ReaperReads
ReaperReads
Out here in the midwest, in the middle of Nowheresville, Nebraska- We don’t have Goosebumps.
Chicagoians swear by their deep dish, Mainers only drink Moxie, and us in Nebraska– We won’t shut up about Dorian Dunwich and his ReaperReads. He’s been at it since 1982, a supposed decade before R.L Stine started goosebumps, but his books never gained the same traction nationwide in his heyday. This led him to give up the craft in 1995 while Stine went on to be crowned the veritable “Stephen King of Children’s Literature.” Whether out of pride or pity, the town never let him fully fade into obscurity– Bolstering him as better than Stine, a local hero.
Or at least, that’s how the story goes, the story everyone will tell you. Strangely enough, nobody even talks about the content of the books themselves– just the mythos of the man. Despite that, I’ve never met a person from around here who doesn’t have at least a few ReaperReads sitting on their shelf, whether it’s a fresh reprint or a dusty early edition. Most have a complete collection of 22 originals, some even have doubles to serve as backups. I’ve even heard rumors of Dunwich shrines consisting of what little merchandise was made, burning sanctified, usually signed copies as offerings to Dorian himself in some confused occult ritual.
But they’re just rumors, right?
When I was 11 years old, I sent Mr. Dunwich a letter and a package. The letter was mostly fawning about how much I adored his stories (my favorite was Azathoth’s game of Hopscotch) And the package contained a manuscript of my first novel, a story about a haunted mirror that would display your greatest fears before pulling you inside the mirror world. Mr. Dunwich responded to my letter with enthusiastic praise (and a signed copy of Azathoth’s Game) encouraging me to never stop writing.
He also sent an invitation, but that needs some more context first.
October, 1994- the same month I received the letter back– was around the same time that the Goosebumps TV series was announced to be beginning production. The town was riled up with metaphorical (mostly) pitchforks ready to boycott (and maybe more), curiously all except for one Dorian Dunwich. He instead revealed his longtime dream of turning ReaperReads into a TV show was finally put into action as well, though a bit further to completion than Goosebumps’. The series was almost complete, only on the last 5 episodes of filming- Turning the 23 books into a 23 episode season.
This is where the invitation comes into play.
Kindly old Mr. Dunwich invited me and four other children who had written similar letters to come to his manor in town on 12/6, where they would be taping the final scenes for the ReaperReads adaptation. It wasn’t the stereotypical isolated house on a hill, it didn’t need any gimmicks like that to instill instant fear in anyone who passed by. It was a three story house just off the main road, nestled in between a graveyard and a coffee shop (Both of which he would reportedly frequent for inspiration.) Me and my dad arrived in the courtyard on Tuesday morning, 11:00 AM sharp as per Dunwich’s request- He detailed in the letter that as the film crew would be there at 12, he would give us the tour at 11 first.
As he stepped outside to welcome me in, I realized that I had never seen him in person, or even in color. In the inside cover of each ReaperReads book, there was a grainy black and white photo of him sitting cross legged in an armchair, but it was pitifully low resolution compared to him in the flesh. His tall, slender frame, his bright navy suit, his pencil mustache, He looked like Gomez Addams, but flattened and stretched out on a medieval rack. He gave us a warm smile and waved me in, shaking my dad’s hand with a reassuring “Pickup should be no later than 6:00, you have my word.”
As I entered the landing, he shook my hand too. It was firm. Bony. He grinned and announced with that triumphant voice, “Brilliant! It’s great to finally meet you. I adored your letter, and the novel too– I may end up taking inspiration from your story one day. It was my favorite.” I beamed and thanked him, giddy with excitement.
“So, Dunwich! Er.. Mr. Dunwich! If I'm going on the tour, can I see your writing office? I want to see where it happens!”
Mr. Dunwich chuckled and shook his head. “Kid, you can call me Dorian. Mr. Dunwich is just for those on the outside, and you’re in the inner circle, now. And unfortunately, I can’t take you on the full tour just yet- We have something more important to do first.” He gave me another sly smile and walked me down the long swirling staircase to the basement floor. The cold wooden walls faded into yet colder concrete until we reached an industrial door, swinging open with the Ka-Chunk of a large switch on the narrow passageway’s wall.
Industrial lights buzzed to life and faded into a softer, almost natural light. The soundstage was huge, a vivid recreation of a playground and blacktop, with brilliant lifelike trees and grass and.. A winding hopscotch setup, swirling around the room into a large red pentagram painted in the center of the set. A constant music box broadcast loudly from some unseen boombox– It was just as I had pictured, exactly how I imagined! I turned to him, dancing with excitement. “It’s.. It’s!!” I was so eager I couldn’t even finish the sentence.
“Azathoth's game of Hopscotch, yes! You’re going to star as the opening sacrifice, a special role.”
The giddiness only subsided for a moment when I remembered the other four he mentioned in the letter. My happy dance faded into a fidgety standstill when I looked over to ask “Wait.. What about the others? Where are they? Will I get to see them?” He nodded with a reassuring shhhh.
“They’re on the other floors, getting ready to film some rather menial cameos and background shots. You are different. You have talent, You have toughness, You have taste..” He chuckled and lowered his voice- “Between you and me, Azathoth's game of Hopscotch is my favorite too.” I gave a shy smile, fears quelled for now. “Let’s get to filming, then! First, stand on the X over there.”
He started up the cameras and took a handful of clips of me hopping across the squares, always stopping just before I reached the pentagram. Once those were over, he kneeled down to meet me at eye-level, voice hushed and serious.
“We’re about to shoot the big scene, okay? But for this to be perfect, I need to ask– Do you have any food in your pockets, any crumbs, or any open cuts? Scrapes?” I remember the pit in my stomach that formed when he asked me that. I dumbly asked “No.. Why? Will it mess with the computer effects?”
He chuckled again- god, that ghastly snicker- and rose to his feet. “No, my boy. We have moved past the need for computer effects, silly trickery on a screen. You are about to witness true beauty, true horror, truth in its purest form. When I give you the signal- Jump onto the red star.” He clipped some thin hanging cables to my sleeves and pant legs, then walked back out of frame.
Startled but still intrigued enough to see him through (I was 11.) I stood on the hopscotch square waiting anxiously for his signal.
He clicked off the boombox, and the previously lively room fell silent.
Out of some unseen dark corner of the room.. It shambled out.
A swath of twisting tentacle-like limbs all adorned with piercing yellow eyeballs, a mass of fleshy branches and agony. It was somehow collared and shackled with chains, a soft whirrr allowing it more and more slack on the restraints. It roared, shrieked. Gnashed with rows and rows of leech-like teeth . It shambled closer.
Dumbfounded, I went to run- but got jerked back onto the pentagram by the cables that bound me. I writhed, I fought, I struggled. The cables pulled me back, pulled me upwards. I rose to the ceiling in a slow ascent as the creature watched in anticipation, snarling and roaring at me as I brushed against the ceiling– then snap. The cables were let free and I was sent soaring back down to the floor with a whump. He quickly clicked the boombox back on, the creature- Azathoth?- being yanked back into the darkness as it fell quiet into a lull again.
“Excellent, Excellent!” He boomed, striding over to me now limp on the floor. Towering over me, he added- “I wasn’t expecting the cables to snap, but I can fix it in post. Your acting was incredible. Such genuine fear.”
“What was that thing?!” I rasped, wind knocked out of me.
He tsk-tsk-tsked his tongue at me, looking ashamed. “Azathoth, are you serious? Not actual size, of course- I did my best since I’m still working to meet the real one.. With your help of course, we will relish in his divine light once more!” He helped me to my feet, nudging me towards the doorway. “We just need the rest of them to go through the ritual as well.”
I stopped, not moving another inch. “Ritual?!”
He sighed. “Yes, ritual. My friend, the red star wasn’t just for show. A fraction of your energy, your lifeforce is now held in that pentagram, festering. And once we get the others down here, we can summon him. Truly pay tribute to him. Have our dreams actualized– Me and you can dethrone that bastard Stein and be authors in our own league, a divine league.”
I scrambled away. “I’m not joining you! I’m not.. I’m not a cultist!!”
He walked closer. ““Cultist”” is such a dirty word, though. I’m a believer in Azathoth, aren’t you? And besides.. you’ve already done the hard work, right? Why let it go to waste?”
My mind racing, I did the only thing I could think of. I picked up some rocks from the playground set next to me and hurled one at him, stunning him. He stumbled backwards, gasping in slight shock. The edge had scraped his face, leaving a clean bloody mark across his cheek. Thinking quickly, I made a mad dash for the staircase and threw another at the boombox control.
The boombox fizzed, sparked, then the music box cut out.
The room went quiet, once more.
Then… The snarling. The silence maddened it, the blood enticed it. The whir started up again, this time clashing against the sound of violent metal scraping. The creature raced over to Mr. Dunwich, pouncing on him and beginning to rip into his flesh. I only caught a glimpse of him cowering(?), writhing on the pentagram and screaming in tongues as I hit the button to close the door, stomping up the stairs in a mad dash away.
I escaped the house just as the film crew arrived, 12pm. Two vans pulled into the courtyard driveway, the filming director exiting out of the smaller one. He asked me where I was going and I stammered out an excuse, some lie about a sudden stomach bug or doctor’s appointment or something along those lines. His only question was “Are the other four in the house still?” I gave a solemn nod and he shrugged, pushing on towards the house with a quick “Good enough.”
Were they in on it, I wondered? Probably not. Their expressions were of general indifference, walking into the house with little issue or resistance. I breathed a sigh of relief and made my way out through the gates back home.
In the paper the next sunday, there was a picture of him with the four others, all grinning wearing ReaperReads tees. He looked disheveled, a polite but empty smile plastered on his face. He survived, somehow.. But the spirit was just gone.
The TV series was scrapped. He stopped making public appearances. I can’t even find a trace of ‘Azathoth's game of Hopscotch’ ever existing after that day, aside from my copy with his signature. But after his death last year… Something must have been reawakened. I keep hearing his voice. Feeling his presence in my dreams. Seeing things in mirrors that aren’t there.. Almost as if I stare for too long, I might get sucked in.
I’m ripped back to that day every time it happens, every time I'm reminded of him. Those chilling words he said before descending into that basement of nightmares..
“I may end up taking inspiration from your story one day. It was my favorite.”