Pumpkin Eater. Jeffrey Round

movie theme unfolded eerily, its arpeggiated tendrils of sound and distinctive tone of the bells made demonic by the film. Those repetitive notes had been the sound of evil throughout Dan’s teenage years.

      “Rule Number Seven,” he said, “always listen to the soundtrack to find out when the next attack is likely to occur.”

      The popcorn bowl changed hands again. Onscreen, Max von Sydow wiped green vomit from his glasses and held a crucifix over the inert form of the possessed girl, Regan.

      Ked giggled. “Rule Number Eight: Never check to see if the monster is dead after you think you’ve killed it.”

      “Oh, yeah!” Dan and Trevor chimed in together.

      By the time the credits rolled, Dan and Trevor agreed the film had been creepy, if not downright terrifying. Two more rules were posited to sum up the genre: Rule Number Nine, the villain is never who you think it is, and Rule Ten, the hero can never go home again.

      “It’s still pretty scary after all these years,” Trevor said.

      “It had its moments,” Dan agreed. “How about you, maestro?” he said, turning to his son. “Happy with your choice?”

      Ked rolled his eyes. “Guys, it was lame. Didn’t you see that stupid make-up and overdone fake vomit?

       It looked like green porridge. It was totally goofy,”

       he pronounced, the emperor turning thumbs down on the defeated gladiator. “I can’t believe I even wanted to watch this crap.”

      “Better luck next time,” Dan told his son.

      Ked went off, trailed by the steadfast Ralph. “’Night, guys.”

      “’Night,” they replied.

      Dan looked over at Trevor and shrugged. “So what do we know about horror flicks?”

      “That son of yours is a little too sophisticated for his own good. When I was his age, it scared the crap out of me,” Trevor said.

      They’d just undressed and were settling in upstairs when Dan’s cell buzzed. He reached for it. The screen showed a pay phone number. Not many of those left any more, he thought.

      Trevor glanced over at him. “Better answer it. You know you won’t sleep until you do.”

      Dan sighed.

      “Sharp.” He listened for a while in silence then said, “Didn’t that burn down a couple years ago?”

      Trevor rolled over to watch him.

      “What’s he hiding from?” Then, after a pause, “Maybe, but I wondered what you could tell me.”

      The call ended abruptly.

      “Damn.”

      Trevor looked over at Dan.

      “Duty calls,” Dan said, sitting up.

      Trevor glanced at the bedside clock. “It’s past midnight.”

      “I know, sorry. Don’t wait up.”

      “I won’t.” Trevor pulled the covers up to his chin. “Have fun. Don’t forget your crucifix.”

      It would have been good advice, if he’d followed it.

      A voice crackled out of a walkie-talkie somewhere deep inside the slaughterhouse.

      “Shit! Did you see this?”

      “See what?” answered a second voice. Then “Holy crap! We gotta let the chief know right away.”

      Dan’s imagination was running riot. What could be worse than a body strung up on a meat hook? Were there others he hadn’t seen? He was alert as the officer returned and headed for the cruiser.

      Bryson mumbled a few words into his cell, then, “Yeah, he’s on a meat hook. Just like the guy said.” He glanced at Dan. “But it gets weirder. Guy’s missing an ear. It’s sliced clean off.” There was a pause. “Left, I think. Hang on.” He picked up the walkie-talkie. “Harvey. Which ear?”

      “The left one,” came the reply.

      “Yeah, left,” Dan heard the first officer say.

      This was followed by silence. Dan could hear the man’s breathing quicken. “Yes, sir.” His body stiffened. “Yes, sir. I understand fully.”

      Dan waited, curious, while the officer concluded his call.

      The cop turned his grim face to Dan. “Anything else you can tell us?”

      “Not that I can think of.”

      “All right. You need to leave now.”

      He brushed past Dan and headed back to the building. Dan followed.

      “How can I find out if this is my guy or not?”

      Officer Bryson halted. “Mr. Sharp, sir, you need to leave the site immediately.”

      “Sure, but who can I talk to once the identification is made?”

      Bryson gave him a dismissive stare. “If you don’t leave now, I’ll have to charge you with trespassing. Or I could take you down to the station for a formal briefing. Do you want that, Mr. Sharp?”

      “No.”

      The officer softened a bit. “There’s no identification on the body. It could take a while. Maybe if you brought some dental records for your guy to the coroner’s office tomorrow, you might get an answer.”

      He turned and entered the slaughterhouse. Dan didn’t wait for a second invitation to leave.

      Two

      The Vanishing Point

      It was nearly three o’clock by the time Dan got back in his car. He’d been at the slaughterhouse almost two hours, most of that time with the officers. Now, heading east along St. Clair Avenue, he reviewed the facts in his mind. Three days earlier, he received a call from a woman claiming her brother had been missing since the previous afternoon. Was that too soon to declare him missing officially? No, Dan said. Not if she felt his disappearance was suspicious or unusual. In which case it was better to act sooner than later.

      The woman, Darlene Hillary, had been frantic. Dan waited till she settled down before pressing her. Why did she think his disappearance was suspicious? That was easy: her brother, Darryl, almost never left the house and when he did he always left a note. Agoraphobe, Dan concluded. That morning, Darlene continued, when she was on her way to work, her brother hadn’t said anything about going out. When she returned, he was gone. Could he be anywhere else? No, not that she could think of. Was it possible he got delayed somewhere and found himself unable to get in touch? That, too, was unlikely, she said. Nor had he taken any personal belongings, leaving out the possibility of an extended trip.

      The answers were not encouraging. Worse, Darlene said her brother had received a threatening note and several disturbing anonymous calls over the past few months. He hadn’t wanted to talk about them, but she wheedled it out of him when he began acting strangely, obsessing over locking doors and keeping the windows closed and the curtains drawn at all times. Clearly he believed the threats were real, though he hadn’t told his sister what they were about. Dan listened with careful gravity. If someone was serious enough to make threats, then whoever it was might be serious enough to carry them out, though a final verdict was premature.

      Almost all of Dan’s questions hit dead ends. Darryl hadn’t held a job in five years and therefore had no work colleagues, past or present, to question. He hadn’t fraternized with neighbours, frequented pool halls or movie houses, so there was no one to ask about the last time they’d seen him socially. His sister worked at an old age home and was often gone for the better part of the day or night, depending on her shift. As far as she knew, her brother spent most of his free time watching TV in his bedroom or outside in their