my footsteps. Crouching at the top of the staircase, freezing sweat burning in my eyes, I stared through the banister at the expansive living room—the couch, the baby grand, the wet bar, the hearth—ambiguous oblique forms in the shadows below. Then there were the places I could not see—the kitchen, the foyer, my study. He could be anywhere. Resisting waves of hysterical trembling, so intense that I kept my finger off the trigger, I thought, He’s doing this for the fear. That’s what gets him off.
Anger displaced my terror. I stood up, charged down the staircase, and ran into the living room.
“Orson!” I screamed above the music. “ Do I look scared? COME ON! ”
I moved to the stereo and cut it off. The gaping silence engulfed me, so I turned on a lamp beside the stereo, and the soft, warm light it produced eased my heart. I listened, looked, heard and saw nothing, took five deep breaths, and leaned against the wall to tame my renascent fear. Go out through the kitchen and onto the deck. Get away from here. Maybe he’s just fucking with you. Maybe he’s already gone.
As I started for the back door, something in the bay-windowed alcove between the kitchen and the living room arrested my exit. An unmarked videotape stood atop the glass breakfast table. Picking it up, I again glanced over my shoulder at the hallway above and then into the foyer. Still nothing moved. I wanted to search my study and the three guest rooms on the second floor, but I didn’t have the equanimity to roam my house, knowing he skulked in some corner or nook, waiting for me to stumble blindly past.
Returning to the stereo and the entertainment center, I inserted the videotape into my VCR, turned on the television, and sat down on the sofa so I could watch the screen and still see most of the living room.
The screen is blue, then black. The date and time emerge in the bottom right-hand corner: 10/30/96, 11:08 a.m. That’s today. No, yesterday now.
I hear a voice, then two voices, so low and muffled that I turn up the volume.
“Would you like for me to sign it?” …“Would you?” …“Be happy to.” …“You got a pen?” …“Shit, I don’t— oh, wait” …“You want me just to sign it?” …“Could you do it to …sign it to my girlfriend?” …“Sure.” …“What’s her name?” …“Jenna.” …“J-E-N-N-A?” …“Yep.” …“She’s gonna love this. Thank you so much.”
The screen still dark, the sound of a car engine vibrates the television set, and then the first shot appears—through the back window of a moving car and from a few hundred feet away—me walking up the steps to my mother’s house. The screen goes black and silent.
Still 10/30/96, now 11:55 a.m. The picture fades in, and the camera slowly pans a dark room. Oh God. Concrete walls and floor. The objects in the room are the giveaway: two red bicycles, a dilapidated exercise trampoline, a fake white Christmas tree, mountains of cardboard boxes, and several stacks of records—the small windowless basement of my mother’s house.
The cameraman holds on a shot of the fourteen steps that lead upstairs, and then the picture jerks nauseatingly as he ascends. The first hallway door creaks open, and the camera zooms in on my face as I sit quietly on my mother’s couch, watching the muted television. “Such a good son to visit her,” he whispers. Then the cameraman closes the door and tiptoes back down the steps.
After placing the camera atop a stack of our father’s records, Orson squats down in front of it, the staircase behind him now, and the screen blackens.
The picture returns from the same position in the basement—10/30/96, 7:25 p.m. Orson leans into the lens and whispers, “You just left, Andy.” He smiles. He wears a mechanic’s suit, though I can’t tell its color in the poor basement light. “I don’t want you to worry, Andy,” he whispers. “This following you around thing is quite temporary. In fact, as you watch
Anger displaced my terror. I stood up, charged down the staircase, and ran into the living room.
“Orson!” I screamed above the music. “ Do I look scared? COME ON! ”
I moved to the stereo and cut it off. The gaping silence engulfed me, so I turned on a lamp beside the stereo, and the soft, warm light it produced eased my heart. I listened, looked, heard and saw nothing, took five deep breaths, and leaned against the wall to tame my renascent fear. Go out through the kitchen and onto the deck. Get away from here. Maybe he’s just fucking with you. Maybe he’s already gone.
As I started for the back door, something in the bay-windowed alcove between the kitchen and the living room arrested my exit. An unmarked videotape stood atop the glass breakfast table. Picking it up, I again glanced over my shoulder at the hallway above and then into the foyer. Still nothing moved. I wanted to search my study and the three guest rooms on the second floor, but I didn’t have the equanimity to roam my house, knowing he skulked in some corner or nook, waiting for me to stumble blindly past.
Returning to the stereo and the entertainment center, I inserted the videotape into my VCR, turned on the television, and sat down on the sofa so I could watch the screen and still see most of the living room.
The screen is blue, then black. The date and time emerge in the bottom right-hand corner: 10/30/96, 11:08 a.m. That’s today. No, yesterday now.
I hear a voice, then two voices, so low and muffled that I turn up the volume.
“Would you like for me to sign it?” …“Would you?” …“Be happy to.” …“You got a pen?” …“Shit, I don’t— oh, wait” …“You want me just to sign it?” …“Could you do it to …sign it to my girlfriend?” …“Sure.” …“What’s her name?” …“Jenna.” …“J-E-N-N-A?” …“Yep.” …“She’s gonna love this. Thank you so much.”
The screen still dark, the sound of a car engine vibrates the television set, and then the first shot appears—through the back window of a moving car and from a few hundred feet away—me walking up the steps to my mother’s house. The screen goes black and silent.
Still 10/30/96, now 11:55 a.m. The picture fades in, and the camera slowly pans a dark room. Oh God. Concrete walls and floor. The objects in the room are the giveaway: two red bicycles, a dilapidated exercise trampoline, a fake white Christmas tree, mountains of cardboard boxes, and several stacks of records—the small windowless basement of my mother’s house.
The cameraman holds on a shot of the fourteen steps that lead upstairs, and then the picture jerks nauseatingly as he ascends. The first hallway door creaks open, and the camera zooms in on my face as I sit quietly on my mother’s couch, watching the muted television. “Such a good son to visit her,” he whispers. Then the cameraman closes the door and tiptoes back down the steps.
After placing the camera atop a stack of our father’s records, Orson squats down in front of it, the staircase behind him now, and the screen blackens.
The picture returns from the same position in the basement—10/30/96, 7:25 p.m. Orson leans into the lens and whispers, “You just left, Andy.” He smiles. He wears a mechanic’s suit, though I can’t tell its color in the poor basement light. “I don’t want you to worry, Andy,” he whispers. “This following you around thing is quite temporary. In fact, as you watch
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