Supernatural: Night Terror (26 page)

Dean tossed the magazine on the table and hurried toward the lobby exit.

Jeffries called after him.

“You don’t think he’s a terrorist, do you?”

Hurrying across Main Street toward the Impala parked in the municipal lot, Dean called Sam on his cell phone.

“Sam, I got something.”

“Me too,” Sam said. “Pick me up at Olga Kuchkarski’s.”

Dean retraced his route and found Sam standing impatiently at the curb.

Once Sam was inside the car, he said, “She’s not directly involved. Seemed genuinely surprised Bullinger and Lacosta were dead. But she has a connection to somebody who may be behind this. Even has a photo of him in the middle of dozens of her grandson.”

“Let me guess,” Dean said. “Dr. Gruesome.”

“What? How did you—?”

“TV host for a show called—”

“
Nightmare Theater
.”

“Right. I flipped through the TV listings for the week,” Dean said. “Know what I found?”

“Movies this week featured a headless horseman, a giant Gila monster and a giant tarantula.” Off Dean’s surprised look, Sam added, “Mrs. Kucharski’s a big fan of the show. I checked her guide.”

“I got us one thing, you didn’t,” Dean said with a wry smile.

“What’s that?”

“An appointment,” Dean said. “Of sorts.”

“How?”

“Talked to Cousin Millie.”

Dean glanced at the address Millie had written on a sticky note.

“Should be right up ahead,” Dean said. “Dr. Gruesome, a.k.a. Jozef Wieczorek, rents studio time here.”

He parked the Impala in the lot behind a long redbrick building that—according to the sign in the front lawn—housed the headquarters of the local cable company. The Winchester brothers approached the rear door which was protected by an overhang the width of an umbrella. Though the door had a keypad and card reader, Dean gave the handle a tug. Locked.

“State your business,” a voice squawked from a speaker above the keypad.

Sam noticed a security camera mounted above the door. He took out his FBI credentials and held them close to the camera lens.

Dean pressed a black button above the speaker.

“FBI. Agents DeYoung and Shaw. We have an appointment to see Jozef—Dr. Gruesome.”

A moment later the door buzzed.

Dean grabbed the handle and pulled it open.

They entered a battleship-gray lobby with a scuffed gray linoleum floor. Several molded gray plastic chairs lined the near wall, positioned on either side of a small gray table piled with jumbled newspapers Dean had the impression that all color had suddenly been leached out of the world. On the far side of the lobby, a security guard with droopy eyes, bushy sideburns and a noticeable beer gut sat inside what looked like a bulletproof glass booth.

“Guarding the crown jewels in here?” Dean said in an undertone to Sam.

The guard leaned forward and spoke into a microphone. His gravelly voice came through speakers mounted at the top of the glass booth.

“Down the hall, first right. Studio’s second door on your left. If the red light is on above the door, wait until it goes off.”

After those terse instructions, the guard pressed a button on his console. The inner door, adjacent to the guard booth, buzzed. Dean stepped forward and opened it.

“Have a wonderful day,” Dean said before letting the door close behind him and Sam. Guy gave good directions, Dean thought. In a few moments, they reached the studio door where a red light mounted atop it was indeed aglow.

Beneath the light, with her back pressed to the door, stood a frazzled-looking woman in her mid-thirties holding a clipboard in her crossed arms. As they approached, she turned her head toward them.

“Agents DeYoung and Shaw,” Dean said.

“Just a minute or two,” she said.

“Dr. Gruesome in there?” Sam asked.

“Redoing a few prerecorded bits. Perfectionist.”

“And you are?” Sam asked.

“Sandy DeSio, his producer, technical director, sometimes scriptwriter, and occasional director. Most of us juggle multiple crew positions.”

“Is the show national?” Sam asked.

“He’s national,” she said, “If you get NMC in your cable or satellite package.”

“No offense,” Sam said. “But I’ve never heard of Dr. Gruesome or
Nightmare Theater
.”

“
Nightmare Theater
isn’t a show, per se,” she said. “NMC’s a twenty-four hour movie channel. They were airing old horror movies late night and decided they needed to add some, I don’t know, pizzazz. Joe—Jozef—has a friend at NMC. Found out what they were looking for, sent an audition tape and got the job. We prescreen the movies and record a series of interstitials that play during commercial breaks.”

“Interstitials?” Dean asked.

“Basically, short commentaries on what’s happening in the movie as we go into and come out of commercial breaks. We tape fifteen to twenty bits for each movie, about twenty to thirty minutes of material, depending on the runtime of the movie.”

“So it’s like the viewer is watching the movie with Dr. Gruesome,” Sam said.

“Exactly,” Sandy said. “Technically, Dr. Gruesome is presenting the movie. Then he makes comments on it throughout. With a mad zombie scientist as your host, it’s obviously cheesy and campy, but the ratings improved about twenty percent with the segments.”

Sam turned to Dean. “Olga Kucharski said Dr. Gruesome had become like a friend.”

“That’s especially true of his fans in Clayton Falls,” Sandy said. “Home town celebrity. Local pride.”

“Mad scientist next door,” Dean said.

“Right,” Sandy said, forcing a smile. “All in fun.”

“You have no idea.”

Off her confused look, Dean pointed above her head to where the red light bulb had gone dark.

“Oh, right,” she said with a quick smile. “Cute. Let’s go.”

They followed her inside the studio. A control room behind glass on their right faced three cameras on wheeled tripods focused on the mad scientist laboratory set, which consisted of a single three-walled room. The walls were covered with a faux stone texture. The broad side of a lab table occupied the foreground, its surface covered with various beakers and flasks and test tubes filled with multicolored liquids, and a Bunsen burner. Mounted to the walls was a steampunk-inspired network of glass tubes and meters attached to polished brass and iron piping, wheels, gears and levers. In keeping with the intent of a show called
Nightmare Theater
, the sprawling contraption looked functional and slightly ominous. But everything that looked metallic was, in all likelihood, painted plastic.

Two camera operators huddled around a short bald man wearing a headset.

“Al Dornfeld, our floor director,” Sandy said as she led them toward the man in zombie makeup wearing smudged goggles pushed up on his forehead, a white PVC lab coat and black gloves that extended to his elbows. “And this... is our star, Dr. Gruesome.”

The man pulled off his gloves and offered his hand.

“Call me Joe,” he said with a pleasant smile that ruined the zombie effect. “I’m only a mad scientist returned from the dead by his own diabolical experiments while the cameras are on.”

“Agents DeYoung and Shaw,” Dean said.

“Right,” Wieczorek said, “FBI. I can’t imagine why, but Millie said you had some questions for me.”

“Hold that thought for a second,” Sandy said. “Joe, I’ll need to talk to you about scheduling when you’re through with these gentlemen.” She patted him on the shoulder before walking to the control room.

“Sure, Sandy,” Wieczorek called after her. Then he whispered to the Winchesters, “I know I drive her crazy sometimes. But it’s my reputation on the air. My brand.”

“Mr. Wiec—Joe,” Sam said, “Are you aware of what’s happening in town?”

“This show keeps me busy,” Wieczorek said. “We’re on every night. So I don’t often catch the news or read the paper. But I heard something about storm damage, power outages, and a big sinkhole at a convenience store—the Qwik Mart. And a hit and run. Two in two days. Awful. Oh, and somebody said a man died falling out of a tree.”

“The man was killed by the tree,” Dean said.

“Not the fall? I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“The tree stabbed the man.”

“My hearing’s not what it was,” he said. “Did you just say a ‘tree stabbed a man?’”

“With a branch,” Dean said. “But that’s not why we’re here.”

“Thank heavens,” he said. “Why are you here?”

“Several police officers, Agent DeYoung and I witnessed other incidents last night that have a connection to your show,” Sam said. “A man was killed by a giant tarantula. The night before, another man was attacked by a giant Gila monster. That same night, three teens were chased by a headless horseman.”

As Sam spoke, Wieczorek’s smile faltered and faded, but then his eyes widened and he chuckled, clapping his hands together in delight.

“Okay, this is somebody’s idea of a joke, right? Hidden camera. It’s Sandy getting payback, right?”

“No joke,” Dean said. “Two local men witnessed the tarantula attack.”

Again, Wieczorek’s smiled faded by degrees, a bit faster this time. He looked from Dean to Sam and back again.

“Either you have the best poker faces I’ve ever seen or... You
are
serious.”

He reached a hand out sideways and grabbed the edge of the laboratory table for support, then took a deep breath.

“These are popcorn movies, harmless entertainment...” he said. “I don’t understand. This stuff isn’t real. It can’t be real. It’s pure fantasy.”

“Something is making it become real,” Sam said.

“And we need to know if that something is you,” Dean added.

“Me? How could I...? How could anyone...?”

“Have you met anyone unusual lately?” Sam asked. “Found a strange old coin? Come across a peculiar antique? Received an odd inheritance?”

“What? No. Nothing like that. This is a daily routine for me. Screen the movies, work up the script for the interstitials, makeup and props, rehearse, record, edit. On television it may all look strange and surreal, but for us it’s... routine. Mundane, even.”

Dean looked at Sam. “You got any ideas?”

Sam nodded, turned to Wieczorek. “Do you remember a woman name Olga Kucharski?”

“Olga... Olga Kucharski? No. Should I...?” He snapped his fingers. “Wait—Olga—is she an older woman? Ha! Look who’s talking? No spring chicken myself. But I do remember a woman from one of my personal appearances. Very much into her Polish heritage. Seemed delighted to learn I was Polish too. Had me sign my full name on a publicity photo. Said it would have a place of honor in her home.”

“That would be the lady,” Sam said. “Have you had any other dealings with her?”

“Dealings? No, nothing. She’s a fan of the show. Said she watches every night.” He shrugged. “I believe that appearance was the one and only time I ever met her. But she did leave an impression.”

Dean looked at Sam, who gave him a barely perceptible shrug. They were both stumped.

“Just out of curiosity, Doc,” Dean said. “What movie are you working on now?”

Wieczorek beamed. “Ah, a wonderfully cheesy, space invasion flick. About aliens with lobster-claw hands that crack open human skulls and suck out the brains with their tentacle-like proboscis.”

“You gotta be kidding me,” Dean said.

“How do we kill them?” Sam asked.

“If I tell you, it will spoil the movie.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “We don’t care about the friggin’ movie!”

“Oh, of course,” Wieczorek said and frowned. “They’re bulletproof, because of their exoskeletons. So the National Guard kills them with flamethrowers. Cooks them, actually. Ends with a joke about lobster bibs.”

Dean turned to Sam. “Dude, we’ve got zero flamethrowers in the Impala.”

“We’ll improvise,” Sam said. “Aerosol cans and cigarette lighters.”

“Wait,” Wieczorek said, catching Sam’s arm. “How do you believe these movie creations become real?”

“People have nightmares,” Sam said. “The nightmares manifest in town somewhere.”

Wieczorek looked as if he wanted to request a thorough examination of their FBI credentials, but then decided against it.

“Even if that is somehow possible, the aliens won’t be a problem.”

“How so?” Dean asked.

“We tape our interstitials a week ahead,” he explained. “Nobody will see this movie until next Saturday.”

“Good,” Sam said. “One less nightmare scenario to worry about.”

“Unless, of course, somebody in my crew has a nightmare about it.”

“Great,” Dean said.

“I wouldn’t worry. We watch the movies so many times while working on our scripts that they lose any shock value they might have,” Wieczorek said. “If anybody here has a nightmare, it would be about working overtime or not making a deadline.”

“Thanks for your help,” Sam said. “Wait. What’s tonight’s feature?”

“Oh, yes! Wolves.”

“Werewolves?” Dean asked apprehensively.

“No, regular wolves,” Wieczorek said. “Maybe a bit large. And there’s a pack of them. And... they’re all rabid. They invade a small town and rip...”

“We get the idea,” Dean said. “Thanks.”

As the Winchesters walked toward the studio door, Wieczorek called out for them to wait. They stopped and turned back.

“Listen, I can’t help but think how crazy this all sounds,” he said. “And I promise you we have not changed our routine at all. I can’t imagine a scenario where what you say is even possible...”

“Your point?” Dean asked.

“If what you say is true, and I have no reason to doubt you, I can’t ignore the fact that something unexplainable is happening and that it is somehow connected to my show. A man attacked by a giant tarantula...”

“Want to see police report photos of the half-eaten victim?”

“That’s quite all right,” Wieczorek said. “I’m trying to say that I feel partly responsible for whatever is happening here. I want to help, but...” He raised his shoulders, hands spread. “I’m not sure what I can do.”

“You want to help?” Dean said. “Convince NMC not to run the wolf movie.”

“Not run it?”

“Preempt it,” Sam said. “With
Lassie Come Home
or something?”