashed Bonnie a smile. "Until you get inside."
With a flourish, Bonnie pushed the doors open. "That's the point!"
Into the studio we went. The lighting was dim save for center stage. But Bonnie's recreation of her immortal Underground set was vivid and precise. A meticulous restoration.
Sparks still shot from the crude lab equipment. Chemicals boiled in their cauldrons. Coffins collected dust and cobwebs. Hologram lightning flashed through the fake windows. Speakers played a scary soundtrack of sound effects and horror music.
Bonnie smiled at me. "You like it?"
Chuckling, I walked toward an operating table. Toward a white sheet draped over a tall corpse. Always a "regular" on the shows. "Yeah!" I beamed. "This is amazing!"
"I spent weeks getting it all back together."
Curious, I grabbed a hold of the sheet. Eager to see what lied beneath.
"IndieGoGo was a fucking lifesaver," Bonnie went on. "All the fans were so supportive."
I turned to face Bonnie. "I bet! I think I even donated-"
The corpse sprung to life. Through the sheet, their harsh grip snatched my arm. Their tormented scream overpowered the soundtrack.
Panicking, I yelled and struggled to break free. Struggled to escape the corpse and its muffled cries.
All I could make out was bony fingers. And the outline of a manic gaunt face.
"Bonnie!" I cried.
Then the screaming stopped. So did the storm. The entire set.
Uneasy, I looked all around me. Still felt the corpse clinging to my arm.
Laughter erupted.
Cackling, Bonnie ensnared me in a sorority hug. "Oh my God, that was perfect!"
I confronted the laughing corpse. They released me straight into Bonnie's embrace.
"What?" I said, confused. "What is this?"
Like a playful magician, the corpse tugged off the sheet for a slow reveal. Instead of a pale dead body was a pale beautiful blonde. A coed clad in nothing but a black bikini and fake blood. Her smile pure pearls. Her eyes sparkling blue.
"Gotcha!" she cooed with Southern delight.
Bonnie motioned toward her. "Meet Marsha. Marsha, this is Sandra."
Oozing confidence, Marsha hopped off the table.
I stood, dumbfounded. Still recovering from the shock.
Bonnie patted me on the back. Sarcastic reassurance. "She's my... acquaintance."
Wiping fake crimson off her lips, Marsha stepped toward Bonnie. "I like to think I'm more than that."
"Oh, do we now?" Bonnie teased.
They exchanged a wet kiss right in front of me. Their make out session complete with constant ass grabbing. Fake blood got all over Bonnie's pajamas, all over her smooth skin. But I don't think Bonnie cared...
After Marsha threw on some tight jeans and a white tank top, we escorted her to the front porch.
Bonnie grabbed a hold of her hand. A sweet, gentle grip. "You know I want you to stay-"
"You got work, I know," Marsha teased. Grinning, she locked lips with Bonnie once more. A sloppy vampire kiss.
Later that night, Bonnie took the party to her room. Bonnie's bedroom a fusion of horror lore and gaudy camp. Windows showcased the dark yard. Painted spiderwebs decorated the room's black walls. Various framed awards hung by the closet. A tall wooden desk displayed a huge flatscreen and vintage vinyl record player. Even a skull lamp from the 1960s... A skull with either really sticky rubber or real flesh lodged into its eye sockets.
Like a scary sleepover, Bonnie and I chilled together on her queen sized bed. Right beneath her Vampira poster. Each of us held glasses of wine. A half-empty bottle at our disposal.
"Aw, man, you were an original!" Bonnie said.
"Totally!" I responded. "Going back to the Underground!"
Leaning up, Bonnie entered a nostalgic silence. A brief one. Hosts never stayed quiet for long... "Honestly, I'm really glad I made an impact," she said.
"What do you mean?"
Bonnie motioned toward me. "I mean with you! It's amazing, really." Getting closer, she sat campfire-style right in front of me. "I mean all these cool people loved me on Underground. And now they watch my show, they say I influenced them to make movies and to watch all these classics."
"You did," I commented.
Bonnie caressed my shoulder. "But at the end of the day, you're one of the most talented filmmakers I've ever seen, Sandra."
Blushing, I avoided eye contact. Even teared up... I couldn't help it. This was the praise Sandra Hicks always wanted.
"I've read the scripts, seen your videos," Bonnie went on. "You've got serious talent, babe." Her calm grip squeezed my shoulder. "And I ain't just saying that, Sandra, trust me. I know movies."
Chuckling, I looked into her beaming eyes. Her big wide grin.
"You know I do," Bonnie said. "You're like an Ida Lupino or Jack Hill, you've got that wild vision I love!"
My heart jumped for joy. Bonnie's comments elicited nothing but electricity.
Keeping her movie star poise, Bonnie leaned back. "I watch so many movies and read all these scripts for people and fans." She kept her eyes on me. "But you're the best, Sandra. I mean it."
I nodded, unable to suppress my grin. "Thank you."
"I'm glad to have you aboard!" Bonnie held her glass toward me. "Cheers, bitch."
Excited, I clanged my glass into hers. Not even flinching when I felt red wine splash over me. Now Bonnie and I matched. Blood sisters.
A subtle panic overtook Bonnie. "Oh shit!" she yelled. "What time is it?"
I took another sip. "Why?"
Bonnie checked her phone. "Damn! Ten thirty-five!"
Amused, I watched Bonnie put her glass down and snatch a remote control. Faster than fourteen-year-old Sandra on those late Friday nights...
"I'm missing Raven's Home!" Bonnie said. One frantic hit turned on the flatscreen.
"Raven's what?" I asked. "Like the Disney channel?"
Clutching the remote, Bonnie confronted me. "Yes! It's a new episode!"
I let out a drunken laugh. "Oh, well put it on."
Shushing me, Bonnie looked back toward the T.V. Toward the candy colored Disney cheese.
The show was cringey at best. Honestly, I had no idea Raven Symone had a Disney homecoming.
Yet Bonnie sat right there, riveted. As if she were watching Coffy or Freaks on TCM Underground. And she never once spoke to me. Her laughter aligned with the canned studio audience. Hysterical laughter...
Raven's Home drove me to another glass. During a commercial, I attempted to make contact. "Hey, Bonnie," I said.
"Shh!" Bonnie responded. Confronting me, she pointed toward the T.V. "Just listen!"
The volume rose and Kylie Cantrall's "That's What I'm Talkin' Bout" exploded before me. A corny yet captivating middle school rap song... and I'll be damned if it wasn't the catchiest thing I'd ever heard.
The music video was dominated by a cute thirteen-year-old girl full of swag and more close-ups than a Hitchcock suspense scene. And Bonnie ate it up. She rapped along to the lyrics, knowing every one of them. A true fangirl.
The Disney onslaught lasted well into the night. And well into another bottle. There was Sydney To The Max, Bunk'd, and the Millennial staple Jessie. Our sleepover had apparently traveled back to the seventh grade... Not that I was complaining. The drunker Bonnie got, the more she at least talked to me. Never before had I discussed Brian De Palma with Andi Mack on in the background.
We passed out around three A.M. Morning sunlight woke me up. As did the brief hangover. I was all alone in Bonnie's bedroom.
Loud cries and screams grabbed my attention. Not to mention the blaring fake "thunder." Still half-asleep, I stumbled out into the living room. Right toward Bonnie's cult movie playland.
Through the storm sound effects and through the Friday The 13th movie playing in Bonnie's home theater (Part VII: The New Blood to be exact), I could hear moaning. Thrusting. Carnal excitement. And no, the pleasure wasn't stemming from a Friday The 13th sex scene...
Entering from the hallway, I came to a sudden stop. I didn't quite gasp. Or flinch. Just watched in stunned silence. Aroused silence... Hey, this girl hadn't got laid in quite some time. And the sight before me was hottt...
On a leather couch, Bonnie and a younger man made love. Passionate, hot, sweaty sex. Bonnie in just a bra, the man completely naked. Bonnie's moans coincided with the constant thunder. Her lover's powerful thrusts with Jason Voorhees's slashing.
I could tell the hot guy was yet another college kid. Barely twenty-one. Possibly a football player judging by the physique, bubble butt, and biceps. His long brown hair draped down to his wide shoulders. And he was full of energy...
Leaning up, Bonnie saw me. Rather than embarrassment, her trademark smile appeared. "Oh, Sandra! Hey."
"Oh shit!" I heard the stud exclaim.
Laughing, Bonnie pushed him away. "It's okay, she's cool."
I couldn't help but grin. I wasn't complaining... especially with a front row seat to the action and eye candy.
"Sorry!" the guy said as he grabbed his clothes.
Sliding on her panties, Bonnie motioned toward him. "That's Henry!" She threw on a pair of jeans and Texas Chainsaw shirt.
I waved at him. "Hi." Henry putting on his tight shorts held my gaze. Henry was tall. His teeth perfect. His bright eyes fiercer than that Southern accent.
"Yeah, sorry about that," Henry said. He threw on a FSU tee. "She said you were sleeping."
Like a queen on her throne, Bonnie leaned back on the couch. I saw another glass of wine in her hand. "She was," Bonnie remarked. "I let her sleep in."
"You didn't say she was hot," Henry teased.
I blushed. "Oh, thank you," I stuttered out.
Leaning over, Bonnie slapped Henry's bouncy ass. "Alright, hit the road, Jack!"
"Call me later," Henry replied.
Later on, Bonnie and I made the descent down to The Underground. Sitting at the operating table, we let the scary soundtrack swirl around us. A Bonnie-curated mix veering between sound effects, iconic horror soundtracks, and Halloween rock.
Using Bonnie's laptop, I scrolled through her latest segments. The footage raw but potent.
"You think you can work with these?" Bonnie asked.
"Yeah, definitely," I replied.
Bonnie put down an empty glass of wine. "Ugh, I'm so glad I got an assistant." She gazed around her horror bunker. "I got tired of shooting everything by myself."
"I bet." Following Bonnie's eyes, I took note of several weapons positioned on a brick wall. These weren't props but real axes and knives. One axe in particular featured a hand-carved red handle. "Did you really shoot all the wraparounds?"
"Yeah. The fans kept wanting more and more." Bonnie smiled at me. "And well, you know how I am."
Straining, I struggled to see faint stains on the axe's blade. Dark scattered stains. I figured they were just decoration. Or at least, I hoped.
"I gotta please the fans," Bonnie went on, her tone more melodramatic. "They want content, and I gotta feed them. I mean you saw those college kids! They love me, Sandra!"
I watched Bonnie soak up the spotlight. And she was right. Over the past few years, she had become more popular. A YouTube rejuvenation led her from cult obscurity to horror superstardom. And deep down, I actually felt a little jealous... Hipster fandom was a complex thing.
"So, let's do this together," Bonnie said. Full of warmth, she grabbed my shoulders. Her sincerity shined through the camp. "With your help, Sandra, the segments'll be amazing. We got the movies. We'll be a great team."
Comforted from the cold air, I nodded. "I know. This is just amazing... Thank you." Turning, I looked back at the laptop. Another clip showed Bonnie dancing to Jack And Jim's "Midnight Monsters Hop." Her stage complete with plastic skeletons and a fake cemetery.
I struggled to fight back the reflective tears. "This is a dream come true," I said. "Honestly."
Supportive, Bonnie wrapped her arm around me. "And we'll share the dream. This is it, Sandra."
"Thank you," I told her. "I'm serious, I'm really excited."
In producer mode, Bonnie stood up. Ready for business. "Well, you wanna see your first movie?"
Amused, I watched her walk toward the living room. "Uh, sure."
Bonnie pointed at me. A twinkle in her eyes. "Just wait right there."
Left alone, I turned my attention to the laptop. A list of other raw Bonnie intros greeted me: Bonnie doing scary stand-up. Parodying a cooking show. Even an aerobics episode.
The smile stayed on my face. Diving further into the filmography, I scanned through Bonnie's other files. She had plenty of public domain horror movies ready for the show. Lost 80s VHS classics. Not to mention some more modern microbudget movies I'd never heard of. Low-budget exploitation, most of it shot in Florida.
Aside from the movies, I discovered Bonnie's Disney Channel library. There were full episodes, music videos. The Disney fluff such a strange balance to Bonnie's darkness.
"Alright, I got it!" I heard Bonnie yell.
Startled, I clicked off all the Disney data. Back to YouTube. "Cool," I replied.
Bonnie rushed up to a small flatscreen. Excitement both on her face and in her pace. "I just need you to shoot the outro for me." She placed a DVD in the player.
"Yeah, no problem."
"This one was actually shot in Tally!" Bonnie continued, her voice and movie knowledge entering manic mode. "By an FSU grad! She's a big fan like you."
Helpless to her charm, I released a smile. "So is this recent?"
Bonnie stepped toward me. Away from the T.V. "Yeah, it just came out," she said.
"Wait, like this year-"
"Just watch!" Bonnie interrupted. Teasing me, she put a finger to her lips and backed off toward the lab.
Intrigued, I watched the movie play out. A synth score and dark red font greeted me. The Lanaed Drive Slaughterhouse
I gotta say it wasn't bad. For once, we had an 80s throwback slasher relying on a cool storyline rather than pretentious "style." Not to mention amazing kills... The gore was visceral rather than theatrical.
Throughout the screening, I noticed Bonnie watching from the cauldrons. Her wide eyes glued to the screen. A woman possessed by the movies. Riveted by every scene. She even digested the cheap slashers like a studious film scholar.
Near the end of Slaughterhouse, a character gave me deja vu. Unease hit me. The movie featured a hot blonde tied-up in a kitchen. Bound-and-gagged in duct tape, she moved about in her seat, sending her long hair everywhere. Her desperate attempts to escape remained restrained. Her cries muffled.
And through the movie's bright lighting, I recognized the girl. The coed. Marsha. Not even the running mascara could ruin her luscious beauty. And neither could her abundance of bleeding cuts and scratches.
Deep in my sickened gut, I realized Marsha still wore the same jeans and tank top. The outfit I last saw her in...
I stole a glance at Bonnie. She wasn't watching me... Instead, Bonnie had her arms folded tight. A euphoria built up inside her from the sly smile to the compulsive trembling.
A revving chainsaw brought me back to the flatscreen. And the movie's masked slashers descended upon Marsha. The killers dressed in black robes. Their faces disguised by intricate masks: one wearing a skull mask, the other an old hag. The chainsaw was long and lean. And the other killer held a vicious axe. The blade sharp and steady. The axe with a familiar red handle...
The deja vu decimated me again. I knew the weapon was from Bonnie's collection.
I forced myself to keep watching. Carnage ensued. An eerie church organ score became Marsha's funeral bells. Or what I hoped was only her character's demise.
Marsha's reactions felt real. Her pain up close and personal. Blood re-decorated the kitchen. Thick guts tumbled from Marsha's chest. An avalanche of gore. The evisceration beyond precise. I wanted to keep telling myself it's only a movie, it's only a movie. But it was a reassuring mantra I just couldn't believe. There was no way Marsha was that good of an actress...
On screen, the killers got to work on Marsha's limbs. Deliberate, slow sawing took off the legs and arms. Then in a flourishing final cut, Marsha got decapitated. Her corpse now nothing more than a coed of cold cuts.
From there, Lanaed Drive wallowed in more scares, suspense, and bloodshed. But Marsha's death stayed with me. The massacre haunted me.
After the movie, Bonnie turned off the T.V. Like an eager filmmaker, she went one-on-one with me. "So... what'd you think?" she asked.
Still uncomfortable, I hesitated. Too fucking scared to talk. "I-I liked it," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "It was really good."
"See, I told you!" Bonnie gushed. "The local filmmaking scene's amazing out here! We got all these indies that deserve love, man. We can give them a platform!"
Playing along, I sifted in my seat. "Yeah. You're right."
"I don't wanna just show the usual public domain stuff or even the classics," Bonnie went on. She leaned in closer. Her smile brighter than sunshine. "We can breathe life into these new ones! I mean these are the cult filmmakers of our times, Sandra!"
I nodded. Just hoping I disguised my unease. "True."
Bonnie motioned toward me. "Like you, Sandra! Hell, soon enough, I'll get you out there and get your scripts produced! We'll get a production company, I can see it now! Bonnie Blue House Productions!"
Forcing a chuckle, I looked over at the T.V. "Yeah..." I confronted Bonnie. "But why was Marsha in it?"
Bonnie gave me a weird look. "What do you mean?"
"I mean that was her in the end, right? The girl all tied up and getting... you know, slaughtered like a sacrifice."
Back in host mode, Bonnie let out a smug cackle. "Aw, yeah! Of course." She fixated her eyes on me. "Marsha wanted to be in it."
"Oh."
"These are all FSU kids. They work together. I mean shit, who wouldn't wanna be in a movie?"
Staying strong, I sat up in my seat. "But I didn't know she could act."
Bonnie chuckled. "I mean shit, she can't! Did you see her!" Dismissive, she waved toward the T.V. "That's why she had no lines!"
"Aw, I see." I looked toward the door. "Is she coming over tonight?"
Keeping her smile from slithering away, Bonnie just stood there. "Not tonight." She clapped her hands together. "Come on, we got work to do."
I followed orders. Against my better judgment and common sense. Against my intuition. But I had no choice... This was Bonnie's house after all. Not to mention my job.
So we filmed a cheesy sequence for the end of The Lanaed Drive Slaughterhouse. And honestly, Bonnie's segment was fucking awesome. We shot her in a ridiculous police uniform. Bonnie a cop harassing a couple of fake corpses. We finished the shoot in just over an hour.
Staying professional, I joined Bonnie for a mini-wrap party. Just her and I hanging out in her bedroom. The Disney Channel our background. Pizza and wine our dinner. At least, the booze soothed my shivers. Another sleepover a welcome distraction from the disturbing "death" I witnessed earlier.
"I feel like today's climate is just so different," Bonnie reflected. "We've got more movies now, so what I do is even more important. I'm no longer the graveyard of failures for the artists who couldn't get into theaters or home video." She took another sip, spilling red wine over her chin. "Streaming's changed the game. And now we're just pushing it further, Sandra."
Suppressing my fear, I kept watching Raven's Home. "Yeah, that's true," I commented.
Bonnie grabbed my arm. A persuasive grip. "We can really do this, girl! We'll have more than just a channel!"
I stared into her beaming bright eyes.
"We'll be filmmakers, producers!" Bonnie continued. "The whole shebang, man!"
And a few hours later, Bonnie Blue Bones was out. An early drunken slumber.
On my fourth glass, I stumbled back to my bedroom. Dazed and disoriented but the fear kept me awake.
"That's What I'm Talkin' Bout" followed me the whole way. Up until the storm effects drowned out Kylie. And then the chilling "kill, kill, kill" Friday The 13th theme hit me in my guest room. Amidst my unsettled state, I realized I had no way of turning it off...
Lying down beneath the Jason mask, I scrolled through the comments on Bonnie's YouTube channel. Her Facebook group pages. Twitter account. All of Bonnie's fan sites. Her following was so strong... and she had a rabid fan base at that.
They all adored the new movies. Best gore ever! So sick! read some of the comments. The perfect mix between cult classics and future cult classics! A new hotspot for aspiring filmmakers, courtesy of Bonnie Blue Bones's Approval! gushed the reviews. My investigation made me realize Bonnie had that rare commodity for a YouTube channel: a community consensus.
I knew Bonnie's intentions were honorable. I mean if I'd known she showcased indie cinema, I'd have shot my first feature last year. But then there was the gore. Marsha's violent on-screen death stayed with me. Her tormented expression even entered my nightmare.
Around eight A.M., I woke up with a start. Hungover from both the drinks and terrifying dreams. For once, the house was quiet. There were no movie themes or relentless thunder. Just steady silence. And yet I was still scared.
Cautious, I stepped out of bed and made my way down the hall. Bonnie's bedroom awaited me.
"Hey," I said in a weak voice. I stopped in the doorway. But no one was there. Just Bonnie's open laptop sitting right in the center of the bed.
I checked the living room for good measure. Then the kitchen. But Bonnie was gone. Here I was home alone in this horror museum.
Curiosity forced me back to Bonnie's room. I logged into her computer. Bonnie's e-mails stared back at me. The most recent one from Daisy Gerstad. The message's subject: New movie
Like a hacker, I scrolled through the thread. Several of Gerstad's lines stood out: It's gonna be hard to cast him FSU football player would be our biggest name yet
Bonnie's persistence stood out. For the first time, I got to see Director Bonnie on display. Just cast him! she responded. Just fucking do it, Daisy!
Another thread caught my eye. E-mails from Johnny Browning. The subject was only one word... but just enough to send chills down my spine. Marsha
Full of dread, I turned away. I noticed Bonnie's closet was cracked open. Wide enough for me to get a peek.
Sharp metal glistened back at me. I could see a long dagger surrounded by other knives. Bonnie's closet yet another arsenal in her house of horrors...
Thunder roared outside. Scared shitless, I jumped off the bed and whirled around.
Through the windows, I saw rain come pouring down. Lightning flashed. The sudden storm had surprised me. A real storm. I saw no sign of life in suburbia either...
I stood there trembling. The frightening posters and memorabilia weren't helping. Not even Disney Channel or red wine could alleviate my fear at this point. Not when I'd descended this far into Bonnie's dungeon.
"Sandra!" a booming Southern accent hollered out.
Hesitant, I stumbled over toward the doorway. Struggling with my sinking gut...
"Come in here!" Bonnie yelled.
I forced myself into the living room. Toward the smiling Bonnie.
Eager, she stood right by the towering T.V. Her Gothic attire of black robes and skull-flavored headband helped make Bonnie ready for her close-up.
She held up a burnt DVD. Crude black marker handwriting spelled out a title: Wholesome Werewolf
"I got a new one!" Bonnie beamed.
Ferocious thunder shook the house. I turned and looked out at the storm. The rain became heavier. The lightning more vivid. The storm settling in for good...
A hard pull brought me closer toward Bonnie. Her tight grip squeezed my arm.
"I just got it this morning!" she said, her voice on a rapturous rampage. "Daisy Gerstad did it, she's an amazing talent. She goes to FSU, loves classic movies like you!"
"Oh, okay..." I stammered.
I noticed a spiked box sitting by the T.V. Stacks of burned DVDs piled up inside. All of them horror. The Lanaed Road Slaughterhouse sat at the top of the heap. And so many more selections were there for Bonnie's channel...
Bonnie jammed Wholesome Werewolf into the player. "Here, check it out!" she said. Her excited eyes faced me. "Daisy just finished it!"
Growing more nervous by the second, I looked all around the room. "Is Marsha coming over?" I confronted Bonnie. "What about Henry?"
Chuckling, Bonnie waved me off. "Naw, bitch!" She stopped next to me. "It's just you and me." With that, she motioned me toward the flatscreen.
Wholesome Werewolf started off with a bang. The footage was smooth. The soundtrack a harrowing mix of snarls and scare chords.
And there was Henry in the opening scene. Clad in his tight shorts and FSU tee. The clothes he had on when I last saw him.
Breathing heavy, Henry stumbled around a dark forest. Through a village of tall trees and high grass. His visible fear at an apex.
All the while, the camera stayed on him. Henry without much screen presence. Without much awareness.
He leaned against a tree, exhausted. His good looks besieged by raw fright. A piano chord rang out. Then came yet another savage howl.
Henry looked all around the nocturnal wasteland. His helplessness obvious. No escape in sight.
I noticed Bonnie's smile only grew bigger. Her eyes ate up the hunk and footage. Excitement entrenched itself in her constant manic tics.
The camera got closer and closer to Henry. Closer to his fear.
Weeping, Henry held on to the tree for dear life. His expression veered from frightened to hopeless despair.
Trembling, I turned away. What I was watching wasn't fun or entertaining. Just downright disturbing.
Bonnie snatched my wrist. With a killer smile, she stared into my soul. "Just keep watching, Sandra," she said, her Southern politeness disguising a cruel demand.
Like a prisoner, I faced the screen. Forced to face Henry's horror. His acting debut.
Another snarl pierced through the soundtrack. This one the loudest, most sadistic howl yet.
Henry closed his eyes. His tears kept rolling. His fingernails dug deep into the bark.
"Oh boy!" I heard Bonnie mumble.
The consistent piano chords matched Henry's heightened dread. "Help!" he screamed. "Somebody help me!"
From behind him, a werewolf emerged through the darkness. A tall, terrifying beast. Its red eyes focused, its teeth so damn sharp. Tufts of clunky black hair encircled the monster's long protruding snout. Dry blood stains were scattered all across its thick fur.
And then I realized what an unsettling mask this Wholesome Werewolf had. Its plastic face a canvas of sloppy paint and crude latex. But still, this was one Hell of a jump scare. One Hell of a monster. And then came one Hell of a kill.
The werewolf grabbed Henry's arms. Caught by surprise, Henry had no chance. No matter how much he squirmed and tried to throw a punch, the creature's death grip was too much.
Saliva dripped off the snout. Then the beast revealed its army of extended claws and ripped out a chunk of Henry's throat.
The camera secured the close-up. All the mangled flesh a feast for Bonnie's eyes. A gruesome money shot.
Blood spurted across the lens. Henry's mouth dropped agape. His life nothing more than intermittent trembling. Blood spilled on to his garnet and gold t-shirt. His neck like a gory puzzle missing crucial pieces. His exposed muscles pulsated, leaking nothing but crimson.
Terror conquered me. I knew the gore was too real. Too elaborate for this budget. More medical video than torture porn. And a football hunk like Henry wasn't gonna be that great of an actor.
On screen, the werewolf lunged into Henry's neck. Their howls more murkier the more flesh they consumed. Their gruesome buffet of blood grew messy but the camera never wavered. Never squirmed from the massacre.
Next to me, Bonnie yelled in delight. And I just stared on at the gore, horrified beyond belief. My stomach in knots. My soul ravaged.
Henry's head titled back. His eyes blinked somewhere between life and death. Like an exploding blender, bits of flesh sprayed through the woods. Red paint for the trees and shrubbery. Henry's neck got skinnier and more mangled by the second.
I staggered back. "Turn it off!" I yelled.
Bonnie turned and looked right at me. Her smile still there. Her staunch gaze a spotlight to my shivering state.
"Turn it off, Goddammit!" I cried.
Behind Bonnie, the flatscreen continued the carnage. The werewolf's paws now tore through Henry's stomach, ripping out innards with the ferocity of a child digging through a goody bag.
"God... you're crazy," I muttered. Fighting back tears, I glared at Bonnie Blue. "You're fucking crazy! You killed them!"
Bonnie took a confident step toward me. "Now why do you say that, Sandra?"
Breathing heavy, I stopped next to the kitchen doorway. Doing my damnedest to keep glowering... even as I felt nothing but fear.
"We love movies, you and I," Bonnie's accent cooed. "That means movies of all styles. All subgenres." She got closer, inches away from me. "Even the really gory and edgy ones."
Uncomfortable, I entered the kitchen. Bonnie's quick footsteps followed after me.
"Sandra," she said.
I came to a terrified stop. Seated at the kitchen table were slaughtered corpses. College-age corpses. The four of them positioned like an art exhibit. I only recognized two: Marsha and Henry. Or what was left of them.
Their torsos sat in the chairs. Their severed pieces and guts scattered all across the table.
"Oh God!" I screamed. I turned to confront the grinning Bonnie. "You fucking killed them!"
Back in host mode, Bonnie Blue Bones chuckled. Her elaborate outfit made her look right at home. The kitchen now her set. Our conversation an ominous outro for Wholesome Werewolf.
"How could you!" I yelled. Unable to restrain my fear, I motioned my trembling hand toward the table. "You didn't have to kill anyone, Bonnie! You were already famous!"
Bonnie's smile stayed stagnant. "And I didn't," she remarked. "I never killed anyone, Sandra."
A pair of calm footsteps startled me. I turned toward the doorway.
Three killers stood there. Three stars. The slashers of Lanaed Road dressed in their robes. Their skull and old hag masks. The Wholesome Werewolf stood next to them. Mask or not, Daisy's costume was brilliant. And just as scary in person...
Rather than weapons, the three of them wielded cameras. Even the werewolf. I was positive Johnny Browning was the skull or hag. Before me were three different filmmakers...
With a theatrical cackle, Bonnie pointed at them. "They're the ones who do it, Sandra! Not me!"
The killers stood strong. Regal. Behind the masks, I knew they were looking right at me. And in a sickening epiphany, I realized we at least had something in common: all of us were aspiring filmmakers on a mission.
"I take submissions, Sandra! I give them an outlet!" Bonnie went on. She grabbed my arm and leaned in closer. Fiery intensity overtook her horror shtick. The passion of Bonnie Blue Bones now in overdrive. "If they wanna kill for it, I let them! This is cinema, Sandra!" She waved her hands around in a wild flourish. "This is what you, I, and all the fans want!"
Unable to say a single word, I backed away. Straight into a wall. Surrounded by corpses, psycho directors, and the great Bonnie Blue Bones herself. Surrounded by cinema.
"I've got a whole production company lined up, Sandra," Bonnie went on.
The three masks stared on at me. As did their unflinching cameras. This cinema cult wanted me, that much was certain.
Bonnie stepped toward me. A singular seriousness replaced her grin. "Now, Sandra, this is one Hell of an opportunity." She grabbed my shoulder in a harsh grip. "Now do you want to stay? To be a famous director. To shoot my intros and outros and shoot your first movie." She leaned in closer, her piercing eyes emblazoned deep into my flesh. "Or do you want us to just cast you in a supporting role instead?"
14

Bonnie Blue Bones was my hero. On late Friday nights, she was my constant companion. The best friend Sandra Hicks never had.
So what if I didn't actually know her? Bonnie was brilliant. Pale and flamboyant, she wore her long black hair in a beehive. And even with an average figure, still showed off her body in tight Gothic clothes. Her bright eyes so radiant. Her Southern accent a perfect blend of playful hokeyness and friendly warmth. Her curved smile tailor-made for terror T.V.
Bonnie had a proud, ferocious screen presence. She was a true movie geek. And her sets were amazing. Even when she curated great films, her bookends on TCM Underground always stole the show. And beyond her style, Bonnie's wit and passion enthralled me. She was Tales From The Horror Hipster. And always there for me on those lonely Fridays.
But after a few years dominating my weekends, Bonnie became a casualty of Turner Classic Movies' firing squad. Without a host, TCM Underground and its catalog of eclectic horror and cult cinema continued airing every Friday at 2 A.M. But it wasn't the same without Bonnie. Like a death in the family, I felt alone.
All I had was the awesome memories. Bonnie Blue inspired me. Inspired Sandra Hicks The Filmmaker. My movie education started right there on Underground. Bonnie the only film professor I'd ever need. There were the scary black-and-white horror classics like Freaks and Carnival Of Souls, the blaxploitation gems like Coffy and Black Caesar, the sleazy slashers like Two Thousand Maniacs! and Silent Night, Deadly Night, the forgotten 1970s vampire movies like Let's Scare Jessica To Death and Lemora... And so many more.
I was only fourteen when the Underground debuted. I was a loner, for sure. A quirky young emo without a cause. Worst of all, this was the dark days before YouTube and Twitter. All I had were my parents and Bonnie. No one else to share my passion for classic horror and scary shit with. So yeah, I was an awkward teen. And I became an even more awkward adult.
Now 28, I was a freelance filmmaker in Tampa Bay, Florida. With a degree and some financial support from the folks, I made a decent living. Just shooting commercials, corporate videos. Nothing too creative. In my spare time, I wrote as much as possible. Still chasing the dream of shooting my own scripts and being the next John Carpenter one day.
Far from skinny or fat, I was just your average slacker black girl. My "Bohemian" fashion a result of laziness and clearance-rack bankroll. I kept my hair short and aloof. And thankfully, the combination of late night writing, coffee, and alcohol still hadn't hurt my youthful face. Or my restless spirit.
But soon, curiosity got the better of me. When TCM showed Carnival Of Souls the other night, the reminiscing returned.
So I looked up Bonnie Blue Bones. And to my surprise, she was enjoying quite the resurgence.
In the last few years, the industry had changed so much. With the rise of the internet, streaming, and podcasts, Bonnie Blue fought back against the major corporations who rejected her. And now she had a YouTube empire.
On her channel BonnieBlueBonesHorror, Bonnie showed all public domain cult movies. Complete with her hosting and critiques, of course. Her livestreamed Q and A sessions a new addition to Bonnie's brilliance.
After all these years, Bonnie was still so charming. Still wearing those tight black dresses and suits, she hadn't aged, gained a belly, or become jaded. She was still the Queen Of Weird Cinema.
In July, I binge-watched the shit out of her channel. And then I shot Bonnie an e-mail. I introduced myself, said I was her biggest fan. And yeah, I mentioned that I was an O.G. going all the way back to her TCM Underground days...
Her reply greeted me a day later. One from Bonnie herself. She wanted me to come film her hosting segments. Out at her home studio in Tallahassee, Florida.
The once in a lifetime opportunity hit me hard. Yeah, the pay was decent. But the dream proved more alluring. The nostalgia.
A quick phone call sealed the deal. Bonnie's charismatic voice just as potent on the line as it was on the air. Her Southern accent still strong.
So I made the trip. Soon, the interstate gave way to rural highways. The palm trees of South Florida replaced by kitschy restaurants and sleazy nightclubs. Not even the Capitol building and marshland could hide Tallahassee's college town aesthetic.
Around midnight, I pulled up into Bonnie's driveway. Parked behind a few Toyotas. Her suburban two-story brick house was just... normal. Like a snapshot from a bland lifestyle magazine. A wooden front porch held bland rocking chairs. Bonnie's lawn so clean and void of life besides a few metal flamingos. Honestly, I was disappointed to not even see a fake tombstone...
I scanned the suburbs. The houses all looked the same. The lights off in every window. Every house was asleep... except for the one before me.
Holding my bags, I stepped out into the late breeze. Heard the front door swing open and a beloved voice ring out.
"Sandra!" Bonnie yelled.
My eyes darted toward the porch. There a smiling Bonnie stood. The lights from inside decorated her smooth skin and black pajamas. I could sense excitement. Then again, her glass of red wine was probably helping...
Trying to suppress my anxiety, I grinned. "Hey!" I said in my deep baritone.
"Welcome home," Bonnie teased. Splashing wine everywhere, she waved me inside. "Welcome to The Underground!"
Bonnie's house was theatrical. The ceilings high. A home theater system. And unlike the outside, her cinema obsession was well on display. There were obscure posters and movie props galore. Everything from original Chucky dolls to a Maltese Falcon statue replica. And all of this was just in the living room and kitchen... you know, the "normal" areas.
Like she was back on set, Bonnie played the host, showing off everything. Every one of the bedrooms even had a theme. I got the Friday The 13th one complete with blood red walls and a glow-in-the-dark Jason hockey mask. Not to mention speakers playing the series’ iconic score.
As we journeyed down the hallway leading to Bonnie's "basement" studio, the air got colder. The lights dimmer. Hologram lightning flashed. Overhead speakers portrayed a ferocious storm.
At this point, I was two glasses of wine in. But not even drunk Sandra could contain her enthusiasm.
Bonnie and I hit it off immediately. Two movie geeks in our element.
"Honestly, I thought you'd be living in a haunted castle or something," I joked.
Together, we passed a tall Wolf Man statue.
"Like a morgue," Bonnie chuckled.
Taking another sip, I confronted the double red doors looming in the very back. The studio entrance.
"It just looks so normal," I commented. I flashed Bonnie a smile. "Until you get inside."
With a flourish, Bonnie pushed the doors open. "That's the point!"
Into the studio we went. The lighting was dim save for center stage. But Bonnie's recreation of her immortal Underground set was vivid and precise. A meticulous restoration.
Sparks still shot from the crude lab equipment. Chemicals boiled in their cauldrons. Coffins collected dust and cobwebs. Hologram lightning flashed through the fake windows. Speakers played a scary soundtrack of sound effects and horror music.
Bonnie smiled at me. "You like it?"
Chuckling, I walked toward an operating table. Toward a white sheet draped over a tall corpse. Always a "regular" on the shows. "Yeah!" I beamed. "This is amazing!"
"I spent weeks getting it all back together."
Curious, I grabbed a hold of the sheet. Eager to see what lied beneath.
"IndieGoGo was a fucking lifesaver," Bonnie went on. "All the fans were so supportive."
I turned to face Bonnie. "I bet! I think I even donated-"
The corpse sprung to life. Through the sheet, their harsh grip snatched my arm. Their tormented scream overpowered the soundtrack.
Panicking, I yelled and struggled to break free. Struggled to escape the corpse and its muffled cries.
All I could make out was bony fingers. And the outline of a manic gaunt face.
"Bonnie!" I cried.
Then the screaming stopped. So did the storm. The entire set.
Uneasy, I looked all around me. Still felt the corpse clinging to my arm.
Laughter erupted.
Cackling, Bonnie ensnared me in a sorority hug. "Oh my God, that was perfect!"
I confronted the laughing corpse. They released me straight into Bonnie's embrace.
"What?" I said, confused. "What is this?"
Like a playful magician, the corpse tugged off the sheet for a slow reveal. Instead of a pale dead body was a pale beautiful blonde. A coed clad in nothing but a black bikini and fake blood. Her smile pure pearls. Her eyes sparkling blue.
"Gotcha!" she cooed with Southern delight.
Bonnie motioned toward her. "Meet Marsha. Marsha, this is Sandra."
Oozing confidence, Marsha hopped off the table.
I stood, dumbfounded. Still recovering from the shock.
Bonnie patted me on the back. Sarcastic reassurance. "She's my... acquaintance."
Wiping fake crimson off her lips, Marsha stepped toward Bonnie. "I like to think I'm more than that."
"Oh, do we now?" Bonnie teased.
They exchanged a wet kiss right in front of me. Their make out session complete with constant ass grabbing. Fake blood got all over Bonnie's pajamas, all over her smooth skin. But I don't think Bonnie cared...
After Marsha threw on some tight jeans and a white tank top, we escorted her to the front porch.
Bonnie grabbed a hold of her hand. A sweet, gentle grip. "You know I want you to stay-"
"You got work, I know," Marsha teased. Grinning, she locked lips with Bonnie once more. A sloppy vampire kiss.
Later that night, Bonnie took the party to her room. Bonnie's bedroom a fusion of horror lore and gaudy camp. Windows showcased the dark yard. Painted spiderwebs decorated the room's black walls. Various framed awards hung by the closet. A tall wooden desk displayed a huge flatscreen and vintage vinyl record player. Even a skull lamp from the 1960s... A skull with either really sticky rubber or real flesh lodged into its eye sockets.
Like a scary sleepover, Bonnie and I chilled together on her queen sized bed. Right beneath her Vampira poster. Each of us held glasses of wine. A half-empty bottle at our disposal.
"Aw, man, you were an original!" Bonnie said.
"Totally!" I responded. "Going back to the Underground!"
Leaning up, Bonnie entered a nostalgic silence. A brief one. Hosts never stayed quiet for long... "Honestly, I'm really glad I made an impact," she said.
"What do you mean?"
Bonnie motioned toward me. "I mean with you! It's amazing, really." Getting closer, she sat campfire-style right in front of me. "I mean all these cool people loved me on Underground. And now they watch my show, they say I influenced them to make movies and to watch all these classics."
"You did," I commented.
Bonnie caressed my shoulder. "But at the end of the day, you're one of the most talented filmmakers I've ever seen, Sandra."
Blushing, I avoided eye contact. Even teared up... I couldn't help it. This was the praise Sandra Hicks always wanted.
"I've read the scripts, seen your videos," Bonnie went on. "You've got serious talent, babe." Her calm grip squeezed my shoulder. "And I ain't just saying that, Sandra, trust me. I know movies."
Chuckling, I looked into her beaming eyes. Her big wide grin.
"You know I do," Bonnie said. "You're like an Ida Lupino or Jack Hill, you've got that wild vision I love!"
My heart jumped for joy. Bonnie's comments elicited nothing but electricity.
Keeping her movie star poise, Bonnie leaned back. "I watch so many movies and read all these scripts for people and fans." She kept her eyes on me. "But you're the best, Sandra. I mean it."
I nodded, unable to suppress my grin. "Thank you."
"I'm glad to have you aboard!" Bonnie held her glass toward me. "Cheers, bitch."
Excited, I clanged my glass into hers. Not even flinching when I felt red wine splash over me. Now Bonnie and I matched. Blood sisters.
A subtle panic overtook Bonnie. "Oh shit!" she yelled. "What time is it?"
I took another sip. "Why?"
Bonnie checked her phone. "Damn! Ten thirty-five!"
Amused, I watched Bonnie put her glass down and snatch a remote control. Faster than fourteen-year-old Sandra on those late Friday nights...
"I'm missing Raven's Home!" Bonnie said. One frantic hit turned on the flatscreen.
"Raven's what?" I asked. "Like the Disney channel?"
Clutching the remote, Bonnie confronted me. "Yes! It's a new episode!"
I let out a drunken laugh. "Oh, well put it on."
Shushing me, Bonnie looked back toward the T.V. Toward the candy colored Disney cheese.
The show was cringey at best. Honestly, I had no idea Raven Symone had a Disney homecoming.
Yet Bonnie sat right there, riveted. As if she were watching Coffy or Freaks on TCM Underground. And she never once spoke to me. Her laughter aligned with the canned studio audience. Hysterical laughter...
Raven's Home drove me to another glass. During a commercial, I attempted to make contact. "Hey, Bonnie," I said.
"Shh!" Bonnie responded. Confronting me, she pointed toward the T.V. "Just listen!"
The volume rose and Kylie Cantrall's "That's What I'm Talkin' Bout" exploded before me. A corny yet captivating middle school rap song... and I'll be damned if it wasn't the catchiest thing I'd ever heard.
The music video was dominated by a cute thirteen-year-old girl full of swag and more close-ups than a Hitchcock suspense scene. And Bonnie ate it up. She rapped along to the lyrics, knowing every one of them. A true fangirl.
The Disney onslaught lasted well into the night. And well into another bottle. There was Sydney To The Max, Bunk'd, and the Millennial staple Jessie. Our sleepover had apparently traveled back to the seventh grade... Not that I was complaining. The drunker Bonnie got, the more she at least talked to me. Never before had I discussed Brian De Palma with Andi Mack on in the background.
We passed out around three A.M. Morning sunlight woke me up. As did the brief hangover. I was all alone in Bonnie's bedroom.
Loud cries and screams grabbed my attention. Not to mention the blaring fake "thunder." Still half-asleep, I stumbled out into the living room. Right toward Bonnie's cult movie playland.
Through the storm sound effects and through the Friday The 13th movie playing in Bonnie's home theater (Part VII: The New Blood to be exact), I could hear moaning. Thrusting. Carnal excitement. And no, the pleasure wasn't stemming from a Friday The 13th sex scene...
Entering from the hallway, I came to a sudden stop. I didn't quite gasp. Or flinch. Just watched in stunned silence. Aroused silence... Hey, this girl hadn't got laid in quite some time. And the sight before me was hottt...
On a leather couch, Bonnie and a younger man made love. Passionate, hot, sweaty sex. Bonnie in just a bra, the man completely naked. Bonnie's moans coincided with the constant thunder. Her lover's powerful thrusts with Jason Voorhees's slashing.
I could tell the hot guy was yet another college kid. Barely twenty-one. Possibly a football player judging by the physique, bubble butt, and biceps. His long brown hair draped down to his wide shoulders. And he was full of energy...
Leaning up, Bonnie saw me. Rather than embarrassment, her trademark smile appeared. "Oh, Sandra! Hey."
"Oh shit!" I heard the stud exclaim.
Laughing, Bonnie pushed him away. "It's okay, she's cool."
I couldn't help but grin. I wasn't complaining... especially with a front row seat to the action and eye candy.
"Sorry!" the guy said as he grabbed his clothes.
Sliding on her panties, Bonnie motioned toward him. "That's Henry!" She threw on a pair of jeans and Texas Chainsaw shirt.
I waved at him. "Hi." Henry putting on his tight shorts held my gaze. Henry was tall. His teeth perfect. His bright eyes fiercer than that Southern accent.
"Yeah, sorry about that," Henry said. He threw on a FSU tee. "She said you were sleeping."
Like a queen on her throne, Bonnie leaned back on the couch. I saw another glass of wine in her hand. "She was," Bonnie remarked. "I let her sleep in."
"You didn't say she was hot," Henry teased.
I blushed. "Oh, thank you," I stuttered out.
Leaning over, Bonnie slapped Henry's bouncy ass. "Alright, hit the road, Jack!"
"Call me later," Henry replied.
Later on, Bonnie and I made the descent down to The Underground. Sitting at the operating table, we let the scary soundtrack swirl around us. A Bonnie-curated mix veering between sound effects, iconic horror soundtracks, and Halloween rock.
Using Bonnie's laptop, I scrolled through her latest segments. The footage raw but potent.
"You think you can work with these?" Bonnie asked.
"Yeah, definitely," I replied.
Bonnie put down an empty glass of wine. "Ugh, I'm so glad I got an assistant." She gazed around her horror bunker. "I got tired of shooting everything by myself."
"I bet." Following Bonnie's eyes, I took note of several weapons positioned on a brick wall. These weren't props but real axes and knives. One axe in particular featured a hand-carved red handle. "Did you really shoot all the wraparounds?"
"Yeah. The fans kept wanting more and more." Bonnie smiled at me. "And well, you know how I am."
Straining, I struggled to see faint stains on the axe's blade. Dark scattered stains. I figured they were just decoration. Or at least, I hoped.
"I gotta please the fans," Bonnie went on, her tone more melodramatic. "They want content, and I gotta feed them. I mean you saw those college kids! They love me, Sandra!"
I watched Bonnie soak up the spotlight. And she was right. Over the past few years, she had become more popular. A YouTube rejuvenation led her from cult obscurity to horror superstardom. And deep down, I actually felt a little jealous... Hipster fandom was a complex thing.
"So, let's do this together," Bonnie said. Full of warmth, she grabbed my shoulders. Her sincerity shined through the camp. "With your help, Sandra, the segments'll be amazing. We got the movies. We'll be a great team."
Comforted from the cold air, I nodded. "I know. This is just amazing... Thank you." Turning, I looked back at the laptop. Another clip showed Bonnie dancing to Jack And Jim's "Midnight Monsters Hop." Her stage complete with plastic skeletons and a fake cemetery.
I struggled to fight back the reflective tears. "This is a dream come true," I said. "Honestly."
Supportive, Bonnie wrapped her arm around me. "And we'll share the dream. This is it, Sandra."
"Thank you," I told her. "I'm serious, I'm really excited."
In producer mode, Bonnie stood up. Ready for business. "Well, you wanna see your first movie?"
Amused, I watched her walk toward the living room. "Uh, sure."
Bonnie pointed at me. A twinkle in her eyes. "Just wait right there."
Left alone, I turned my attention to the laptop. A list of other raw Bonnie intros greeted me: Bonnie doing scary stand-up. Parodying a cooking show. Even an aerobics episode.
The smile stayed on my face. Diving further into the filmography, I scanned through Bonnie's other files. She had plenty of public domain horror movies ready for the show. Lost 80s VHS classics. Not to mention some more modern microbudget movies I'd never heard of. Low-budget exploitation, most of it shot in Florida.
Aside from the movies, I discovered Bonnie's Disney Channel library. There were full episodes, music videos. The Disney fluff such a strange balance to Bonnie's darkness.
"Alright, I got it!" I heard Bonnie yell.
Startled, I clicked off all the Disney data. Back to YouTube. "Cool," I replied.
Bonnie rushed up to a small flatscreen. Excitement both on her face and in her pace. "I just need you to shoot the outro for me." She placed a DVD in the player.
"Yeah, no problem."
"This one was actually shot in Tally!" Bonnie continued, her voice and movie knowledge entering manic mode. "By an FSU grad! She's a big fan like you."
Helpless to her charm, I released a smile. "So is this recent?"
Bonnie stepped toward me. Away from the T.V. "Yeah, it just came out," she said.
"Wait, like this year-"
"Just watch!" Bonnie interrupted. Teasing me, she put a finger to her lips and backed off toward the lab.
Intrigued, I watched the movie play out. A synth score and dark red font greeted me. The Lanaed Drive Slaughterhouse
I gotta say it wasn't bad. For once, we had an 80s throwback slasher relying on a cool storyline rather than pretentious "style." Not to mention amazing kills... The gore was visceral rather than theatrical.
Throughout the screening, I noticed Bonnie watching from the cauldrons. Her wide eyes glued to the screen. A woman possessed by the movies. Riveted by every scene. She even digested the cheap slashers like a studious film scholar.
Near the end of Slaughterhouse, a character gave me deja vu. Unease hit me. The movie featured a hot blonde tied-up in a kitchen. Bound-and-gagged in duct tape, she moved about in her seat, sending her long hair everywhere. Her desperate attempts to escape remained restrained. Her cries muffled.
And through the movie's bright lighting, I recognized the girl. The coed. Marsha. Not even the running mascara could ruin her luscious beauty. And neither could her abundance of bleeding cuts and scratches.
Deep in my sickened gut, I realized Marsha still wore the same jeans and tank top. The outfit I last saw her in...
I stole a glance at Bonnie. She wasn't watching me... Instead, Bonnie had her arms folded tight. A euphoria built up inside her from the sly smile to the compulsive trembling.
A revving chainsaw brought me back to the flatscreen. And the movie's masked slashers descended upon Marsha. The killers dressed in black robes. Their faces disguised by intricate masks: one wearing a skull mask, the other an old hag. The chainsaw was long and lean. And the other killer held a vicious axe. The blade sharp and steady. The axe with a familiar red handle...
The deja vu decimated me again. I knew the weapon was from Bonnie's collection.
I forced myself to keep watching. Carnage ensued. An eerie church organ score became Marsha's funeral bells. Or what I hoped was only her character's demise.
Marsha's reactions felt real. Her pain up close and personal. Blood re-decorated the kitchen. Thick guts tumbled from Marsha's chest. An avalanche of gore. The evisceration beyond precise. I wanted to keep telling myself it's only a movie, it's only a movie. But it was a reassuring mantra I just couldn't believe. There was no way Marsha was that good of an actress...
On screen, the killers got to work on Marsha's limbs. Deliberate, slow sawing took off the legs and arms. Then in a flourishing final cut, Marsha got decapitated. Her corpse now nothing more than a coed of cold cuts.
From there, Lanaed Drive wallowed in more scares, suspense, and bloodshed. But Marsha's death stayed with me. The massacre haunted me.
After the movie, Bonnie turned off the T.V. Like an eager filmmaker, she went one-on-one with me. "So... what'd you think?" she asked.
Still uncomfortable, I hesitated. Too fucking scared to talk. "I-I liked it," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "It was really good."
"See, I told you!" Bonnie gushed. "The local filmmaking scene's amazing out here! We got all these indies that deserve love, man. We can give them a platform!"
Playing along, I sifted in my seat. "Yeah. You're right."
"I don't wanna just show the usual public domain stuff or even the classics," Bonnie went on. She leaned in closer. Her smile brighter than sunshine. "We can breathe life into these new ones! I mean these are the cult filmmakers of our times, Sandra!"
I nodded. Just hoping I disguised my unease. "True."
Bonnie motioned toward me. "Like you, Sandra! Hell, soon enough, I'll get you out there and get your scripts produced! We'll get a production company, I can see it now! Bonnie Blue House Productions!"
Forcing a chuckle, I looked over at the T.V. "Yeah..." I confronted Bonnie. "But why was Marsha in it?"
Bonnie gave me a weird look. "What do you mean?"
"I mean that was her in the end, right? The girl all tied up and getting... you know, slaughtered like a sacrifice."
Back in host mode, Bonnie let out a smug cackle. "Aw, yeah! Of course." She fixated her eyes on me. "Marsha wanted to be in it."
"Oh."
"These are all FSU kids. They work together. I mean shit, who wouldn't wanna be in a movie?"
Staying strong, I sat up in my seat. "But I didn't know she could act."
Bonnie chuckled. "I mean shit, she can't! Did you see her!" Dismissive, she waved toward the T.V. "That's why she had no lines!"
"Aw, I see." I looked toward the door. "Is she coming over tonight?"
Keeping her smile from slithering away, Bonnie just stood there. "Not tonight." She clapped her hands together. "Come on, we got work to do."
I followed orders. Against my better judgment and common sense. Against my intuition. But I had no choice... This was Bonnie's house after all. Not to mention my job.
So we filmed a cheesy sequence for the end of The Lanaed Drive Slaughterhouse. And honestly, Bonnie's segment was fucking awesome. We shot her in a ridiculous police uniform. Bonnie a cop harassing a couple of fake corpses. We finished the shoot in just over an hour.
Staying professional, I joined Bonnie for a mini-wrap party. Just her and I hanging out in her bedroom. The Disney Channel our background. Pizza and wine our dinner. At least, the booze soothed my shivers. Another sleepover a welcome distraction from the disturbing "death" I witnessed earlier.
"I feel like today's climate is just so different," Bonnie reflected. "We've got more movies now, so what I do is even more important. I'm no longer the graveyard of failures for the artists who couldn't get into theaters or home video." She took another sip, spilling red wine over her chin. "Streaming's changed the game. And now we're just pushing it further, Sandra."
Suppressing my fear, I kept watching Raven's Home. "Yeah, that's true," I commented.
Bonnie grabbed my arm. A persuasive grip. "We can really do this, girl! We'll have more than just a channel!"
I stared into her beaming bright eyes.
"We'll be filmmakers, producers!" Bonnie continued. "The whole shebang, man!"
And a few hours later, Bonnie Blue Bones was out. An early drunken slumber.
On my fourth glass, I stumbled back to my bedroom. Dazed and disoriented but the fear kept me awake.
"That's What I'm Talkin' Bout" followed me the whole way. Up until the storm effects drowned out Kylie. And then the chilling "kill, kill, kill" Friday The 13th theme hit me in my guest room. Amidst my unsettled state, I realized I had no way of turning it off...
Lying down beneath the Jason mask, I scrolled through the comments on Bonnie's YouTube channel. Her Facebook group pages. Twitter account. All of Bonnie's fan sites. Her following was so strong... and she had a rabid fan base at that.
They all adored the new movies. Best gore ever! So sick! read some of the comments. The perfect mix between cult classics and future cult classics! A new hotspot for aspiring filmmakers, courtesy of Bonnie Blue Bones's Approval! gushed the reviews. My investigation made me realize Bonnie had that rare commodity for a YouTube channel: a community consensus.
I knew Bonnie's intentions were honorable. I mean if I'd known she showcased indie cinema, I'd have shot my first feature last year. But then there was the gore. Marsha's violent on-screen death stayed with me. Her tormented expression even entered my nightmare.
Around eight A.M., I woke up with a start. Hungover from both the drinks and terrifying dreams. For once, the house was quiet. There were no movie themes or relentless thunder. Just steady silence. And yet I was still scared.
Cautious, I stepped out of bed and made my way down the hall. Bonnie's bedroom awaited me.
"Hey," I said in a weak voice. I stopped in the doorway. But no one was there. Just Bonnie's open laptop sitting right in the center of the bed.
I checked the living room for good measure. Then the kitchen. But Bonnie was gone. Here I was home alone in this horror museum.
Curiosity forced me back to Bonnie's room. I logged into her computer. Bonnie's e-mails stared back at me. The most recent one from Daisy Gerstad. The message's subject: New movie
Like a hacker, I scrolled through the thread. Several of Gerstad's lines stood out: It's gonna be hard to cast him FSU football player would be our biggest name yet
Bonnie's persistence stood out. For the first time, I got to see Director Bonnie on display. Just cast him! she responded. Just fucking do it, Daisy!
Another thread caught my eye. E-mails from Johnny Browning. The subject was only one word... but just enough to send chills down my spine. Marsha
Full of dread, I turned away. I noticed Bonnie's closet was cracked open. Wide enough for me to get a peek.
Sharp metal glistened back at me. I could see a long dagger surrounded by other knives. Bonnie's closet yet another arsenal in her house of horrors...
Thunder roared outside. Scared shitless, I jumped off the bed and whirled around.
Through the windows, I saw rain come pouring down. Lightning flashed. The sudden storm had surprised me. A real storm. I saw no sign of life in suburbia either...
I stood there trembling. The frightening posters and memorabilia weren't helping. Not even Disney Channel or red wine could alleviate my fear at this point. Not when I'd descended this far into Bonnie's dungeon.
"Sandra!" a booming Southern accent hollered out.
Hesitant, I stumbled over toward the doorway. Struggling with my sinking gut...
"Come in here!" Bonnie yelled.
I forced myself into the living room. Toward the smiling Bonnie.
Eager, she stood right by the towering T.V. Her Gothic attire of black robes and skull-flavored headband helped make Bonnie ready for her close-up.
She held up a burnt DVD. Crude black marker handwriting spelled out a title: Wholesome Werewolf
"I got a new one!" Bonnie beamed.
Ferocious thunder shook the house. I turned and looked out at the storm. The rain became heavier. The lightning more vivid. The storm settling in for good...
A hard pull brought me closer toward Bonnie. Her tight grip squeezed my arm.
"I just got it this morning!" she said, her voice on a rapturous rampage. "Daisy Gerstad did it, she's an amazing talent. She goes to FSU, loves classic movies like you!"
"Oh, okay..." I stammered.
I noticed a spiked box sitting by the T.V. Stacks of burned DVDs piled up inside. All of them horror. The Lanaed Road Slaughterhouse sat at the top of the heap. And so many more selections were there for Bonnie's channel...
Bonnie jammed Wholesome Werewolf into the player. "Here, check it out!" she said. Her excited eyes faced me. "Daisy just finished it!"
Growing more nervous by the second, I looked all around the room. "Is Marsha coming over?" I confronted Bonnie. "What about Henry?"
Chuckling, Bonnie waved me off. "Naw, bitch!" She stopped next to me. "It's just you and me." With that, she motioned me toward the flatscreen.
Wholesome Werewolf started off with a bang. The footage was smooth. The soundtrack a harrowing mix of snarls and scare chords.
And there was Henry in the opening scene. Clad in his tight shorts and FSU tee. The clothes he had on when I last saw him.
Breathing heavy, Henry stumbled around a dark forest. Through a village of tall trees and high grass. His visible fear at an apex.
All the while, the camera stayed on him. Henry without much screen presence. Without much awareness.
He leaned against a tree, exhausted. His good looks besieged by raw fright. A piano chord rang out. Then came yet another savage howl.
Henry looked all around the nocturnal wasteland. His helplessness obvious. No escape in sight.
I noticed Bonnie's smile only grew bigger. Her eyes ate up the hunk and footage. Excitement entrenched itself in her constant manic tics.
The camera got closer and closer to Henry. Closer to his fear.
Weeping, Henry held on to the tree for dear life. His expression veered from frightened to hopeless despair.
Trembling, I turned away. What I was watching wasn't fun or entertaining. Just downright disturbing.
Bonnie snatched my wrist. With a killer smile, she stared into my soul. "Just keep watching, Sandra," she said, her Southern politeness disguising a cruel demand.
Like a prisoner, I faced the screen. Forced to face Henry's horror. His acting debut.
Another snarl pierced through the soundtrack. This one the loudest, most sadistic howl yet.
Henry closed his eyes. His tears kept rolling. His fingernails dug deep into the bark.
"Oh boy!" I heard Bonnie mumble.
The consistent piano chords matched Henry's heightened dread. "Help!" he screamed. "Somebody help me!"
From behind him, a werewolf emerged through the darkness. A tall, terrifying beast. Its red eyes focused, its teeth so damn sharp. Tufts of clunky black hair encircled the monster's long protruding snout. Dry blood stains were scattered all across its thick fur.
And then I realized what an unsettling mask this Wholesome Werewolf had. Its plastic face a canvas of sloppy paint and crude latex. But still, this was one Hell of a jump scare. One Hell of a monster. And then came one Hell of a kill.
The werewolf grabbed Henry's arms. Caught by surprise, Henry had no chance. No matter how much he squirmed and tried to throw a punch, the creature's death grip was too much.
Saliva dripped off the snout. Then the beast revealed its army of extended claws and ripped out a chunk of Henry's throat.
The camera secured the close-up. All the mangled flesh a feast for Bonnie's eyes. A gruesome money shot.
Blood spurted across the lens. Henry's mouth dropped agape. His life nothing more than intermittent trembling. Blood spilled on to his garnet and gold t-shirt. His neck like a gory puzzle missing crucial pieces. His exposed muscles pulsated, leaking nothing but crimson.
Terror conquered me. I knew the gore was too real. Too elaborate for this budget. More medical video than torture porn. And a football hunk like Henry wasn't gonna be that great of an actor.
On screen, the werewolf lunged into Henry's neck. Their howls more murkier the more flesh they consumed. Their gruesome buffet of blood grew messy but the camera never wavered. Never squirmed from the massacre.
Next to me, Bonnie yelled in delight. And I just stared on at the gore, horrified beyond belief. My stomach in knots. My soul ravaged.
Henry's head titled back. His eyes blinked somewhere between life and death. Like an exploding blender, bits of flesh sprayed through the woods. Red paint for the trees and shrubbery. Henry's neck got skinnier and more mangled by the second.
I staggered back. "Turn it off!" I yelled.
Bonnie turned and looked right at me. Her smile still there. Her staunch gaze a spotlight to my shivering state.
"Turn it off, Goddammit!" I cried.
Behind Bonnie, the flatscreen continued the carnage. The werewolf's paws now tore through Henry's stomach, ripping out innards with the ferocity of a child digging through a goody bag.
"God... you're crazy," I muttered. Fighting back tears, I glared at Bonnie Blue. "You're fucking crazy! You killed them!"
Bonnie took a confident step toward me. "Now why do you say that, Sandra?"
Breathing heavy, I stopped next to the kitchen doorway. Doing my damnedest to keep glowering... even as I felt nothing but fear.
"We love movies, you and I," Bonnie's accent cooed. "That means movies of all styles. All subgenres." She got closer, inches away from me. "Even the really gory and edgy ones."
Uncomfortable, I entered the kitchen. Bonnie's quick footsteps followed after me.
"Sandra," she said.
I came to a terrified stop. Seated at the kitchen table were slaughtered corpses. College-age corpses. The four of them positioned like an art exhibit. I only recognized two: Marsha and Henry. Or what was left of them.
Their torsos sat in the chairs. Their severed pieces and guts scattered all across the table.
"Oh God!" I screamed. I turned to confront the grinning Bonnie. "You fucking killed them!"
Back in host mode, Bonnie Blue Bones chuckled. Her elaborate outfit made her look right at home. The kitchen now her set. Our conversation an ominous outro for Wholesome Werewolf.
"How could you!" I yelled. Unable to restrain my fear, I motioned my trembling hand toward the table. "You didn't have to kill anyone, Bonnie! You were already famous!"
Bonnie's smile stayed stagnant. "And I didn't," she remarked. "I never killed anyone, Sandra."
A pair of calm footsteps startled me. I turned toward the doorway.
Three killers stood there. Three stars. The slashers of Lanaed Road dressed in their robes. Their skull and old hag masks. The Wholesome Werewolf stood next to them. Mask or not, Daisy's costume was brilliant. And just as scary in person...
Rather than weapons, the three of them wielded cameras. Even the werewolf. I was positive Johnny Browning was the skull or hag. Before me were three different filmmakers...
With a theatrical cackle, Bonnie pointed at them. "They're the ones who do it, Sandra! Not me!"
The killers stood strong. Regal. Behind the masks, I knew they were looking right at me. And in a sickening epiphany, I realized we at least had something in common: all of us were aspiring filmmakers on a mission.
"I take submissions, Sandra! I give them an outlet!" Bonnie went on. She grabbed my arm and leaned in closer. Fiery intensity overtook her horror shtick. The passion of Bonnie Blue Bones now in overdrive. "If they wanna kill for it, I let them! This is cinema, Sandra!" She waved her hands around in a wild flourish. "This is what you, I, and all the fans want!"
Unable to say a single word, I backed away. Straight into a wall. Surrounded by corpses, psycho directors, and the great Bonnie Blue Bones herself. Surrounded by cinema.
"I've got a whole production company lined up, Sandra," Bonnie went on.
The three masks stared on at me. As did their unflinching cameras. This cinema cult wanted me, that much was certain.
Bonnie stepped toward me. A singular seriousness replaced her grin. "Now, Sandra, this is one Hell of an opportunity." She grabbed my shoulder in a harsh grip. "Now do you want to stay? To be a famous director. To shoot my intros and outros and shoot your first movie." She leaned in closer, her piercing eyes emblazoned deep into my flesh. "Or do you want us to just cast you in a supporting role instead?"
14

Bonnie Blue Bones was my hero. On late Friday nights, she was my constant companion. The best friend Sandra Hicks never had.
So what if I didn't actually know her? Bonnie was brilliant. Pale and flamboyant, she wore her long black hair in a beehive. And even with an average figure, still showed off her body in tight Gothic clothes. Her bright eyes so radiant. Her Southern accent a perfect blend of playful hokeyness and friendly warmth. Her curved smile tailor-made for terror T.V.
Bonnie had a proud, ferocious screen presence. She was a true movie geek. And her sets were amazing. Even when she curated great films, her bookends on TCM Underground always stole the show. And beyond her style, Bonnie's wit and passion enthralled me. She was Tales From The Horror Hipster. And always there for me on those lonely Fridays.
But after a few years dominating my weekends, Bonnie became a casualty of Turner Classic Movies' firing squad. Without a host, TCM Underground and its catalog of eclectic horror and cult cinema continued airing every Friday at 2 A.M. But it wasn't the same without Bonnie. Like a death in the family, I felt alone.
All I had was the awesome memories. Bonnie Blue inspired me. Inspired Sandra Hicks The Filmmaker. My movie education started right there on Underground. Bonnie the only film professor I'd ever need. There were the scary black-and-white horror classics like Freaks and Carnival Of Souls, the blaxploitation gems like Coffy and Black Caesar, the sleazy slashers like Two Thousand Maniacs! and Silent Night, Deadly Night, the forgotten 1970s vampire movies like Let's Scare Jessica To Death and Lemora... And so many more.
I was only fourteen when the Underground debuted. I was a loner, for sure. A quirky young emo without a cause. Worst of all, this was the dark days before YouTube and Twitter. All I had were my parents and Bonnie. No one else to share my passion for classic horror and scary shit with. So yeah, I was an awkward teen. And I became an even more awkward adult.
Now 28, I was a freelance filmmaker in Tampa Bay, Florida. With a degree and some financial support from the folks, I made a decent living. Just shooting commercials, corporate videos. Nothing too creative. In my spare time, I wrote as much as possible. Still chasing the dream of shooting my own scripts and being the next John Carpenter one day.
Far from skinny or fat, I was just your average slacker black girl. My "Bohemian" fashion a result of laziness and clearance-rack bankroll. I kept my hair short and aloof. And thankfully, the combination of late night writing, coffee, and alcohol still hadn't hurt my youthful face. Or my restless spirit.
But soon, curiosity got the better of me. When TCM showed Carnival Of Souls the other night, the reminiscing returned.
So I looked up Bonnie Blue Bones. And to my surprise, she was enjoying quite the resurgence.
In the last few years, the industry had changed so much. With the rise of the internet, streaming, and podcasts, Bonnie Blue fought back against the major corporations who rejected her. And now she had a YouTube empire.
On her channel BonnieBlueBonesHorror, Bonnie showed all public domain cult movies. Complete with her hosting and critiques, of course. Her livestreamed Q and A sessions a new addition to Bonnie's brilliance.
After all these years, Bonnie was still so charming. Still wearing those tight black dresses and suits, she hadn't aged, gained a belly, or become jaded. She was still the Queen Of Weird Cinema.
In July, I binge-watched the shit out of her channel. And then I shot Bonnie an e-mail. I introduced myself, said I was her biggest fan. And yeah, I mentioned that I was an O.G. going all the way back to her TCM Underground days...
Her reply greeted me a day later. One from Bonnie herself. She wanted me to come film her hosting segments. Out at her home studio in Tallahassee, Florida.
The once in a lifetime opportunity hit me hard. Yeah, the pay was decent. But the dream proved more alluring. The nostalgia.
A quick phone call sealed the deal. Bonnie's charismatic voice just as potent on the line as it was on the air. Her Southern accent still strong.
So I made the trip. Soon, the interstate gave way to rural highways. The palm trees of South Florida replaced by kitschy restaurants and sleazy nightclubs. Not even the Capitol building and marshland could hide Tallahassee's college town aesthetic.
Around midnight, I pulled up into Bonnie's driveway. Parked behind a few Toyotas. Her suburban two-story brick house was just... normal. Like a snapshot from a bland lifestyle magazine. A wooden front porch held bland rocking chairs. Bonnie's lawn so clean and void of life besides a few metal flamingos. Honestly, I was disappointed to not even see a fake tombstone...
I scanned the suburbs. The houses all looked the same. The lights off in every window. Every house was asleep... except for the one before me.
Holding my bags, I stepped out into the late breeze. Heard the front door swing open and a beloved voice ring out.
"Sandra!" Bonnie yelled.
My eyes darted toward the porch. There a smiling Bonnie stood. The lights from inside decorated her smooth skin and black pajamas. I could sense excitement. Then again, her glass of red wine was probably helping...
Trying to suppress my anxiety, I grinned. "Hey!" I said in my deep baritone.
"Welcome home," Bonnie teased. Splashing wine everywhere, she waved me inside. "Welcome to The Underground!"
Bonnie's house was theatrical. The ceilings high. A home theater system. And unlike the outside, her cinema obsession was well on display. There were obscure posters and movie props galore. Everything from original Chucky dolls to a Maltese Falcon statue replica. And all of this was just in the living room and kitchen... you know, the "normal" areas.
Like she was back on set, Bonnie played the host, showing off everything. Every one of the bedrooms even had a theme. I got the Friday The 13th one complete with blood red walls and a glow-in-the-dark Jason hockey mask. Not to mention speakers playing the series’ iconic score.
As we journeyed down the hallway leading to Bonnie's "basement" studio, the air got colder. The lights dimmer. Hologram lightning flashed. Overhead speakers portrayed a ferocious storm.
At this point, I was two glasses of wine in. But not even drunk Sandra could contain her enthusiasm.
Bonnie and I hit it off immediately. Two movie geeks in our element.
"Honestly, I thought you'd be living in a haunted castle or something," I joked.
Together, we passed a tall Wolf Man statue.
"Like a morgue," Bonnie chuckled.
Taking another sip, I confronted the double red doors looming in the very back. The studio entrance.
"It just looks so normal," I commented. I flashed Bonnie a smile. "Until you get inside."
With a flourish, Bonnie pushed the doors open. "That's the point!"
Into the studio we went. The lighting was dim save for center stage. But Bonnie's recreation of her immortal Underground set was vivid and precise. A meticulous restoration.
Sparks still shot from the crude lab equipment. Chemicals boiled in their cauldrons. Coffins collected dust and cobwebs. Hologram lightning flashed through the fake windows. Speakers played a scary soundtrack of sound effects and horror music.
Bonnie smiled at me. "You like it?"
Chuckling, I walked toward an operating table. Toward a white sheet draped over a tall corpse. Always a "regular" on the shows. "Yeah!" I beamed. "This is amazing!"
"I spent weeks getting it all back together."
Curious, I grabbed a hold of the sheet. Eager to see what lied beneath.
"IndieGoGo was a fucking lifesaver," Bonnie went on. "All the fans were so supportive."
I turned to face Bonnie. "I bet! I think I even donated-"
The corpse sprung to life. Through the sheet, their harsh grip snatched my arm. Their tormented scream overpowered the soundtrack.
Panicking, I yelled and struggled to break free. Struggled to escape the corpse and its muffled cries.
All I could make out was bony fingers. And the outline of a manic gaunt face.
"Bonnie!" I cried.
Then the screaming stopped. So did the storm. The entire set.
Uneasy, I looked all around me. Still felt the corpse clinging to my arm.
Laughter erupted.
Cackling, Bonnie ensnared me in a sorority hug. "Oh my God, that was perfect!"
I confronted the laughing corpse. They released me straight into Bonnie's embrace.
"What?" I said, confused. "What is this?"
Like a playful magician, the corpse tugged off the sheet for a slow reveal. Instead of a pale dead body was a pale beautiful blonde. A coed clad in nothing but a black bikini and fake blood. Her smile pure pearls. Her eyes sparkling blue.
"Gotcha!" she cooed with Southern delight.
Bonnie motioned toward her. "Meet Marsha. Marsha, this is Sandra."
Oozing confidence, Marsha hopped off the table.
I stood, dumbfounded. Still recovering from the shock.
Bonnie patted me on the back. Sarcastic reassurance. "She's my... acquaintance."
Wiping fake crimson off her lips, Marsha stepped toward Bonnie. "I like to think I'm more than that."
"Oh, do we now?" Bonnie teased.
They exchanged a wet kiss right in front of me. Their make out session complete with constant ass grabbing. Fake blood got all over Bonnie's pajamas, all over her smooth skin. But I don't think Bonnie cared...
After Marsha threw on some tight jeans and a white tank top, we escorted her to the front porch.
Bonnie grabbed a hold of her hand. A sweet, gentle grip. "You know I want you to stay-"
"You got work, I know," Marsha teased. Grinning, she locked lips with Bonnie once more. A sloppy vampire kiss.
Later that night, Bonnie took the party to her room. Bonnie's bedroom a fusion of horror lore and gaudy camp. Windows showcased the dark yard. Painted spiderwebs decorated the room's black walls. Various framed awards hung by the closet. A tall wooden desk displayed a huge flatscreen and vintage vinyl record player. Even a skull lamp from the 1960s... A skull with either really sticky rubber or real flesh lodged into its eye sockets.
Like a scary sleepover, Bonnie and I chilled together on her queen sized bed. Right beneath her Vampira poster. Each of us held glasses of wine. A half-empty bottle at our disposal.
"Aw, man, you were an original!" Bonnie said.
"Totally!" I responded. "Going back to the Underground!"
Leaning up, Bonnie entered a nostalgic silence. A brief one. Hosts never stayed quiet for long... "Honestly, I'm really glad I made an impact," she said.
"What do you mean?"
Bonnie motioned toward me. "I mean with you! It's amazing, really." Getting closer, she sat campfire-style right in front of me. "I mean all these cool people loved me on Underground. And now they watch my show, they say I influenced them to make movies and to watch all these classics."
"You did," I commented.
Bonnie caressed my shoulder. "But at the end of the day, you're one of the most talented filmmakers I've ever seen, Sandra."
Blushing, I avoided eye contact. Even teared up... I couldn't help it. This was the praise Sandra Hicks always wanted.
"I've read the scripts, seen your videos," Bonnie went on. "You've got serious talent, babe." Her calm grip squeezed my shoulder. "And I ain't just saying that, Sandra, trust me. I know movies."
Chuckling, I looked into her beaming eyes. Her big wide grin.
"You know I do," Bonnie said. "You're like an Ida Lupino or Jack Hill, you've got that wild vision I love!"
My heart jumped for joy. Bonnie's comments elicited nothing but electricity.
Keeping her movie star poise, Bonnie leaned back. "I watch so many movies and read all these scripts for people and fans." She kept her eyes on me. "But you're the best, Sandra. I mean it."
I nodded, unable to suppress my grin. "Thank you."
"I'm glad to have you aboard!" Bonnie held her glass toward me. "Cheers, bitch."
Excited, I clanged my glass into hers. Not even flinching when I felt red wine splash over me. Now Bonnie and I matched. Blood sisters.
A subtle panic overtook Bonnie. "Oh shit!" she yelled. "What time is it?"
I took another sip. "Why?"
Bonnie checked her phone. "Damn! Ten thirty-five!"
Amused, I watched Bonnie put her glass down and snatch a remote control. Faster than fourteen-year-old Sandra on those late Friday nights...
"I'm missing Raven's Home!" Bonnie said. One frantic hit turned on the flatscreen.
"Raven's what?" I asked. "Like the Disney channel?"
Clutching the remote, Bonnie confronted me. "Yes! It's a new episode!"
I let out a drunken laugh. "Oh, well put it on."
Shushing me, Bonnie looked back toward the T.V. Toward the candy colored Disney cheese.
The show was cringey at best. Honestly, I had no idea Raven Symone had a Disney homecoming.
Yet Bonnie sat right there, riveted. As if she were watching Coffy or Freaks on TCM Underground. And she never once spoke to me. Her laughter aligned with the canned studio audience. Hysterical laughter...
Raven's Home drove me to another glass. During a commercial, I attempted to make contact. "Hey, Bonnie," I said.
"Shh!" Bonnie responded. Confronting me, she pointed toward the T.V. "Just listen!"
The volume rose and Kylie Cantrall's "That's What I'm Talkin' Bout" exploded before me. A corny yet captivating middle school rap song... and I'll be damned if it wasn't the catchiest thing I'd ever heard.
The music video was dominated by a cute thirteen-year-old girl full of swag and more close-ups than a Hitchcock suspense scene. And Bonnie ate it up. She rapped along to the lyrics, knowing every one of them. A true fangirl.
The Disney onslaught lasted well into the night. And well into another bottle. There was Sydney To The Max, Bunk'd, and the Millennial staple Jessie. Our sleepover had apparently traveled back to the seventh grade... Not that I was complaining. The drunker Bonnie got, the more she at least talked to me. Never before had I discussed Brian De Palma with Andi Mack on in the background.
We passed out around three A.M. Morning sunlight woke me up. As did the brief hangover. I was all alone in Bonnie's bedroom.
Loud cries and screams grabbed my attention. Not to mention the blaring fake "thunder." Still half-asleep, I stumbled out into the living room. Right toward Bonnie's cult movie playland.
Through the storm sound effects and through the Friday The 13th movie playing in Bonnie's home theater (Part VII: The New Blood to be exact), I could hear moaning. Thrusting. Carnal excitement. And no, the pleasure wasn't stemming from a Friday The 13th sex scene...
Entering from the hallway, I came to a sudden stop. I didn't quite gasp. Or flinch. Just watched in stunned silence. Aroused silence... Hey, this girl hadn't got laid in quite some time. And the sight before me was hottt...
On a leather couch, Bonnie and a younger man made love. Passionate, hot, sweaty sex. Bonnie in just a bra, the man completely naked. Bonnie's moans coincided with the constant thunder. Her lover's powerful thrusts with Jason Voorhees's slashing.
I could tell the hot guy was yet another college kid. Barely twenty-one. Possibly a football player judging by the physique, bubble butt, and biceps. His long brown hair draped down to his wide shoulders. And he was full of energy...
Leaning up, Bonnie saw me. Rather than embarrassment, her trademark smile appeared. "Oh, Sandra! Hey."
"Oh shit!" I heard the stud exclaim.
Laughing, Bonnie pushed him away. "It's okay, she's cool."
I couldn't help but grin. I wasn't complaining... especially with a front row seat to the action and eye candy.
"Sorry!" the guy said as he grabbed his clothes.
Sliding on her panties, Bonnie motioned toward him. "That's Henry!" She threw on a pair of jeans and Texas Chainsaw shirt.
I waved at him. "Hi." Henry putting on his tight shorts held my gaze. Henry was tall. His teeth perfect. His bright eyes fiercer than that Southern accent.
"Yeah, sorry about that," Henry said. He threw on a FSU tee. "She said you were sleeping."
Like a queen on her throne, Bonnie leaned back on the couch. I saw another glass of wine in her hand. "She was," Bonnie remarked. "I let her sleep in."
"You didn't say she was hot," Henry teased.
I blushed. "Oh, thank you," I stuttered out.
Leaning over, Bonnie slapped Henry's bouncy ass. "Alright, hit the road, Jack!"
"Call me later," Henry replied.
Later on, Bonnie and I made the descent down to The Underground. Sitting at the operating table, we let the scary soundtrack swirl around us. A Bonnie-curated mix veering between sound effects, iconic horror soundtracks, and Halloween rock.
Using Bonnie's laptop, I scrolled through her latest segments. The footage raw but potent.
"You think you can work with these?" Bonnie asked.
"Yeah, definitely," I replied.
Bonnie put down an empty glass of wine. "Ugh, I'm so glad I got an assistant." She gazed around her horror bunker. "I got tired of shooting everything by myself."
"I bet." Following Bonnie's eyes, I took note of several weapons positioned on a brick wall. These weren't props but real axes and knives. One axe in particular featured a hand-carved red handle. "Did you really shoot all the wraparounds?"
"Yeah. The fans kept wanting more and more." Bonnie smiled at me. "And well, you know how I am."
Straining, I struggled to see faint stains on the axe's blade. Dark scattered stains. I figured they were just decoration. Or at least, I hoped.
"I gotta please the fans," Bonnie went on, her tone more melodramatic. "They want content, and I gotta feed them. I mean you saw those college kids! They love me, Sandra!"
I watched Bonnie soak up the spotlight. And she was right. Over the past few years, she had become more popular. A YouTube rejuvenation led her from cult obscurity to horror superstardom. And deep down, I actually felt a little jealous... Hipster fandom was a complex thing.
"So, let's do this together," Bonnie said. Full of warmth, she grabbed my shoulders. Her sincerity shined through the camp. "With your help, Sandra, the segments'll be amazing. We got the movies. We'll be a great team."
Comforted from the cold air, I nodded. "I know. This is just amazing... Thank you." Turning, I looked back at the laptop. Another clip showed Bonnie dancing to Jack And Jim's "Midnight Monsters Hop." Her stage complete with plastic skeletons and a fake cemetery.
I struggled to fight back the reflective tears. "This is a dream come true," I said. "Honestly."
Supportive, Bonnie wrapped her arm around me. "And we'll share the dream. This is it, Sandra."
"Thank you," I told her. "I'm serious, I'm really excited."
In producer mode, Bonnie stood up. Ready for business. "Well, you wanna see your first movie?"
Amused, I watched her walk toward the living room. "Uh, sure."
Bonnie pointed at me. A twinkle in her eyes. "Just wait right there."
Left alone, I turned my attention to the laptop. A list of other raw Bonnie intros greeted me: Bonnie doing scary stand-up. Parodying a cooking show. Even an aerobics episode.
The smile stayed on my face. Diving further into the filmography, I scanned through Bonnie's other files. She had plenty of public domain horror movies ready for the show. Lost 80s VHS classics. Not to mention some more modern microbudget movies I'd never heard of. Low-budget exploitation, most of it shot in Florida.
Aside from the movies, I discovered Bonnie's Disney Channel library. There were full episodes, music videos. The Disney fluff such a strange balance to Bonnie's darkness.
"Alright, I got it!" I heard Bonnie yell.
Startled, I clicked off all the Disney data. Back to YouTube. "Cool," I replied.
Bonnie rushed up to a small flatscreen. Excitement both on her face and in her pace. "I just need you to shoot the outro for me." She placed a DVD in the player.
"Yeah, no problem."
"This one was actually shot in Tally!" Bonnie continued, her voice and movie knowledge entering manic mode. "By an FSU grad! She's a big fan like you."
Helpless to her charm, I released a smile. "So is this recent?"
Bonnie stepped toward me. Away from the T.V. "Yeah, it just came out," she said.
"Wait, like this year-"
"Just watch!" Bonnie interrupted. Teasing me, she put a finger to her lips and backed off toward the lab.
Intrigued, I watched the movie play out. A synth score and dark red font greeted me. The Lanaed Drive Slaughterhouse
I gotta say it wasn't bad. For once, we had an 80s throwback slasher relying on a cool storyline rather than pretentious "style." Not to mention amazing kills... The gore was visceral rather than theatrical.
Throughout the screening, I noticed Bonnie watching from the cauldrons. Her wide eyes glued to the screen. A woman possessed by the movies. Riveted by every scene. She even digested the cheap slashers like a studious film scholar.
Near the end of Slaughterhouse, a character gave me deja vu. Unease hit me. The movie featured a hot blonde tied-up in a kitchen. Bound-and-gagged in duct tape, she moved about in her seat, sending her long hair everywhere. Her desperate attempts to escape remained restrained. Her cries muffled.
And through the movie's bright lighting, I recognized the girl. The coed. Marsha. Not even the running mascara could ruin her luscious beauty. And neither could her abundance of bleeding cuts and scratches.
Deep in my sickened gut, I realized Marsha still wore the same jeans and tank top. The outfit I last saw her in...
I stole a glance at Bonnie. She wasn't watching me... Instead, Bonnie had her arms folded tight. A euphoria built up inside her from the sly smile to the compulsive trembling.
A revving chainsaw brought me back to the flatscreen. And the movie's masked slashers descended upon Marsha. The killers dressed in black robes. Their faces disguised by intricate masks: one wearing a skull mask, the other an old hag. The chainsaw was long and lean. And the other killer held a vicious axe. The blade sharp and steady. The axe with a familiar red handle...
The deja vu decimated me again. I knew the weapon was from Bonnie's collection.
I forced myself to keep watching. Carnage ensued. An eerie church organ score became Marsha's funeral bells. Or what I hoped was only her character's demise.
Marsha's reactions felt real. Her pain up close and personal. Blood re-decorated the kitchen. Thick guts tumbled from Marsha's chest. An avalanche of gore. The evisceration beyond precise. I wanted to keep telling myself it's only a movie, it's only a movie. But it was a reassuring mantra I just couldn't believe. There was no way Marsha was that good of an actress...
On screen, the killers got to work on Marsha's limbs. Deliberate, slow sawing took off the legs and arms. Then in a flourishing final cut, Marsha got decapitated. Her corpse now nothing more than a coed of cold cuts.
From there, Lanaed Drive wallowed in more scares, suspense, and bloodshed. But Marsha's death stayed with me. The massacre haunted me.
After the movie, Bonnie turned off the T.V. Like an eager filmmaker, she went one-on-one with me. "So... what'd you think?" she asked.
Still uncomfortable, I hesitated. Too fucking scared to talk. "I-I liked it," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "It was really good."
"See, I told you!" Bonnie gushed. "The local filmmaking scene's amazing out here! We got all these indies that deserve love, man. We can give them a platform!"
Playing along, I sifted in my seat. "Yeah. You're right."
"I don't wanna just show the usual public domain stuff or even the classics," Bonnie went on. She leaned in closer. Her smile brighter than sunshine. "We can breathe life into these new ones! I mean these are the cult filmmakers of our times, Sandra!"
I nodded. Just hoping I disguised my unease. "True."
Bonnie motioned toward me. "Like you, Sandra! Hell, soon enough, I'll get you out there and get your scripts produced! We'll get a production company, I can see it now! Bonnie Blue House Productions!"
Forcing a chuckle, I looked over at the T.V. "Yeah..." I confronted Bonnie. "But why was Marsha in it?"
Bonnie gave me a weird look. "What do you mean?"
"I mean that was her in the end, right? The girl all tied up and getting... you know, slaughtered like a sacrifice."
Back in host mode, Bonnie let out a smug cackle. "Aw, yeah! Of course." She fixated her eyes on me. "Marsha wanted to be in it."
"Oh."
"These are all FSU kids. They work together. I mean shit, who wouldn't wanna be in a movie?"
Staying strong, I sat up in my seat. "But I didn't know she could act."
Bonnie chuckled. "I mean shit, she can't! Did you see her!" Dismissive, she waved toward the T.V. "That's why she had no lines!"
"Aw, I see." I looked toward the door. "Is she coming over tonight?"
Keeping her smile from slithering away, Bonnie just stood there. "Not tonight." She clapped her hands together. "Come on, we got work to do."
I followed orders. Against my better judgment and common sense. Against my intuition. But I had no choice... This was Bonnie's house after all. Not to mention my job.
So we filmed a cheesy sequence for the end of The Lanaed Drive Slaughterhouse. And honestly, Bonnie's segment was fucking awesome. We shot her in a ridiculous police uniform. Bonnie a cop harassing a couple of fake corpses. We finished the shoot in just over an hour.
Staying professional, I joined Bonnie for a mini-wrap party. Just her and I hanging out in her bedroom. The Disney Channel our background. Pizza and wine our dinner. At least, the booze soothed my shivers. Another sleepover a welcome distraction from the disturbing "death" I witnessed earlier.
"I feel like today's climate is just so different," Bonnie reflected. "We've got more movies now, so what I do is even more important. I'm no longer the graveyard of failures for the artists who couldn't get into theaters or home video." She took another sip, spilling red wine over her chin. "Streaming's changed the game. And now we're just pushing it further, Sandra."
Suppressing my fear, I kept watching Raven's Home. "Yeah, that's true," I commented.
Bonnie grabbed my arm. A persuasive grip. "We can really do this, girl! We'll have more than just a channel!"
I stared into her beaming bright eyes.
"We'll be filmmakers, producers!" Bonnie continued. "The whole shebang, man!"
And a few hours later, Bonnie Blue Bones was out. An early drunken slumber.
On my fourth glass, I stumbled back to my bedroom. Dazed and disoriented but the fear kept me awake.
"That's What I'm Talkin' Bout" followed me the whole way. Up until the storm effects drowned out Kylie. And then the chilling "kill, kill, kill" Friday The 13th theme hit me in my guest room. Amidst my unsettled state, I realized I had no way of turning it off...
Lying down beneath the Jason mask, I scrolled through the comments on Bonnie's YouTube channel. Her Facebook group pages. Twitter account. All of Bonnie's fan sites. Her following was so strong... and she had a rabid fan base at that.
They all adored the new movies. Best gore ever! So sick! read some of the comments. The perfect mix between cult classics and future cult classics! A new hotspot for aspiring filmmakers, courtesy of Bonnie Blue Bones's Approval! gushed the reviews. My investigation made me realize Bonnie had that rare commodity for a YouTube channel: a community consensus.
I knew Bonnie's intentions were honorable. I mean if I'd known she showcased indie cinema, I'd have shot my first feature last year. But then there was the gore. Marsha's violent on-screen death stayed with me. Her tormented expression even entered my nightmare.
Around eight A.M., I woke up with a start. Hungover from both the drinks and terrifying dreams. For once, the house was quiet. There were no movie themes or relentless thunder. Just steady silence. And yet I was still scared.
Cautious, I stepped out of bed and made my way down the hall. Bonnie's bedroom awaited me.
"Hey," I said in a weak voice. I stopped in the doorway. But no one was there. Just Bonnie's open laptop sitting right in the center of the bed.
I checked the living room for good measure. Then the kitchen. But Bonnie was gone. Here I was home alone in this horror museum.
Curiosity forced me back to Bonnie's room. I logged into her computer. Bonnie's e-mails stared back at me. The most recent one from Daisy Gerstad. The message's subject: New movie
Like a hacker, I scrolled through the thread. Several of Gerstad's lines stood out: It's gonna be hard to cast him FSU football player would be our biggest name yet
Bonnie's persistence stood out. For the first time, I got to see Director Bonnie on display. Just cast him! she responded. Just fucking do it, Daisy!
Another thread caught my eye. E-mails from Johnny Browning. The subject was only one word... but just enough to send chills down my spine. Marsha
Full of dread, I turned away. I noticed Bonnie's closet was cracked open. Wide enough for me to get a peek.
Sharp metal glistened back at me. I could see a long dagger surrounded by other knives. Bonnie's closet yet another arsenal in her house of horrors...
Thunder roared outside. Scared shitless, I jumped off the bed and whirled around.
Through the windows, I saw rain come pouring down. Lightning flashed. The sudden storm had surprised me. A real storm. I saw no sign of life in suburbia either...
I stood there trembling. The frightening posters and memorabilia weren't helping. Not even Disney Channel or red wine could alleviate my fear at this point. Not when I'd descended this far into Bonnie's dungeon.
"Sandra!" a booming Southern accent hollered out.
Hesitant, I stumbled over toward the doorway. Struggling with my sinking gut...
"Come in here!" Bonnie yelled.
I forced myself into the living room. Toward the smiling Bonnie.
Eager, she stood right by the towering T.V. Her Gothic attire of black robes and skull-flavored headband helped make Bonnie ready for her close-up.
She held up a burnt DVD. Crude black marker handwriting spelled out a title: Wholesome Werewolf
"I got a new one!" Bonnie beamed.
Ferocious thunder shook the house. I turned and looked out at the storm. The rain became heavier. The lightning more vivid. The storm settling in for good...
A hard pull brought me closer toward Bonnie. Her tight grip squeezed my arm.
"I just got it this morning!" she said, her voice on a rapturous rampage. "Daisy Gerstad did it, she's an amazing talent. She goes to FSU, loves classic movies like you!"
"Oh, okay..." I stammered.
I noticed a spiked box sitting by the T.V. Stacks of burned DVDs piled up inside. All of them horror. The Lanaed Road Slaughterhouse sat at the top of the heap. And so many more selections were there for Bonnie's channel...
Bonnie jammed Wholesome Werewolf into the player. "Here, check it out!" she said. Her excited eyes faced me. "Daisy just finished it!"
Growing more nervous by the second, I looked all around the room. "Is Marsha coming over?" I confronted Bonnie. "What about Henry?"
Chuckling, Bonnie waved me off. "Naw, bitch!" She stopped next to me. "It's just you and me." With that, she motioned me toward the flatscreen.
Wholesome Werewolf started off with a bang. The footage was smooth. The soundtrack a harrowing mix of snarls and scare chords.
And there was Henry in the opening scene. Clad in his tight shorts and FSU tee. The clothes he had on when I last saw him.
Breathing heavy, Henry stumbled around a dark forest. Through a village of tall trees and high grass. His visible fear at an apex.
All the while, the camera stayed on him. Henry without much screen presence. Without much awareness.
He leaned against a tree, exhausted. His good looks besieged by raw fright. A piano chord rang out. Then came yet another savage howl.
Henry looked all around the nocturnal wasteland. His helplessness obvious. No escape in sight.
I noticed Bonnie's smile only grew bigger. Her eyes ate up the hunk and footage. Excitement entrenched itself in her constant manic tics.
The camera got closer and closer to Henry. Closer to his fear.
Weeping, Henry held on to the tree for dear life. His expression veered from frightened to hopeless despair.
Trembling, I turned away. What I was watching wasn't fun or entertaining. Just downright disturbing.
Bonnie snatched my wrist. With a killer smile, she stared into my soul. "Just keep watching, Sandra," she said, her Southern politeness disguising a cruel demand.
Like a prisoner, I faced the screen. Forced to face Henry's horror. His acting debut.
Another snarl pierced through the soundtrack. This one the loudest, most sadistic howl yet.
Henry closed his eyes. His tears kept rolling. His fingernails dug deep into the bark.
"Oh boy!" I heard Bonnie mumble.
The consistent piano chords matched Henry's heightened dread. "Help!" he screamed. "Somebody help me!"
From behind him, a werewolf emerged through the darkness. A tall, terrifying beast. Its red eyes focused, its teeth so damn sharp. Tufts of clunky black hair encircled the monster's long protruding snout. Dry blood stains were scattered all across its thick fur.
And then I realized what an unsettling mask this Wholesome Werewolf had. Its plastic face a canvas of sloppy paint and crude latex. But still, this was one Hell of a jump scare. One Hell of a monster. And then came one Hell of a kill.
The werewolf grabbed Henry's arms. Caught by surprise, Henry had no chance. No matter how much he squirmed and tried to throw a punch, the creature's death grip was too much.
Saliva dripped off the snout. Then the beast revealed its army of extended claws and ripped out a chunk of Henry's throat.
The camera secured the close-up. All the mangled flesh a feast for Bonnie's eyes. A gruesome money shot.
Blood spurted across the lens. Henry's mouth dropped agape. His life nothing more than intermittent trembling. Blood spilled on to his garnet and gold t-shirt. His neck like a gory puzzle missing crucial pieces. His exposed muscles pulsated, leaking nothing but crimson.
Terror conquered me. I knew the gore was too real. Too elaborate for this budget. More medical video than torture porn. And a football hunk like Henry wasn't gonna be that great of an actor.
On screen, the werewolf lunged into Henry's neck. Their howls more murkier the more flesh they consumed. Their gruesome buffet of blood grew messy but the camera never wavered. Never squirmed from the massacre.
Next to me, Bonnie yelled in delight. And I just stared on at the gore, horrified beyond belief. My stomach in knots. My soul ravaged.
Henry's head titled back. His eyes blinked somewhere between life and death. Like an exploding blender, bits of flesh sprayed through the woods. Red paint for the trees and shrubbery. Henry's neck got skinnier and more mangled by the second.
I staggered back. "Turn it off!" I yelled.
Bonnie turned and looked right at me. Her smile still there. Her staunch gaze a spotlight to my shivering state.
"Turn it off, Goddammit!" I cried.
Behind Bonnie, the flatscreen continued the carnage. The werewolf's paws now tore through Henry's stomach, ripping out innards with the ferocity of a child digging through a goody bag.
"God... you're crazy," I muttered. Fighting back tears, I glared at Bonnie Blue. "You're fucking crazy! You killed them!"
Bonnie took a confident step toward me. "Now why do you say that, Sandra?"
Breathing heavy, I stopped next to the kitchen doorway. Doing my damnedest to keep glowering... even as I felt nothing but fear.
"We love movies, you and I," Bonnie's accent cooed. "That means movies of all styles. All subgenres." She got closer, inches away from me. "Even the really gory and edgy ones."
Uncomfortable, I entered the kitchen. Bonnie's quick footsteps followed after me.
"Sandra," she said.
I came to a terrified stop. Seated at the kitchen table were slaughtered corpses. College-age corpses. The four of them positioned like an art exhibit. I only recognized two: Marsha and Henry. Or what was left of them.
Their torsos sat in the chairs. Their severed pieces and guts scattered all across the table.
"Oh God!" I screamed. I turned to confront the grinning Bonnie. "You fucking killed them!"
Back in host mode, Bonnie Blue Bones chuckled. Her elaborate outfit made her look right at home. The kitchen now her set. Our conversation an ominous outro for Wholesome Werewolf.
"How could you!" I yelled. Unable to restrain my fear, I motioned my trembling hand toward the table. "You didn't have to kill anyone, Bonnie! You were already famous!"
Bonnie's smile stayed stagnant. "And I didn't," she remarked. "I never killed anyone, Sandra."
A pair of calm footsteps startled me. I turned toward the doorway.
Three killers stood there. Three stars. The slashers of Lanaed Road dressed in their robes. Their skull and old hag masks. The Wholesome Werewolf stood next to them. Mask or not, Daisy's costume was brilliant. And just as scary in person...
Rather than weapons, the three of them wielded cameras. Even the werewolf. I was positive Johnny Browning was the skull or hag. Before me were three different filmmakers...
With a theatrical cackle, Bonnie pointed at them. "They're the ones who do it, Sandra! Not me!"
The killers stood strong. Regal. Behind the masks, I knew they were looking right at me. And in a sickening epiphany, I realized we at least had something in common: all of us were aspiring filmmakers on a mission.
"I take submissions, Sandra! I give them an outlet!" Bonnie went on. She grabbed my arm and leaned in closer. Fiery intensity overtook her horror shtick. The passion of Bonnie Blue Bones now in overdrive. "If they wanna kill for it, I let them! This is cinema, Sandra!" She waved her hands around in a wild flourish. "This is what you, I, and all the fans want!"
Unable to say a single word, I backed away. Straight into a wall. Surrounded by corpses, psycho directors, and the great Bonnie Blue Bones herself. Surrounded by cinema.
"I've got a whole production company lined up, Sandra," Bonnie went on.
The three masks stared on at me. As did their unflinching cameras. This cinema cult wanted me, that much was certain.
Bonnie stepped toward me. A singular seriousness replaced her grin. "Now, Sandra, this is one Hell of an opportunity." She grabbed my shoulder in a harsh grip. "Now do you want to stay? To be a famous director. To shoot my intros and outros and shoot your first movie." She leaned in closer, her piercing eyes emblazoned deep into my flesh. "Or do you want us to just cast you in a supporting role instead?"
14