Masters of Horror

Hello. This is a message for Rob Hanisey.

This is Nancy Bloom at Highberger house.

A room has opened up here, and I was curious

if you were still interested in residency.

If so, please give me a call right away at 212-555-3924.

HIGHBERGER HOUSE

- Robert? - Yes. Nancy?

Ms. Bloom. Come in. Come in.

Sorry.

- Come in through the library. - Okay.

I'm really pleased that there was an opening.

What, you're glad that terry died?

I'm sorry. I didn't realize.

Suicide.

Thirty-nine reject slips for terry's latest

novel, even the vanity press wouldn't take it.

Between you and me, piece of shit. But, terry's heart was in it.

Your application states that you've never been published.

- That's right. - Don't be embarrassed.

That's why you're here in the first place.

Old cap Highberger took the building over in the '30's,

as a place for unpublished writers to work,

to hone their craft, to become published writers, and move on.

He was a frustrated author himself.

Those are his unpublished manuscripts over there.

All 47 of them.

What do you write? Horror stories, that gruesome stuff?

No. No, I just want to write stories that touch people's hearts.

Oh, people's hearts kind of guy.

Yeah, I've had a few of those.

- How many books have you written? - Five.

Well, I'm working on number five now.

You got family? Girlfriends, uh, boyfriends?

Are you in love?

The hell with love. I'm gonna live my life for my books.

Well... good for you.

Welcome to Highberger house. Sign here.

This opportunity marks a big change in my life.

I'm gonna be published if it's the last thing I do.

Careful. Terry said the same thing.

This place is all about keeping you away from distractions.

Give you a nice, quiet place to work.

Here's your key. Room 217. One flight up.

It's not the four seasons, but free room and board as long as you're here.

Once you're published you're out of here. You understand?

And then the next unlucky bastard takes your place.

I understand.

Really, I can't tell you how much I appreciate the oppor...

just write the god-damn, great American novel, okay?

Deal.

Yet ever so humble.

Hello.

What the fuck!

I had only briefly shaken hands with love...

and then I found that that hand was a claw.

I had only briefly shaken hands with love...

and then I found that that hand was a claw.

Who is it?

What the fuck!

Hello?

Hello.

What's wrong?

What is it?

Help me.

Please.

Hello!

What's the matter?

I thought I saw...

what?

What did you see?

I'm, uh, I'm not sure.

Who the fuck are you?

This is Rob Hanisey. He's in terry's old room.

Rob, this is Everett Neely and Patricia Dunbar and...

so you're just another miserable fuck-up like the rest of us.

- Well, you owe me, Hanisey - For what?

I was on the verge of ecstasy before you started banging on the wall,

and I dropped my fucking vibrator and now the god-damn thing doesn't work any more.

Jesus, I hate this dump.

And I hate happy little fucking faces like yours.

So give up writing then. Become a nun.

I was a sister of fucking mercy for seven fucking

years, you little cocksucker know-it-all.

So don't you get smart with me.

Well, she does have a command of the language, doesn't she?

Do try to keep it down, Mr. Hanisey. We appreciate the quiet here.

Fuck them.

Anybody gives you any shit from now on, you come

see me, Bruce Sweetland, I'll set them straight.

You want to just shoot the shit or learn the lay of the land, come on down.

And, uh, welcome to Highberger house.

Thanks. Uh, hey, uh, Bruce?

Yeah, man.

Uh, this uh, is this place...

haunted?

Only by the spectre of failure.

Hey. Are you okay?

You've come back.

I want to help you.

Yes. Please. I need you.

I need your help.

Who are you?

What's the matter?

No. You better go back.

Why? I want to help you.

He's coming.

Who? Who's coming?

Oh god, no. Please.

- What do you want me to do? - Help me! Please help me!

No!

I, um, heard you typing.

Well, you said to...

well, uh, come on in, man. I'm a night guy. I could use the company.

You got a lot of sisters.

Oh, girlfriends. Well, ex-girl friends.

Even got an ex-wife or two. I can relate.

The "ex" part, I mean.

Care to partake?

No. Thanks.

Well, don't worry.

I'm not gonna get you high and fuck your ass.

Even if I did swing that way.

I don't shoot the creative juice, man.

I can't waste a drop. I'm saving it all for the book.

You know, a fuck, a quick hand job?

It's like throwing a chapter with the Kleenex, man.

I probably squandered a dozen novels on the beauties on the wall already.

No sir, I'm a fucking monk, man. I'm a fucking monk.

- No. - Come on.

- All right. - All right.

It's quiet in here.

Yeah, like the proverbial fucking tomb.

A lot quieter than my place.

Yeah, really?

What do you, uh... What do you hear?

Um, some kind of a... you know, noises in the walls.

Well, it's probably the pipes or something.

As you might have noticed, there's not a lot

of maintenance that goes on in this place.

You ever hear anything like that?

Nope.

You ever heard any, uh, voices?

What kind of voices?

Like, uh, crying.

There's a signpost up ahead, you're next stop...

the twilight zone.

Your one.

Man, it's easy to see and hear weird shit in this place, man.

It's a weird fucking place full of weird fucking people.

I mean, we're writers, man. I wouldn't worry.

Besides, it's not as if you're seeing ghosts or anything.

So you said.

I had only briefly shaken hands with love.

Hand was a claw.

That claw held me in its thrall, and threatened not only my heart but my life.

I would kill or be killed for her if need be, so great was my love.

And that love was to be tested. And a life was

to be given, as if in sacrifice to an angry god.

Jesus, did I write that?

No.

No, no.

Come on.

Shit!

Hey, hey, hey, rob.

How was your first night in the old, uh, Highberger house?

Okay, thanks.

Did you, uh, did you get any writing done?

Uh, not a whole lot, just getting acclimated first.

So, what are you writing?

It's a romance. A dark romance.

Hmm, a doomed romance?

That's the best kind.

Just what the world needs, another bodice ripper.

Well, I wouldn't call it a bodice ripper.

It's very contemporary. Very, real world.

Oh, I see.

Autobiographical, I assume.

A litter of great conquests by the great lover.

No, no, nothing like that. It's something...

personal. Intimate. Really on a small scale.

Listen.

Don't worry about them. Just a bunch of failures.

But you, are gonna have to be the new guy, at least for a while.

Thanks.

I'm gonna go up to my room, I've got some work to do.

Cool. Cool.

Well, good luck with it, man.

Thanks.

Right good.

Right well.

Thanks.

Everything okay?

Hello.

I'm afraid.

Where are your clothes?

He took them.

Who?

Are you in pain?

What did he do to you?

Oh god, no.