Spring Break
After Devon Longford tore off February and revealed the month of March on her wall calendar, she looked out the window at the mountains of snow that surrounded her college dormitory. It had been a bad winter, with several significant snowstorms beginning during Christmas vacation and continuing through January and February.
Only three weeks until spring break, she thought, feeling an onslaught of cabin fever.
Many of her classmates had already booked trips to Miami, Key West, Bermuda, the Bahamas and even as far away as Cancún, Mexico. Devon, however, had not made any plans for the brief respite in her busy school year. Still, even though she could not afford to fly to Florida or the Caribbean, she did not want to spend the week in Massachusetts with its below-freezing temperatures.
Determined not to be left out in the cold—both figuratively and literally—Devon put a notice on the cafeteria bulletin board, hoping to find other students who would be willing to head south by car. If enough people pitched in for gas, the savings would be significant, hopefully enough to afford burgers, beer and a cheap motel or campground.
By the time her last class was over and she returned to her dorm room, more than a dozen people had responded, one of whom had access to a Chevy Express van equipped to hold twelve passengers. After a flurry of text messages to and from the interested parties, tentative travel arrangements were made. A total of fifteen people would be going on the trip in two vehicles: eleven in the Express and the remaining four in a Jeep Cherokee. Weather and traffic permitting, students would drive three-hour shifts, in either one of the two vehicles, thus completing the twenty-four-hour trek (most of which would be along Interstate 95) without putting undue strain on any one driver.
The following day, once the snow had been plowed from the parking lots and roads, Devon headed into town with her credit card in hand. As was usually the case, despite the single-digit temperatures, the department stores were selling spring and summer clothes. Thankfully, she had short-sleeved tops in her dresser, and all she needed to buy were a few pairs of shorts and a bathing suit.
After her shopping trip, she returned to her dorm and packed her duffel bag.
I'm all ready to go, she thought with a smile, hoping the next three weeks would pass quickly.
* * *
After classes ended on Friday, March 21, the fifteen students met in the administration building's parking lot.
"I hope you girls remembered to pack light," third-year premed student Jared Ridley joked as he began storing luggage in the Jeep's cargo area.
"All I need is a bathing suit and my cell phone," pretty and outgoing Mallory Berwick laughingly replied.
Unfortunately, not all the girls believed in traveling light. In addition to bringing more clothes than were necessary, some brought along make-up cases, curling irons, hair straighteners and blow dryers. Thankfully, both vehicles had come equipped with luggage racks.
When everyone was inside the Express, Jared got behind the wheel and announced, "In about three hours, I'll stop at a rest area. The next driver can take over then."
The students made good time driving through southern New England and the Mid-Atlantic states. It was not until they reached the Carolinas that they encountered their first snag. For forty-five minutes, they inched ahead in bumper-to-bumper traffic caused by a four-car collision. Xander DeGraw, who was behind the wheel of the Express, became impatient at the long delay and reached into the glove box for the map.
"How much farther is it to Florida?" asked Judy Strunk, his girlfriend, who was sitting beside him in the front passenger seat.
"I'd say about nine hours."
There was a collective groan from the students in the back.
"And who knows how long it'll be before we start moving again," Jared grumbled.
"Exactly!" Xander said. "I want to see if there's another route we can take at the next exit that will bring us back to ninety-five further down."
"Do you think it's wise to leave the highway?" Devon asked doubtfully. "We don't have a navigator in this van."
"Who needs a navigator?" Xander asked, miffed at the suggestion that he could not find his way without one. "I know how to read a map."
"I don't think we should try it," she argued. "If we start taking state and county roads, we could get lost."
"Do you want to spend a good part of your spring break sitting in traffic?" the driver countered. "What about the rest of you?"
When the question was put to an informal vote, everyone except Devon opted to take the next exit and find an alternate route. Three hours later the Chevy van was lumbering along a deserted rural road, its gas gauge nearing the empty mark.
"What does the map say?" Judy asked. "Are we near any towns?"
Xander turned his head away and grudgingly admitted, "This road isn't on the map. We must have taken a wrong turn somewhere."
Devon noticed his use of the plural pronoun we and wanted to point out that it was he who was doing the driving, but she wisely kept her tongue.
When the low fuel warning light came on, even Xander regretted his decision to leave the interstate.
"Do we have an empty fuel can in the back?" he asked, anticipating a long walk if the Express ran out of gas.
"No," replied Scotty Falco, whose father owned the van. "I took it out so that we could fit in as much luggage as possible.
"Great!" Judy groaned. "This day keeps getting better and better."
Hoping to prevent an argument between the couple in the front seat, Devon suggested, "Perhaps we should phone the people in the Cherokee and see where they are."
"They're probably stuck in traffic," Xander said, still trying to impress upon his passengers that he had made the right decision in looking for a detour.
"I'll call them," Kara Woods said from the rear of the van.
She took her cell phone out of her pocket and tried calling a friend in the Jeep. Moments later she put the phone away.
"No service."
"What's that sign up ahead?" Devon suddenly asked.
"I can't see it clearly enough to read it," Judy replied.
As they neared the old wooden sign, Devon read aloud, "Red Carpet Hollywood Wax Museum, straight ahead."
"You've got to be kidding!" Judy exclaimed. "Who would put any museum, much less a Hollywood museum, out here in the middle of nowhere?"
"Maybe this road leads to a highway," Xander said hopefully. "Preferably one with a gas station."
Less than a mile up the road, there was a sprawling windowless building that resembled an abandoned warehouse. An overhead movie marquee identified it as the Red Carpet Hollywood Wax Museum.
"Is the place even open?" Devon asked, taking note of the rusted wrecks of a dozen or so old cars in the parking lot.
On the door was a sign that listed the hours of operation as well as the admission price: one dollar per ticket.
"Only a dollar to get in," Mallory said. "This museum must have closed up back in the Forties."
Xander put the van in park and turned off the engine, leaving the keys in the ignition.
"What are you doing?" his girlfriend asked.
"If someone's inside, hopefully they can give me a lift to the nearest gas station or at least point us in the right direction."
He walked up to the front door and pulled on the handle. Surprisingly, it opened.
"Hello? Is anybody here?"
The lights immediately came on, and Xander found himself in what appeared to be a movie theater lobby, complete with ticket office and snack bar—although the popcorn machine was empty and there were no boxes of candy in the case.
"You by yourself, young fella?"
Xander was startled to see an old man sitting at the ticket booth, when only moments earlier, it had appeared to be empty.
"No. My friends are waiting outside in the van."
"Well, bring them in," the old man suggested. "They won't want to miss the exhibits. There's no other attraction like this on the East Coast."
"We didn't come here to see the museum. We took a wrong turn when we left the interstate, and now we're lost and just about out of gas."
"Have no fear. There's a fuel tank out back. You can help yourself to a few gallons."
"I can't thank you enough," Xander said with relief. "I'll go pull the van to the back."
"Just wait a second there, amigo. I'll let you have some gas, but first you and your friends have got to see the museum."
"As much as we'd love to, we're running behind schedule. We only have a week off from school, and we're trying to get to Florida as soon as possible. So, why don't we just buy a few gallons of gas from you?"
The old man, who bore a striking resemblance to an elderly Anthony Hopkins, shook his head.
"That's the problem with you kids today: you're always in a rush. I've spent decades building this museum. It's my life's work. I'm not interested in your money; I want people to see my creations. Now, either you and your friends go inside or you start walking the twenty miles into town."
Twenty miles? Xander thought with a grimace.
"Okay. Let me go get my friends. I'm sure they'll all want to take a walk down the red carpet."
"Are you serious?" Judy cried when her boyfriend explained the old man's conditions. "I don't want to go inside. This place gives me the creeps."
"Look, if we want to get to Florida anytime soon, we'll need gas. In order to get gas, we have to go into that stupid museum. So, let's just buy our tickets and walk as quickly as we can through the exhibits."
"Walk?" Judy said, with an apprehensive glance at the sprawling building. "I'd just as soon run."
* * *
"Sorry there are no refreshments," the old man apologized after taking their money and giving the students their tickets. "It's been quite a while since I've had any customers. There used to be a time when I'd get a few hundred a day, but that was before the new highway was built. Now the only people that stop are those who get lost."
"No problem. We don't need any snacks," Judy assured him. "We just want to see the exhibits and be on our way."
"Okay. But before I open the door, I have to go over the rules with you."
"Rules?" Judy echoed. "In a wax museum?"
"We gotta have rules, young lady. I don't want anyone getting hurt."
"No smoking, right?"
"That goes without saying," Devon said. "No museum allows its patrons to smoke."
"Rule number one, don't touch the figures," the old man proceeded to enumerate. "Most of them are old and brittle, and I don't want to have to repair or replace them. Number two, don't try to open any of the doors you'll see along the way. Most of them lead to my workroom or to the rear of the displays, and I don't want you touching any props or scenery. That leads us to the most important rule. Rule number three, stay on the red carpet. If you do that, you won't be tempted to touch the figures or enter one of the doors. Got that?"
"Yeah, yeah, we got it," Xander said impatiently. "We'll look but not touch."
Truth be told, none of the students was even eager to look. Not one of them would bother to go into the museum had they not been coerced into doing so with the promise of gasoline.
"Okay, then," the old man said and, with a theatrical flourish, threw open the double doors to the dimly lit exhibit area. "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Hollywood!"
When the doors closed behind them, the first thing most of the students noticed was the odor that permeated the exhibit area.
"Ugh! This place smells!" Judy exclaimed. "Doesn't anyone ever clean in here?"
"It doesn't seem like it," Xander replied. "Look at that figure. The wig has a thick layer of dust on it, and the costume looks like it's been around since Edison invented the movie camera."
"Who is that supposed to be?" Devon asked, not recognizing the young Ethel Barrymore from her silent film days.
"Who cares?" Judy replied. "Let's just get out of here and into the fresh air.
The students hurried along the red carpet not bothering to look at the figures of Rudolph Valentino, Charlie Chaplin, Lilian Gish, Mabel Normand or any of the other early legends of the silver screen. By the time they worked their way through the advent of talkies, the Depression era movies and entered the Golden Age of Hollywood, they were anxious to find an exit.
"I don't care about the gas; I just want to get the hell out of here," Judy whined after seeing a large spider crawling over a shabby wax figure of Humphrey Bogart as Sam Spade in The Maltese Falcon.
"This can't go on forever," Devon said. "Let's hurry until we get to the exit."
"Are you kidding? Did you see the size of this place?" Xander asked. "And these hallways are like a maze. It can take us an hour or more to get through it. I say the hell with the rules. Why don't we look for another way out?"
He stepped off the red carpet and opened a door beside figures of James Cagney and Edward G. Robinson.
"It's dark in here," he said taking a tentative step forward. "I wish I had a flashlight or ...."
The heavy metal door slammed shut behind him. Although Judy tugged on the handle, it would not open. She shouted her boyfriend's name and pounded on the door, but there was no sound from the room beyond.
"We've got to find that old guy and get Xander out," she cried. "He might be hurt."
"If Xander does need help, we have to act quickly," Scotty suggested. "We can cover more ground if we split up."
* * *
Xander took a tentative step over the threshold of the door, calling over his shoulder, "I wish I had a flashlight or ...."
The moment the door slammed shut behind him, the darkness was dispelled. Xander was not in a workshop or the back of a wax exhibit. He was high atop a spherical gas storage tank. Below him in a bizarre black-and-white alternate world were policemen firing up at him.
"Come and get me," he shouted as spotlight beams searched for him amidst the pipes.
I must be dreaming, he thought.
The surroundings looked familiar. As a fan of James Cagney, he recognized the climactic scene in White Heat, and he was apparently dreaming he was the deranged killer, Cody Jarrett.
As gunfire erupted around him, Xander, laughing maniacally, shot at the gas tank and screamed, "Made it, Ma. Top of the world!"
Within moments, the gas ignited, blowing up Cody Jarrett, but none of the students in the wax museum heard the sound of the explosion or knew that Xander DeGraw had been killed.
* * *
Judy Strunk fought back her tears as she raced along the red carpet looking for another door. She paid no attention to the wax figures along her route and nearly collided with a likeness of Alfred Hitchcock. In her haste to open the door, she tripped on the red carpet and fell forward, striking her head on the brass handle. Her hand went up to her forehead, and she winced with pain.
"I'm all right," she assured her fellow students. "I'll have a bump, but I'll live. Hurry, everyone. We've got to find a way out of here."
As the others continued down the hall looking for a way out, Judy grasped the doorknob in both hands and pulled.
"Xander? Are you in there? Can you hear me?" she called into the darkness.
When she took a step across the threshold, she felt a spray of hot water hit her face and let out a startled scream.
"What the hell?"
The perplexed student wiped the water from her face and opened her eyes. She assumed she was in a white tub with white tiles on the walls, but these assumptions were based on the fact that she could see no color anywhere. Even her hands and body were varying shades of gray.
I must have hit my head harder than I thought because I'm imagining things. But why does it feel so real?
As though she were a marionette being controlled by an unseen puppeteer, her hand rubbed a bar of soap over her naked body. Looking up at the shower head, she failed to see the silhouette of an approaching figure through the semitransparent shower curtain. She turned when she heard the rings scrape against the curtain rod.
It's Norman Bates, Judy thought when she saw the man in an old woman's dress and wig. That means I'm Marilyn Crane.
It was not until Psycho's famed killer plunged his knife into her wet body that Judy Strunk realized her minor head injury had nothing to do with her strange visions or with her impending death.
* * *
As Mallory Berwick followed behind her best friend, Skye Justison, down the dimly lit hallway, past a dozen or so dusty wax figures, she scanned shadowy recesses for any sign of a doorway.
"What made me ever think driving all the way to Florida would be an adventure?" she asked her friend. "I should have borrowed the money from my parents and flown to Bermuda for a week like you suggested. We would be lying on a beach, sipping cocktails out of pineapples, right now instead of wandering the halls of this spooky old place."
"Don't beat yourself up over it. What's done is done. Let's just find a way out of here so that we can get back on the road and finally get to Florida. Look, there's a door," Skye said, pointing to an opening between exhibits of Peter O'Toole as Lawrence of Arabia and Patty Duke portraying Helen Keller in The Miracle Worker. "And there's another across the hall. I'll check this one; you see what's behind the other one."
Like Xander DeGraw and Judy Strunk before her, Mallory Berwick opened the door and entered the unnerving world of early Hollywood, one that looked as though it had been converted into grayscale by Photoshop.
Where am I? the student wondered, when the door closed behind her and she found herself in a packed arena.
Mallory had never enjoyed old movies, especially those that were shot in black-and-white. Consequently, she was not familiar with the plot into which she was suddenly thrust. Even when she realized she was in the midst of a crowded presidential convention, she felt no danger, only a profound sense of wonder at the sudden change of environment. The names Benjamin K. Arthur and Senator John Iselin, printed on campaign placards, meant nothing to her. Even had she been aware that she was now cast as the devious Eleanor Shaw Iselin, she still would have felt no fear, for she had never seen Angela Lansbury in anything except old reruns of Murder, She Wrote.
As Mallory listened to "The Star Spangled Banner" and wondered if someone had slipped a hallucinogenic drug in her bottle of Desani, Frank Sinatra as Major Bennett Marco raced against time to reach Laurence Harvey in his assassin's lair. Sinatra hoped to prevent the brainwashed Raymond Shaw from shooting Arthur, the doomed presidential candidate.
Even as the plot approached its climax, the young college student was completely unaware that she was in imminent danger. It was not until Shaw put a bullet in stepfather John Iselin's forehead that she felt the first stirrings of concern.
I don't think I'm inside the Red Carpet Hollywood Wax Museum anymore, she thought, fighting down the terror that threatened to overwhelm her. But, if I'm not, then where am I? And how did I get here?
Then she noticed that the fallen man on the ground beside her, whom Mallory did not recognize as actor James Gregory, was dead.
"What's happening?" she cried, on the verge of hysteria. "Where am ...?"
The computer sciences student was forever silenced moments later when Shaw's second bullet struck his scheming mother and ended both her life and Mallory Berwick's.
* * *
Moments after Mallory opened the door and became part of the plot of The Manchurian Candidate, Skye Justison opened another door across the hall and found herself in a Technicolor world of the Depression era South.
I'm riding in a car, she realized, wondering how on earth she had gotten into the back seat of the Chevy Express.
As her mind cleared, however, she realized she was a passenger in an old Ford, being driven down a country road. She turned to see who was driving. Her heartbeat quickened when she saw Warren Beatty's handsome profile. When he turned in her direction, she recognized the pair of sunglasses with one lens missing; he had worn them in the final scenes of Bonnie and Clyde.
Skye, who was apparently a prisoner in Bonnie Parker's body, had just taken a bite of a pear and handed the piece of fruit to Clyde Barrow when she noticed a man standing by the side of the road, beside a truck with a flat tire.
"Hey, isn't that Malcolm there?" she asked in Faye Dunaway's voice.
Skye, unlike the gun-toting, bank-robbing Bonnie, knew she and Clyde were driving into a trap. Texas Ranger Frank Hamer and his posse were hiding behind the trees waiting to ambush the duo when they stopped to offer assistance.
Turn around and go back to town, she thought, desperately wanting to warn Clyde but unable to utter a word.
When the car stopped and Warren Beatty got out, Skye knew what would happen next. A truck would approach from the opposite direction, Malcolm would duck for cover and Hamer and his men would open fire.
Just before her body was riddled with bullets on a Louisiana back country road, Skye Justison thought wistfully of the sunny beach in Florida and of her new bathing suit packed in her suitcase in the Chevy's cargo area. What a shame she had not even gotten the chance to wear it.
* * *
Seven students continued walking briskly down the red carpet, passing scenes from such great movies as The Sound of Music, Rosemary's Baby and Doctor Zhivago.
Sophomore Royce Tennent, who for the past month and a half had been looking forward to spending a week in Florida with Kara Woods, grabbed the shapely redhead's hand and pointed to a doorway up ahead.
"I'll see what's in there," he said looking down into her captivating green eyes.
Kara leaned forward and boldly kissed him on the lips, a gesture that took the timid boy by surprise.
"I wish I could go in there with you," she whispered. "But I guess we'll just have to wait until we get to Florida."
His heart feeling much lighter at the prospect of the romance that would await him in the Sunshine State, Royce left the red carpet and walked the short distance to the door, opened it and went inside. It took several moments for his eyes to adjust to the bright light, and when they did, he found himself face to face with Paul Newman.
This figure is in much better condition than those in the exhibit area, he concluded. It's much more lifelike as well.
Royce was startled when the handsome, blue-eyed actor said, "You didn't see LaForce out there, did you?"
Royce recognized the line as one from Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.
He heard himself, as Sundance, answer, "LaForce? No."—to which Butch replied, "Good. For a moment there I thought we were in trouble."
Not long after that brief exchange—a comical moment in the movie—the two bandits emerged from the building in which they had taken cover, guns ablaze, and were cut down by Bolivian soldiers who were lying in wait on the rooftops above them. Royce's life as Robert Redford in the role of Harry Longabaugh, a.k.a., the Sundance Kid, came to an abrupt end. As he breathed his last, he remembered the redhead's unexpected kiss and smiled.
* * *
"Doesn't it bother anybody that no one has found an exit or returned yet?" Devon asked after watching yet another one of her fellow students disappear behind one of the museum's nondescript, shadowy doors.
"Why should it bother us? They must all still be looking for a way out," Scotty said.
"Or maybe they're all outside waiting for us," Sierra Myles suggested. "Hopefully, at this very moment, Xander has got the van gassed up and is ready to go."
Devon was not at all convinced or comforted by her companions' optimism.
"There's another door," Kara Woods announced. "This one's mine."
With a last, longing look at the door through which Royce Tennent had disappeared, she walked into the shadows of the doorway, grabbed the handle and pulled.
"I'll see you all on the outside," she said and crossed the threshold.
For a moment, she assumed the door led into one of the museum's exhibits. She instantly recognized Gene Hackman, Ernest Borgnine and Red Buttons. Then the sensation of intense heat from below made her look down. Her jeans and sweater were gone; she was now wearing a man's button-up shirt over a pair of panties. On her feet was a pair of high heels that were totally unsuitable for climbing up a catwalk of twisted metal.
It's as though I'm actually part of the movie, she thought with amazement, still believing she was inside the museum. But how did I get into Stella Stevens's costume?
It was only when she saw the actors move and heard them speak that she realized she was not surrounded by wax figures.
What the hell is going on? Is this some kind of live theater?
But, if so, the question had to be asked again. How and when did she get into Stella Stevens's skimpy costume?
It was a question that would never receive an answer. Moments later, the inverted cruise ship Poseidon lurched, and Kara Woods fell forward into the water and flames below.
* * *
After having ridden in a van for more than fifteen hours, walking at a brisk pace had finally taken its toll on Sierra Myles' muscles.
"Stop," she cried out as she felt a sudden sharp pain in her calf. "I've got a leg cramp. I have to rest a minute."
"Okay," Scotty Falco said. "You stay here until you can walk again, and then see what's behind that door just beyond the wax Al Pacino. We'll go on ahead and keep searching for the exit."
"Can't you stay with me a minute?"
"The sooner we find our way out of here, the sooner we'll be back on the road to Florida."
Sierra did not like being left alone. She had always found mannequins, wax figures and even porcelain dolls decidedly unnerving. She hated the way the fake eyes—whether they were painted on or made of glass or wax—always seemed so lifelike.
When her tightened muscle finally began to relax, Sierra walked past the wax Pacino without looking at its face—but still unable to shake the eerie feeling that he was watching her every step. She quickly opened the door and hurried through it.
Her first sensation as she passed over the threshold was a twinge in her calf muscle, and she feared another cramp. When she realized she was once again sitting in a vehicle, she wrongly concluded that she had blacked out and one of her travel companions found a way out and managed to get her back to the Chevy. Her still being unconscious seemed an even more likely scenario when she looked up and saw Al Pacino walking toward her.
I wish I'd seen Mark Wahlberg or Leonardo DiCaprio before I passed out, she thought, believing she was seeing The Godfather star only because the last thing she had seen before fainting was the wax figure of Scarface's Tony Montana.
I may be imagining this, but it seems so REAL.
As her hand turned the key in the ignition of the vintage black Alfa Romeo, Al Pacino screamed to her, "No, Apollonia!"
The car bomb exploded before Sierra Myles knew what was happening. Her young life was over through no fault of her own but as the result of the imagination of Mario Puzo who wrote the novel and co-wrote the movie screenplay with Francis Ford Coppola.
* * *
Scotty Falco was beginning to regret his decision to head for warmer climes during the spring break. He should have gone home to Maine instead. He had not seen his girlfriend since Christmas vacation, and he probably would not see her until the semester ended in May. Sure, he'd had his fill of wintry weather the past few months, but he was born and raised in New England; he was used to snow and subfreezing temperatures.
When he spotted the next door, behind an exhibit of Back to the Future's Marty McFly and Doc Brown standing beside a time-travelling DeLorean, he volunteered to enter.
"Just promise me you won't leave without me," he asked the three remaining students. "The last thing I want is to have to walk those twenty miles to the nearest town."
"Don't worry. I'll make sure everyone is accounted for before we take to the road again," Jared promised.
But Scotty did worry. Although he would not admit it to Devon, he was as concerned by the disappearance of the other students as she was.
His hand went to the doorknob, but he hesitated before turning it. He thought of his peaceful Maine town and the girlfriend he had been dating since freshman year of high school. Unlike him, she did not go away to college; she preferred to stay in Maine near her family.
The smell of the ocean when he walked through the door reminded him of Old Orchard Beach. The sudden rocking motion was a clear indication that he was no longer on land. Somehow, when he crossed the threshold, he was transported to the deck of a fishing boat. All around him was water, the familiar steely gray-blue of the Atlantic. Suddenly, he felt like Dorothy when she opened her eyes and discovered herself back in Kansas.
There is no place like home!
As he stared out over the peaceful sea, a great white shark emerged from the watery depths and threw itself against the boat. Scotty laughed, remembering the time when, as a small child, he had taken the tour at Universal Studios in California. The tram broke down in Amityville, and he had to witness Jaws surface again and again.
His laughter stopped when the boat listed and he fell and slid forward. Instinctively he turned to escape the deadly fish. Roy Scheider, dressed in Chief Brody's uniform, grabbed his hand in an attempt to pull him to safety. Scotty fought as valiantly for his life as Robert Shaw had, but like the ill-fated Quint, he soon found himself in the great white's jaws.
Scotty Falco's one regret as he was being eaten by the shark was that he would not be able to say goodbye to his girlfriend in Maine.
* * *
"You know," Tyler Jenks said as he and his two companions walked along the red carpet looking for the next door, "the bad weather back in Massachusetts seems more appealing every minute."
"How can you say that, even in jest?" Jared asked. "We were up to our asses in snow, and the drifts were over our heads."
"True, but clean, fresh-smelling snow beats these dusty, dilapidated wax figures. This place isn't exactly Madame Tussauds."
"Yeah. I went to Tussauds once and got my picture taken with Angelina Jolie. Even in wax she was gorgeous."
"Isn't that another door?" Devon asked, squinting in the darkness.
"It sure looks like it," Tyler replied.
"Who's it going to be this time?" Jared asked.
"I'll go," Tyler offered.
As he stood in front of the door, trying to find the courage to open it, he turned back to the others and bravely joked, "I feel like a contestant on Let's Make a Deal. I'll take what's behind door number three, Monte."
"Just hope you don't get zonked," Jared laughed.
His hand trembling, Tyler opened the door. When he stepped over the threshold, his foot sank into snow.
"What is this, a lesson in be careful what you wish for?"
The freezing temperature and deep snow made him feel as though he were back in New England.
"This isn't possible!"
When they had pulled into the museum's parking lot, the Chevy's digital temperature gauge read eighty degrees. Even had there been a drastic change in the weather, there could not possibly be so much snow in such a short period of time.
Tyler was ill-dressed for such conditions. Hoping to rejoin his friends, he turned and reached for the doorknob, but there was no door or wall behind him. He was outside surrounded by snow and tall hedges.
When he felt a weight in his hand, he looked down and saw an axe. Having seen the movie at least a dozen times, he recognized the hedge maze of the Overlook Hotel.
Some unknown force spoke through him, shouting, "Danny!"
Unable to control his actions, Tyler found himself unwillingly following a small boy's footprints in the snow. His only consolation was knowing the boy would be safe. Young Danny Torrance would outsmart his deranged parent, escape his murderous clutches and be rescued by his mother.
However, the same could not be said of Jack, his father. Unfortunately, Tyler Jenks would share Jack Torrance's fate. He would tire of his exertions and, unable to find his way out of the hedge maze, would sit down in the snow where, by daybreak, he would freeze to death.
* * *
"You'd never realize how big this place is from the outside," Jared said.
"I know," Devon agreed. "It keeps going on and on. But I think we might be coming to an end. I noticed the exhibits are in chronological order by the year in which the movies were made. We started in the silent era, and then walked through movies of the Thirties, Forties, Fifties and so on. We just passed Johnny Depp as Captain Jack Sparrow, so we're getting closer to the current time."
"I never thought I'd be so glad to see the cast members of the Harry Potter movies."
Just beyond a figure of Alan Rickman in the role of Severus Snape was another door.
"This place has got more doors than the Omni Parker in Boston," Jared joked.
Had Devon not vowed to remain on the carpet, she would have asked Jared if she could go through the door with him. She did not want to walk through the dim hallway alone. But she had always been one to follow the rules, both at home and in school. She was not about to break a lifetime of obedience now.
"You don't have to go through that door," she said. "We'll probably come to the exit soon."
Jared gave her suggestion serious thought, but decided against it, partly because he was curious as to what he would encounter on the other side.
"You look for the exit," he said. "I'll see what's in here."
"Be careful."
"You, too."
Jared opened the door and was momentarily dazed when he found himself on a rooftop, overlooking the Boston skyline. He was even more amazed when he realized he was not alone. Matt Damon—as corrupt police detective Sgt. Colin Sullivan—was with him. Moments later they were joined by a third man: Anthony Anderson as Trooper Brown. Jared came to the unsettling realization that he was Billy Costigan, the undercover cop portrayed by Leonard DiCaprio, who was on the scene to arrest Sgt. Sullivan for being in the employ of gangster Frank Costello.
None of this is real! Jared thought, trying to quell his growing panic as he pulled Sullivan at gunpoint into an elevator.
The college student desperately fought to break free from the character of Billy Costigan.
I'm Jared Ridley! I'm not an actor or a character in The Departed.
His struggles were all for naught, however. When the elevator door opened on the ground floor, Trooper Barrigan, another one of Costello's rats, put a bullet through Jared Ridley's head.
* * *
After she watched the door close behind Jared, Devon continued on down the red carpet, passing scenes from Twilight, The Dark Knight, Avatar and The Help. She passed one door and then another, keeping her eyes firmly ahead. As she came to scenes from The Wolf of Wall Street and American Hustle, she knew the exhibits would soon come to an end.
Devon turned a corner in the hall and saw a final door, one with an illuminated EXIT sign above it. The red carpet went right up to the door frame.
Please let it be open, she prayed as she turned the knob.
The brightness of the sun was blinding but a welcome sight nonetheless after the gloomy darkness of the museum.
"Hey," she called when she stepped outside. "Is anyone out here? Xander? Judy? Skye? Royce?"
There was no response.
"Kara? Scotty? Can anybody hear me? Tyler? Jared?"
Maybe everyone is in the van, she thought and walked from the back of the museum to the front.
As she made her way around the perimeter of the immense building, she passed an assortment of old cars, ranging in age from a 1956 Ford Thunderbird to a two-year-old Toyota Camry. All of them had apparently been left to rust away.
When she turned the final corner and saw the Chevy Express, her hopes plummeted. There was no sign of any of her fellow students. She called out again, but no one replied. She walked to the door of the museum which was now boarded up with aged wood and rusty nails.
It looks like this place has been closed for years, she thought.
The frightened college student retraced her steps, looking for an exterior door or delivery bay, but she could find no other entrance or exit—not even the one she had emerged from just a short time earlier. With no sign of life, she got into the van, turned the key in the ignition and drove to the back of the building where she siphoned gas from the Camry.
Devon Longford then drove away, looking for the nearest police station, but instinctively knowing she would never see her ten companions again.
* * *
A young man who bore a strong resemblance to Anthony Hopkins turned away from the window as the Chevy disappeared from sight.
"What a shame," he said with disappointment. "That one got away. Oh, well, there were ten others that didn't."
With a new spring in his step, he turned and walked along the red carpet in the direction of the wax museum's lobby, passing his exhibits, now clean and restored to pristine condition.
"That's what I and this place needed: fresh blood."
No red carpet is complete without black cat hair!
