Disclaimer: I own nothing from Masters of Horror.

After his bizarre talk with the obviously insane A.K. Meyers, Kirby knew his next stop was Paris, France. Most of his film hunts took him there. If ever there was an obscure rare film that he needed to track down or research, odds were he'd find what he needed, or at least some really good clues, at the Cinematheque in France. The Cinematheque was a museum dedicated to the artistic medium of film, and Kirby just happened to be friends with it's chief archivist.

The first thing Kirby did upon reaching Paris was find a good hotel (which he charged to his client) and crash for a long sleep. It had been a long, exhausting day. Two plane trips in twenty-four hours, plus nine hours time difference from what he was used to, really took it out of him. He lay listening to the Backovik interview tapes Meyers had given him, as he had also done on the plane, hoping to absorb some relevant facts while letting the two men's voices lull him to sleep.

"Hollywood is shit. Film is not entertainment," a disdainful Backovik declared at one point, and suddenly the insides of Kirby's eyelids were seared with a vision of a circle of flame. He flailed his arms, knocking the headphones off, and sat up on the bed, eyes wide and heart pounding. What the fuck was that?

Kirby's eyes darted around the hotel room. He noticed the bathroom door was open and the light had been left on, though he could've sworn he turned it off earlier. He was about to get up and switch the light off when he saw a shadow move across the bathroom's far wall. A woman's silhouette. Did the maid sneak in while he was dozing? He got up and walked to the door. The closer he got, the more ambivalent he felt. Something wasn't right. He heard the hollow sound of dripping water and smelled a metallic tang that made the hairs on his neck stand up. Kirby reached out and carefully pushed the door open further until he was able to see what was in there.

It was Annie, exactly the way he remembered her on the worst day of his life. Lying naked in a bathtub full of blood, one arm dangling over the side, wrist covered in multiple slashes with more blood oozing out of the wounds. Before Kirby could react - either stagger away or run to her - his vision was filled with that burning circle again, only this time he saw Annie's face inside it, covered in blood and screaming.

Kirby woke with a jerk. He was still in bed, the headphones still covering his ears. He pulled them off and set them aside just as the phone starting ringing on the nightstand. Kirby picked up the receiver and held it to his ear.

"Bonjour, Monseur Sweetman," a cheerful woman's accented voice chirped, "Zis is your wake-up call."

Kirby grunted by way of response and hung up the phone, then lay back on the pillows and rubbed his forehead with the back of one hand. "Fuck."

He couldn't remember ever having a nightmare so vivid. Not just sights and sounds, but the smells seemed so real he felt like he lived the incident all over again, rather than merely dreamed it.

A faint whirring noise drew his attention to the foot of the bed. The outdated tape player was still running, the reel spinning uselessly. Kirby sat up just enough to stretch out an arm and switch the device off. That done, he flopped onto his back once again. He glanced at the clock on the wall. 8:00a.m., which meant back home it was 11:00p.m. the previous night. Haley was probably still up.

Kirby picked up the phone receiver once again and placed a long-distance call, glad that he wouldn't be paying for the charges.

Haley picked up on the third ring. "This better not be a sales call."

"Hey, Timpson."

"Kirby! You meet up with whatshisname the critic okay?"

"Meyers. And yeah, I found him. The guy was totally out of his gourd." He told her about the obsessive recluse who lived in a rundown house filled with piles of typed sheets, every one a page of a review he'd been working on for the last thirty years.

"Holy shit. What was he writing about?"

"Take a guess."

"La Fin Absolue Du Monde? Seriously?"

"Seriously. Soon as I told him I was looking for the film, he gave me all the material he had on it with the understanding that I'd give him a private screening when I found it."

"Damn. So, where are you now?"

"Paris."

"Ah! Ze Cinematheque," Haley declared in a sloppy French accent, "Tell Henri I said hey."

"I will," Kirby muttered.

There was a pause while Haley processed his tone. "You okay?"

"Yeah. I just," he rubbed his eyes with his free hand, "had a weird dream."

"Oh." She didn't ask him what the dream was about, for which he was grateful.

"I'll call you again later. Let you know how it goes."

"Sure. I'll try to keep the place standing 'til you get back."

Kirby smirked at her weak humor. "Bye, Timpson."

"Bye."

Back in the States, Haley set down her phone and chewed her lower lip in worry. Kirby was holding something back, she heard it in his voice. But then, she wasn't totally forthcoming with him, either. She hadn't mentioned the fact that Matthews seemed to be camping out in his car in front of the Vogue. Sometimes he even got out of his car and stood across the street staring at the theater's doors with those crazy eyes. Once in a while his hand strayed to his side and Haley noticed a bulge under his coat. She really really hoped it wasn't what she suspected it was.

Haley was getting scared, but she didn't want to burden Kirby with this. He was having a rough time already, with the constant travel and his personal demons wearing him down. Haley decided she'd try to deal with this on her own. If Matthews kept up the creepy stalker act, she'd sic the cops on his ass. It might not do much good, but at least it'd hopefully get him to back off for a while. Just until Kirby got back with that big fat paycheck.

The next day was business as usual. The Vogue screened the original Phantasm and they managed to sell just over sixty tickets, mostly to men. Haley had no doubts many of those guys showed up just so they could watch the scenes where the blonde chick flashed her tits before stabbing her victims with a huge knife.

Haley's favorite character was the Tall Man. She wasn't sure why, but every time he bellowed "Boy!" at the hero, she had to giggle.

When she locked up that night, there was no sign of Matthews. Haley drove home to her loft, microwaved herself some leftover Thai food, and spent the next couple of hours watching Pumpkinhead and waiting for the phone to ring. It was well past midnight by the time she decided to pack it in. Kirby obviously wasn't going to call tonight. She tried not to worry about it. He probably got so caught up in his research he lost track of time and didn't want to call her so late.

Haley turned off the TV, threw away the empty takeout boxes, and went to brush her teeth. She changed into an oversized T-shirt to sleep in and crawled into bed. It wasn't long before she drifted off.

She dreamed about Kirby. Not a first for her, but this time it wasn't a pleasant fantasy. It was horrible.

Kirby was in one of those cruddy abandoned warehouses baddies in the movies always gravitated to. He had a machete in his hand and was using it on three big guys. It was like a slasher movie, only everything about it felt too real. The sounds of the blade impacting flesh, the screams of the dying men, the stink of blood and loosed bowels. But the worst part was the look on Kirby's face. It was totally blank, as if he was sleepwalking.

Haley woke with a loud gasp, her legs tangled in the bedsheets. She kicked herself free and wiped her hands across her sweaty face. "Jesus fucking Christ!"

She couldn't remember the last time she had a nightmare, and certainly not one so real. She wished all of a sudden she had the number for wherever Kirby was at that moment so she could call him. She didn't normally believe in things like omens or precognition, but right now she really needed to know her friend was alright.

"Calm down. Calm down," she muttered, forcing herself to lie back and more or less relax. Kirby was fine, she told herself. He was just looking for a movie, not working a drug deal. The worst that could happen was him getting eyestrain from all the research he was doing. He'd be back in a few days, hopefully with the film, and everything would be fine and dandy.

For the rest of the night her sleep was fitful at best. But at least she didn't have anymore dreams.

Kirby ran from the building, leaving a dying Dalibor behind with the bodies of his henchmen and the beheaded cabbie. He jumped into the dead taxi driver's cab, tossing the envelope with Katja Backovik's address into the passenger seat, and sped away from the abandoned building-turned-snuff film studio. Once he reached Paris he ditched the vehicle in an alley and ran/walked the rest of the way to his hotel. It was something of a miracle that nobody stopped him or called the cops, what with his jittery behavior and the blood staining the collar of his white shirt. But he made it back without incident, and as soon as he was in his hotel room he hung the Do Not Disturb sign on the door and used every available lock to be extra safe. He then grabbed the phone and made hasty arrangements to fly to Vancouver. He had a couple of hours until his flight, so he took a shower and changed into some clean clothes.

When he stepped out of the bathroom, Kirby stared down at the rumpled pile of blood-stained clothes. He didn't dare toss them in the trash, so he reluctantly gathered them up and jammed them into his hastily packed suitcase. He'd dispose of them once he was in Canada.

He checked his watch. It'd be about 6:00a.m. back home. Haley was no doubt still in bed. Kirby picked up the phone and dialed her number anyway. He needed the sound of her voice to reassure him that the world hadn't gone completely batshit.

The phone rang and rang. Kirby was about to give up when the other end picked up and Haley's groggy voice slurred, "H'lo?"

"Hey, Timpson." Kirby seated himself on the edge of the bed. "Sorry I woke you."

"No, man, it's fine." Haley grunted and there was the rustle of bedclothes. Kirby pictured her struggling to sit up in bed, all bleary-eyed and rumpled. He bet she looked cute that way. "How'd the research go?"

"Great. I, uh, think I know where a copy of the film might be."

"Really? Where?"

"With Backovik's widow, in Vancouver."

"'O Canada', huh? Hey, could ya get me one of those T-shirts with the maple leaf on it?"

Kirby tried to chuckle. "Sure."

"You okay? You sound kinda stressed."

What the hell was he supposed to say? Oh, nothing much. I watched a woman get her head chopped off in front of me and I hacked three men to death with a machete, only I blacked out at that part so I don't know for sure. Oh, and I'm hallucinating these huge cigarette burns with images of my dead girlfriend in them. Yeah, that'd go over real well.

"It's nothing," he answered instead, "Just jet lag." He started to rub his tired eyes and discovered his hand was shaking like an old man's with palsy. He clenched his hand into a fist. "Listen, my flight leaves soon. I gotta go."

"Okay." There was no mistaking the disappointment in her tone. "You gonna be back soon?"

"Yeah, maybe the day after tomorrow, if all goes well."

"Well, crash and burn, dude."

Kirby blinked. "What?"

"You don't say good luck to somebody who's gonna fly. You tell 'em to crash and burn."

"Where the hell did you get that?"

"I dunno. Top Gun, maybe?"

Despite his shaky state of mind, Kirby managed a weak laugh at that. Haley always seemed to know when he needed a shot of humor to steady him. "I'll be home soon, Timpson. See ya then."

"See ya, Kirby."

Kirby hung up the phone. His hands still had a slight tremor, but it was getting better. He picked up his suitcase and left the hotel. Just a couple more days and this whole insane job would be behind him.