A Graveyard for Lunatics Read Online Free PDF Page A

move
all
the writers out of the Writers’ Building! Put Steve Longstreet over in that New Orleans mansion to write his Civil War film. And that French bakery just beyond? Great place for Marcel Dementhon to finish his revolution, yes? Down the way, Piccadilly, heck, put all those new English writers there!”
    Manny came slowly up on the porch, his face a confused red. He looked around at the studio, his Rolls, and then at the two of us, as if he had caught us naked and smoking behind the barn. “Christ, not enough everything’s gone to hell at breakfast. I got two fruitcakes who want to turn Lydia Pinkham’s shack into a writers’ cathedral!”
    “Right!” said Roy. “On this very porch I conceived the scariest miniature film set in history!”
    “Cut the hyperbole.” Manny backed off. “Show me the
stuff
!”
    “May we use your Rolls?” said Roy.
    We used the Rolls.
    On the way to Stage 13, Manny Leiber stared straight ahead and said, “I’m trying to run a madhouse and you guys sit around on porches shooting wind. Where in hell is my Beast!? Three
weeks
I’ve waited—”
    “Hell,” I said reasonably, “it takes time, waiting for something really new to step out of the night. Give us breathing space, time for the old secret self to coax itself out. Don’t worry. Roy here will be working in clay. Things will rise out of
that
. For now, we keep the Monster in the shadows, see—”
    “Excuses!” said Manny, glaring ahead. “I don’t see. I’ll give you three more days! I
want
to see the Monster!”
    “What if,” I blurted suddenly, “the Monster sees
you
! My God! What if we do it all from the Monster’s viewpoint, looking out!? The camera moves and is the Monster, and people get scared of the Camera and—”
    Manny blinked at me, shut one eye, and muttered: “Not bad. The
Camera
, huh?”
    “Yeah! The Camera crawls out of the meteor. The Camera, as the Monster, blows across the desert, scaring Gila monsters, snakes, vultures, stirring the dust—”
    “I’ll be damned.” Manny Leiber gazed off at the imaginary desert.
    “I’ll be damned,” cried Roy, delighted.
    “We put an oiled lens on the Camera,” I hurried on, “add steam, spooky music, shadows, and the Hero staring
into
the Camera and—”
    “
Then
what?”
    “If I
talk
it I won’t
write
it.”
    “Write it,
write
it!”
    We stopped at Stage 13. I jumped out, babbling. “Oh, yeah. I think I should do
two
versions of the script. One for you. One for me.”
    “Two?” yelled Manny. “Why?”
    “At the end of a week I hand in
both
. You get to choose which is right.”
    Manny eyed me suspiciously, still half in, half out of the Rolls.
    “Crap! You’ll do your
best
work on
your
idea!”
    “No. I’ll do my damnedest for you. But also my damnedest for
me
. Shake?”
    “
Two
Monsters for the price of one? Do it! C’mon!”
    Outside the door Roy stopped dramatically. “You
ready
for this? Prepare your minds and souls.” He held up both beautiful artists’ hands, like a priest.
    “I’m prepared, dammit. Open!”
    Roy flung open the outside and then the inside door and we stepped into total darkness.
    “Lights, dammit!” said Manny.
    “Hold on—” whispered Roy.
    We heard Roy move in the dark, stepping carefully over unseen objects.
    Manny twitched nervously.
    “Almost ready,” intoned Roy across a night territory. “Now…”
    Roy turned on a wind machine, low. First there was a whisper like a giant storm, which brought with it weather from the Andes, snow murmuring off the shelves of the Himalayas, rain over Sumatra, a jungle wind headed for Kilimanjaro, the rustle of skirts of tide along the Azores, a cry of primitive birds, a flourish of bat wings, all blended to lift your gooseflesh and drop your mind down trapdoors toward—
    “Light!” cried Roy.
    And now the light was rising on Roy Holdstrom’s landscapes, on vistas so alien and beautiful it broke your heart and mended your terror and then shook you again as shadows in great lemming mobs rushed over the microscopic dunes, tiny hills, and miniature