Final Reel: Book III of the Box Office of Terror Trilogy by Russell C Connor

Author:Russell C Connor [Connor, Russell C]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Dark Filament Books
Published: 2024-01-23T00:00:00+00:00

The gravity in the motel room shifted to a weirdly perpendicular angle. Jared, Nina, and Scott grab for Davis, using his mountainous form as an anchor even as he fought to keep from rebounding off the wall himself. Then, just as quickly, their sense of ‘down’ skewed off on another tangent and then another, until all four of them were stumbling around like the crew of the Enterprise under heavy fire. To Davis, it was as if the room had been set upon a giant cog, with each ratcheting turn reorganizing the geometry of the room.

Only when it stopped did he realize that, at some point between the dizzying jerks, they’d left the motel behind.

The space they were in now was some kind of opulent, rectangular dining hall, with a polished gray-and-white checkerboard tile floor, arched ceiling, ornate crown molding, and purple velvet upholstered chairs around a twenty-foot-long mahogany table covered in gold-inlaid candelabras. All seven of them still stood in the same positions relative to one another, on an elevated pavilion running along a bank of tall windows that made up one of the room’s longer walls. The sudden change in perspective was almost as bad as the vertiginous method in which they’d arrived.

“Oh god, I’m gonna puke,” Jared groaned, and ran for a tall potted plant a few feet away.

“That was worse than riding a Tilt-a-Whirl,” Nina agreed, holding her head in both hands.

Scott, however, was making his way unsteadily around a grand piano to the glass wall. “Guys…take a look at this.”

With a glance at the three elderly people—none of whom seemed to be experiencing the same discomfort—Davis lumbered over to the young man, his own head swimming. Immediately on the other side of the glass was a wide terrace occupied by quaint bistro table sets and sun umbrellas, whose boundary looked like the stone parapet of a medieval citadel. But beyond the edge lay a rolling, majestic view of green mountainside descending to old conifer forest below, petering out into a dense, flat grid of urbanization with the familiar skyline of downtown Los Angeles on the horizon, no bigger than an envelope from this distance. The afternoon sun hung heavy in the sky a few degrees to the right of it.

“This has gotta be somewhere in the San Gabriel Mountains,” Jared said, wiping flecks of vomit off his chin as he stared out beside Davis. “A good fifty miles north of where we were standing a few seconds ago.”

“Very astute, Mr. Mane,” Tash said. The man reminded Davis of a stereotypical college professor in his thin turtleneck sweater and natty sport coat, but that accent gave him an exotic flair. “This is my chateau, in tha foothills o’ Mount Wilson. Yeh’re all quite safe here fer tha time bein’. Tha Church would have no reason ta look fer ye here, and even if they did, there are certain safeguards in place tha’ would hide ye. Not even yehr phones can be tracked here.”

Davis decided to ignore

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