*** Author's Note ***

Back in 2012 when I started writing again, I mostly wrote fragments. I'd put down whatever scene I was inspired to write for whatever story I felt like adding to. Then I had a dream about finding a record. It was incredibly vivid. I held the battered cardboard jacket in my hands and looked over the cover with the winding drawing of filmstock and scenes from an animated movie in each frame.  (The record in the dream was almost exactly as it appears in this story.) When I woke, I knew I would be writing something about it.

What emerged was this flawed story. 

I say flawed because it is seriously anti-climactic, which can be understandably frustrating for readers. It also doesn't help that this is done in a literary style, putting characters in front of action. And once I become known for horror and speculative fiction, readers pick up on the classic horror trope that kicks this tale off: a mysterious and possibly haunted object being found. It was no wonder they were disappointed when it didn't become anything more than a vinyl record.

But the anti-climax at the end is there for a reason. And even if it doesn't resonate with all readers, it has great meaning for me.

From the age of fifteen to thirty, I had a dream of being an author. I wrote a pile of short stories and even several not-quite-complete novels (often with just the last chapter or two missing). Then, I gave it up and took a long break. Completing Kayla felt as though I'd broken a slump. Change the tides that had afflicted me for a decade and a half. I'd finished something!

But also, in that flawed, anticlimactic ending, I gave myself permission to leave my past behind. To leave those unfinished novels unfinished and forgotten. It gave me permission to start forging something new. As the character realized at the end, stories are forgotten about every day.

Diane spotted the table as they drove by the yard sale. They'd been looking for an antique end table ever since they moved to the new house, and she was sure the one sitting on the lawn was perfect. Unfortunately, the rural route was thick with other weekenders, and Tom was forced to drive another half-mile to a gas station before he could turn around and head back.

As he was parking the car, Tom thought with amusement, great. Now we're antiquing.

Two years ago, he would never dream of playing house, taking drives in the country, and searching out antique furniture. But then he and Diane weren't just playing house.

Whatever their relationship was, it resonated with maturity and permanence.

It had moved quickly, and in only four months, Tom left his apartment to live with Diane at her condo. At the time, it seemed to be a decision based more on economy than on commitment. Although looking back, perhaps he hadn't wanted to admit how deep his feelings were.

Living together added tension to what had been a carefree romance. But that lightened after Tom sold his first screenplay, and he stopped worrying about being seen as a charity case by Diane's family and friends. It improved even more, when they were out of the tiny one-bedroom and into an actual house.

Diane scrutinized the table and began haggling with the woman in charge of the sale, leaving Tom to drift through the rest of the items on display, looking for any other interesting finds.

On a table managed by a couple of young boys, he spotted a box filled with old LPs.

He'd recently started collecting records, usually special pressings of classic rock albums in heavy-weight vinyl. His close friend, Brian, frequently rhapsodized about vinyl's soulful sound and had sold him on the idea. But it wasn't until he had the disposable income that he took up the hobby.

Brian had a dozen stories about coming across rare finds sold by people who had no idea what they had, so the box of records lifted his hopes of uncovering treasure.

Until he started flipping through them.

Not many of the artists were even recognizable, forgotten country-western singers and no-hit folk-rock bands. Most of the covers were creased, the ink worn away, and the seams torn and falling apart.

Tom stopped on a copy of Wing's Band on the Run. Unlike most of the others, it was immaculate. Although examining the disk in the sunlight revealed calcified dust and deep scratches against the grooves. The sound would be terrible, but the sleeve could be used in one of the square frames he had for decorating the walls of his basement office.

"How much?" he asked the older of the two boys.

The other one answered, "Two dollars."

He fished two bills from his wallet, and they were quickly snatched away by quick, small fingers.

Tom walked back to Diane with the album under his arm. He hadn't gotten far before the older boy caught up with him.

"It's two dollars for all of them," he said.

Tom had no interest in the box the boy handed him but was too surprised to refuse it. Besides, Diane was waiting for him, and explaining that the other records could be sold to someone else would keep her waiting.

* * *

It was another two days before Tom got around to going through the records. They were an odd assortment of styles with the occasional Christmas album thrown in. They mostly ended up in the trash without a listen because of their poor condition.

One oddity in the batch stood out to him. The cover had a starfield with the title: "Kayla, Voot and the Black Beast of Space" in bright, playful letters resembling balloon animals. The word Kayla was colored pink, Voot yellow, and Black Beast of Space baby blue.

His first guess was that they were some unpopular toddler-oriented band which had been around in the late sixties. But the name was a bit too sinister. Perhaps it was psychedelic rock.

Opening the batter jacket, he realized he'd been wrong on both guesses. It was a soundtrack composed by Alex Iberville and performed by The Avalon Orchestra. Tom had never heard of either. A drawing of a piece of film stock ran the span of both sides of the open jacket. Each of its frames contained an image, presumably from the movie.

A quick glance told him it was some animated children's film set in space.

The actual record wasn't in great shape, but he put it on the turntable. The music that came out of the speakers was the sort of horribly over-orchestrated score he'd always disliked. He was ready to take it off and put it with the others in the toss pile when a ghostly voice spoke, sending a shiver up his spine.

The music had tapered off with a rumble of a kettle drum, and in the pause before the next track started with a sharp, cacophonic chirp of flutes, a young girl's voice could barely be heard over the crackles and pops of the old vinyl. Tom moved the needle back and listened to it two more times before he caught all the words. They started slow and quiet but ended up as a shriek.

"The stones, they're alive, Voot. Alive! Run! RUN!"

Tom picked the cover up and looked at the track listings. There were notations for two disks, but the old cardboard jacket had held only one. The left side was torn straight across the bottom and was likely the cause of the missing record. He stopped the platter from spinning with his hand and saw Side C was playing.

A track titled: "10: Lost in the Woalds. (2 min. 23 sec.)" had finished playing, and the next one, "11: A Murder of Stone Crows. (4 min. 2 sec.)," had just started. Nothing about the words spoken in between was indicated.

Tom looked more carefully at the images on the film strip.

Whoever designed the art for the album had screwed up the orientation of the frames. If it had been a real piece of 16mm or 35mm film, the images would have been sideways, but instead, they were right-side up. Four years of film school had taught him that much. Obviously, it was done purely for the design aesthetic, but Tom found himself annoyed by the ignorance or carelessness of the anachronism. The girl, presumably Kayla, was in most of the cels. She had a big, oval, peach-colored head with blond curls. In the leftmost one, she stood next to a man in a lab coat, and from the proportions, she appeared to be less than two feet tall. The second to last image contained a black shadow-like figure with pointed orange eyes—the Black Beast most likely. Tom couldn't figure out who or what Voot was unless it was one of the bizarre creatures depicted in the other pictures.

The art was an odd mix somewhere between Walt Disney and Ralph Bakshi, with a dash of Dali thrown in.

What the hell kind of movie was this, Tom thought.

* * *

Keith stood up and said awkwardly: "Well, cheers, you two." He lifted his glass of Shiraz and added, "Congratulations on the house. We all wish you happiness and good stuff. Oh, and thanks for not moving away to Hollywood."

The others around the patio table clinked their glasses together and uttered a chorus of cheers.

It was Diane and Tom's first dinner party since the move. They were out on their weather-beaten deck with their four closest friends. The outdoor furniture and the barbeque gleamed with newness, standing out in stark contrast to the aged surroundings. Not only was the deck in need of updating, but the paint on the fence was peeling, and several slats were missing. Not to mention, Tom still hadn't gotten around to dismantling the rusty swing set that adorned the lawn.

After everyone had drunk to the toast, Charlotte said to her husband: "Really, Keith? Happiness and good stuff?'"

"Hey, it's not like I prepared anything." Keith was a big guy with a poorly groomed mustache. He was likable enough but had an irritating way of saying everything as though it were a joke. Even when he wasn't saying anything humorous, his tone always implied he was trying to be funny. Tom realized the guy was insecure but found it painful to have a conversation with someone who always sounded like he was doing a stand-up comedy bit.

Ray, by contrast, rarely spoke, and when he did, it was always direct, to the point, and deadpan serious.

All of the men had little in common. It was the women who glued the group together. Both Charlotte and Tanya had worked with Diane several years ago at the same insurance company. Over time, their careers had taken different turns, but they had managed to stay close friends. As the other two got serious with the men in their lives, the girl-nights became less and less frequent. But once Diane started seeing Tom, their friendship took on new life as they started getting together as couples.

"We really are glad you decided to stay here in Connecticut," said Tanya earnestly.

"What made you decide not to move to L.A.?" Charlotte asked.

"I don't think living in L.A. was ever in the cards," Diane confided. "Santa Barbara, I would have considered—Los Angeles, not in your life."

Tanya asked Tom, "Won't being on the East Coast be a problem for your work?"

"Oh, I'm sure I'll be racking up the frequent-flyer miles—if I ever get another script." He was only capable of being self-deferential because another project was in the works. After eight years in the business, he had finally staked out something of a name for himself by adapting novels to the screen.

"Anyway," Tom continued. "I'm mostly alone at the computer, and if they need a quick check-in, it can be done remotely."

"So, you're not working on anything now?" Keith asked between nachos, which entered his mouth at a rapid pace.

"At the moment, I'm taking a well-deserved break," Tom sipped his wine, feeling suddenly uneasy. Normally, he would have gone on at length, enthusiastically telling them about the script he was working on, but without an active project, he had little to say.

"You should tell them about your latest obsession," Diane urged as if sensing his discomfort.

"Later. The food should be ready." He added, "I really wouldn't call it an obsession."

* * *

Dinner was over, and there was still enough light in the backyard for the guests to look over the record jacket. While they passed it around, Tom summarized what he was able to piece together about the film. All he had to go on though were guesses and assumptions he'd put together from the track titles and the random clips of dialogue scattered over the record.

"It appears to be about this girl, Kayla, who goes into space. Can't really say why. Could be something to do with her father, who's a scientist. She goes with her dog, Voot. Or perhaps it's not a dog but some kind of alien pet. Once in space, she travels around having bizarre and dangerous adventures. She meets several aliens, some helpful, some ... not. Eventually, she has a confrontation with The Black Beast and vanquishes it."

The last point was based purely on the standard movie convention that the hero wins and because the album ended with an upbeat tempo.

"But what's really strange is I can't find out any information about it. I've Googled it. I've looked for it on Wikipedia, IMDB, YouTube, eBay, you name it. Every search comes up blank. I can understand not being able to find a copy of it on DVD or even VHS—this definitely wasn't a popular movie—but there should be some mention of it somewhere."

"It reminds me of The Wizard of Oz," Charlotte said, handing the record over to Keith.

"Sure, I see it," Tanya agreed. "A little girl and her dog transported to another world."

"But not only that," Charlotte added emphatically. "Do you remember how scary it was as a kid? Witches and flying monkeys. You don't see children's films like that today."

Kieth said, "Yeah, and imagine if they made it in the age of hippies, like this one. A psychedelic Wizard of Oz! Talk about trippy. I especially like this guy. Whoa!" He held up the cover and pointed to the picture of an alien that appeared to be a cross between a toadstool and a jellyfish, sporting a Fu Manchu mustache. He turned to Tom and said, "You really should keep looking for it. And when you find it, you should see about selling copies. You'd make a fortune off of the stoner market."

"I don't know about that, but I haven't given up yet."

"Have you tried the NFB?" Ray asked after he finished looking over the album.

"The what?"

"The National Film Board of Canada." He indicated a mark on the back of the cover. "That's their logo at the bottom."

"Oh, so it's Canadian then," Keith said in an exaggerated manner as though it explained everything.

Charlotte said, "It might be why it's so hard to track down."

Tom pulled out his smartphone and did a search for: "NFB."

"And he says it's not an obsession," Diane beamed a sardonic smile at their friends.

Tom put the phone into sleep mode and pocketed it. "I'll look it up tomorrow," he said with a sheepish grin.

"If you start sculpting that creepy kid's head out of mashed potatoes, I'm leaving you," Diane joked.

* * *

"Well, you're right: the music is crap," Brian said. "Although, some of those vocal clips would be wild for sampling in a club mix."

Tom was sitting in his office staring at a shaft of July sunshine coming in through one of the narrow basement windows, illuminating a million motes of dust. He'd called Brian earlier in the month to ask for his help tracking down information on what was beginning to become known as the Kayla Project. Brian had never heard of the film either but said he'd see what he could turn up.

"Any luck yet with the Film Board?" Brian asked. Ray's tip on the NFB had been the hot lead the last time they'd spoken.

"No. No one's gotten back to me." Tom hadn't been able to find the film listed in the catalog on their website, so he'd called. It took a few tries to get through the automated phone system to an actual person, but then, he was transferred from one department to another until he was finally forced to leave a voicemail. He'd also filled out the online contact form. But so far, there'd been no response.

"I've started to wonder if it's really a soundtrack," Tom said, revealing his latest hunch. "Maybe they just made it look like one. You know, as some kind of gimmick."

"I doubt it. I was able to get some information on the composer, Iberville. The guy was sort of a third-rate John Williams. He did dozens of soundtracks in the sixties and seventies. None of the movies were particularly noteworthy. He's certainly not what you would call innovative."

"Oh," Tom said simply. His eyes searched his desk as if for an answer or perhaps for something else to say. On a half-buried Post-It, stuck to the desk, he read in his hasty scrawl: "Black Beast = Bete Noire. What you dislike. What you fear. Fear of the dark? Unknown? Death? Or All?"

Brain said, "Now, don't sulk. I do have some good news for you."

"What?"

"I tracked down an online store that has the complete album. Both of the disks," he clarified. "It's not on their site, but they have it. I spoke to a guy I know there. I'm sending you his email."

* * *

The second copy of the record was in better condition. The jacket was intact, and both disks were clean and unscratched.

Tom had listened to it all the way through two times since UPS dropped it off. Although he was always impatient when Disk 2 played, having heard it so many times before. When the snippets of dialog come on, he types them into his laptop or corrects the ones he already transcribed. So many of the names and words are made-up gibberish, and the lack of ticks and pops could completely change his interpretation. When it was just music playing, he blocked out the film.

The track titles head each scene. Where possible, he matched them with an image from the album jacket, describing the setting and the principal characters. There wasn't much of it, but dialog went in next, linked by their context or their placement between the tracks. After that, Tom filled in details of the action which might have taken place. Although it was all guesswork, and he knew it couldn't be accurate.

Diane's car pulled into the driveway as Tom was finishing with an entry halfway through the document:

Scene 7: Where is Voot?

Kayla: Mister, have you seen Voot?

Purple Alien: No, I only see you.

Kayla: Then I'm all alone.

Purple Alien: Yes, utterly alone.

While searching for Voot in the gardens of Titan, Kayla encounters a purple alien with tentacles on his head that resemble writhing horns. They speak briefly until the alien becomes hostile and Kayla flees.

Tom saved the file and turned off the stereo before getting up to meet Diane at the door.

* * *

"I'm glad you called," Tom said into the phone even though shocked would have been a more apt description of his emotion.

About a month before, at the end of September, he'd found Angela Muszynski on Facebook and sent her a message asking for information on the movie. The name had been credited under vocals on the album, and since it contained no singing, she was possibly one of the actors. If it was the same Angela Muszynski.

He had almost forgotten about it when the call from unknown number came in while he was shopping for paint at the hardware store.

"I really don't know if I can help. It was a very long time ago." The woman on the phone had said after explaining who she was.

"You did work on it though, right? Did you voice Kayla?"

She answered hesitantly, "Yes. Yes, I did that."

Despite the confirmation, Tom could detect no similarity between the voice of the woman he was now talking to and the one on the album. But then, she might be close to fifty now. Or older, if she'd merely been imitating a little girl's voice. Tom tried to think back to her picture on Facebook, but either he couldn't remember it, or her profile photo wasn't of her face.

"How did you end up working on the movie? Are you an actress?" Tom asked as he walked out of the crowded paint and wallpaper section and tried to find a quieter part of the vaulting big-box store.

"No, I'm a nurse. It was my Dad. It was his movie."

"Your father is the director?" Tom felt suddenly close to the answers he'd been waiting for.

"Yes. I guess. I mean, he was everything."

"What do you mean, he was everything?" Tom's mind couldn't help but make the link: he was everything to her. Although from what she said next, he realized this was not what she'd meant.

"He worked as an animator. Earlier in his career, he was involved in a lot of things, but that..." She paused. "The movie was his idea. He wrote it. He raised the money. Hired everyone. Was the producer. The director. Although, ironically, he never actually drew it."

Tom walked down the deserted plumbing aisle and asked, "He hired other animators?"

"No. No one drew it. It was never finished," she clarified. "You see, when my Dad died, there was no one else to keep it going. I guess that's the problem with one-man shows."

"He's dead?" The question leaped out stupidly and automatically.

"He was in a car accident not too long after we recorded the dialog."

"I'm sorry," he said, trying to convey sympathy over the phone.

"Why? It was a long time ago."

"So the animation wasn't done?"

"I don't know how they do it these days, with computers and all, but back then, they made the audio track, and then they drew the cels to be synced to the dialogue and sound effects. I remember Dad explaining it to me." Her retention of the technical jargon suggested the conversation was etched in her memory, a key moment between her and a father she would soon lose. "He had concept pieces all over his workroom. And he had..." She paused, searching her memory for a word. "Storyboards," she said with the bullet suddenness of remembering. "He had storyboards for it. But he never got to painting the acetate for the cels."

A body-dragging disappointment filled Tom. The movie didn't exist, and he would never get to see it. "What was the story about?" Perhaps he could get the answer to this one riddle.

"I really don't remember. I was nine at the time. It's all vague now."

"Is there a script I could get a copy of? Or perhaps those storyboards?"

Angela paused for a moment before saying, "Not that I know of. They may have been at the old house, but my Mom got rid of a lot of my Dad's things when she moved. She got rid of a lot of things." Her words hinted at a lingering resentment.

"Are you sure?" Tom asked, not wanting to let this last possibility of further answers go.

"I went through her stuff when she died. There was nothing from my Dad's work. Just some personal mementos: his wedding ring, his pipe, a pair of glasses..."

"I'm sorry." He added with a stammer, "About your mother."

"It was over fifteen years ago," she said, dismissing his politeness.

Then, they both ran out of things to say, and Angela spoke in a tone to wrap it up. "Like I said, I really can't help you."

Tom wished he had a list of all his questions in front of him, but standing among the PVC and copper pipes, his brain stalled. Knowing this was his last chance, he blurted out, "One last thing, what was Voot?"

"What?" she asked, sounding distracted.

"Voot. From the film's title. What was he?" He didn't like the note of desperation in his voice. It seemed applimphied by the appearance of an aproned store clerk turning down the aisle.

"Oh, a blue space dog," Angela said decisively.

"I figured it was something like that."

* * *

"So, what now?" Diane asked.

Tom finished explaining the call with Angela Muszynski. He was leaning against the kitchen counter, holding the towel he'd dried his hands with. The sink was full of dishes and suds where he'd left them when Diane came home from work.

"Nothing," Tom said. "It's over. There never was a movie. It was just an idea some guy had. If they hadn't put out a record, no one would have ever heard of it. It's weird anyone ever bought it."

"It's weird they put the record out at all. Don't you think?"

Tom was somewhat relieved that she hadn't pointed out he had bought it twice now.

"Brian said they probably released it to salvage some money from the project." Tom had texted him with the news as soon as he got back from the store. "And pay the musicians and the actors." Tom's mind lingered over the question of who they would have been. After Muszynski had died, who would have dealt with such matters?

Outside the window, leaves were falling on a dull gray day. Tom felt sleepy. Was it the weather? Or was it the loss of a meaningful resolution to his little project?

"Why don't you get it made?" Diane asked, in her best supportive spouse tone.

Tom didn't speak, but Diane read his puzzled look well enough to see he had dismissed the suggestion. She pushed on, "You could write a new script. Maybe your agent can get a studio interested in it."

"Nobody is going to be interested in this. Maybe if it had been a popular movie, or if at least had a cult following, someone might want to remake it. But..." He shook his head.

"But you were interested in it?"

"No, I was curious about it." To Tom, the distinction was obvious.

He put the towel back on the rack and walked over to the patio doors. Staring out at the deck, he made a mental note, the barbeque and the furniture would have to be stored away soon.

Diane said gently, "Still, you could try."

"I don't want to steal a dead man's ideas."

Tom saw a mild hurt in her eyes, or perhaps it was annoyance at his waspish response. He regretted it, but the idea was abhorrent. In his mind, it was akin to digging up the man's corpse.

Tom walked back to her and said in a calmer voice, "Look, I know I can get wrapped up in stuff sometimes, but I never really cared about Kayla's story. I couldn't because I never knew it. I only cared about getting to the bottom of the mystery. I wanted to know why she went into space with just her dog. What happened when she drank from the fountain on Titan. Why Voot ran off. Why the ship crashed. How she managed to beat the Beast."

It was Diane's turn to look puzzled.

The old record had given him a small taste of the unexpected. What he wanted was to sate himself on all of the surprises the film might hold. Even though he knew, in all likelihood, it would be a poor meal in the end.

"I have no idea how often I read a reference to a movie and think, what's that all about?" Tom tried to explain. "But then I look it up online and read the plot, or if I'm really interested, I stream it on the laptop. Or how often a song comes on the radio, and I wonder what it is. But then I download it onto my phone, and maybe it becomes my favorite song for a while, or maybe I never listen to it again. But in either case, the urge to know is gone."

"So you're saying if you'd gotten a hold of the movie months ago, the record would be in the trash now, and you would have spent your time obsessing over something else?"

Tom let the comment about obsessing slide. Instead, he imagined what it would have been like to have watched the film. He thought of everything he knew about it: the music, the images, the bits of dialogue.

"I think I would have said, that was really strange but nothing special. Then, I would have forgotten all about it."

"So you don't mind letting this story disappear forever?"

The question invoked the pile of scripts he'd written and had never been filmed or ever would be. He wondered how many stories had been lost over time. He envisioned countless manuscripts and scripts thrown out by uncaring or unsuspecting relatives after a writer's death. He sensed terabytes of stories slowly decaying on aging hard drives one byte at a time.

His thoughts turned to the script he was currently working on. It was based on a cliché crime thriller about a cop and a serial killer from an author who pumped out novels like a factory.

What made it more worthy of his efforts than the Kayla Project?

The answer came quickly: someone was willing to pay him to work on it. It meant money for a new car, vacations, and hobbies. It meant money to keep their comfortable life afloat. And as mercenary as that sounded, it was important because his life with Diane was more meaningful than anything else he had.

Do I have any responsibility to the forgotten Muszynski? If it was me, would I want someone to rescue my work after I'm gone?

Could he let this story disappear forever?

Finally, he answered her, "It won't be the first."