Don’t Make Me Go Upstairs
By
Morgan Chalfant
“Please don’t make me go upstairs,” a voice whispered. Keith Kelvin heard the strange words in his head, but they were not part of the lines he had memorized in his trailer, so he pushed them back and forged ahead with his dialogue. He only had one scene left to do and he was free. Free to move on to bigger and better roles. The workers on the set of the struggling television show, Pennington Lane—actors, camera people, boom operators, stage hands, and unit directors—quieted as the director gave the signal and the cameras began to roll.
Keith began his lines, speaking into the phone receiver and twirling the cord around his forefinger. There wasn’t, of course, anyone on the other end, but that was an actor’s job: to imagine. He carried on the conversation as the script had read. The last lines he would ever read as Robbie “The Rob” Tanner on Pennington Lane. This was his character’s swan song on the dying television show. It was no secret. The director had told him with a single two-minute phone call before he arrived that morning on set.
Keith was okay with it. It was just another character, and he had played many since he was in high demand. The go to actor of his age. Girls loved him and boys wanted to be him—but nobody wanted to be Robbie Tanner with his catchphrase, “You got robbed!” always shouted at the moment of victory. It was Keith’s first foray into experiencing the disdain of the viewer, and he had to figure that if Robbie Tanner could speak for himself, he would be hurt. Although Keith experienced the abundant dislike vicariously, nonetheless, it was a hatred that had a profound effect on him. Keith was ready to wash his hands of the young delinquent, having already booked a part in an upcoming Hollywood film under some director named Spielberg.
Pennington Lane, a half-hour sitcom that portrayed the hilarious misadventures of the five members of the loudly acerbic Pennington family, had debuted to moderate ratings, but had spiked in its second season and continued the upward climb until the beginning of season six, where its demographic had fallen off like bumbling dad, Archie Pennington’s, red 1970 Barracuda, when he forgot to put the emergency brake on and it rolled down the pier and into the ocean. The executives had challenged the writers to create a new vibrant character to jump start the show. They had invented Robbie Tanner, the mousy, teenage cousin of the Pennington children. But it was Keith Kelvin, the sixteen-year-old child star and heartthrob that had brought him to life. And if someone as popular as Keith couldn’t save the flailing show, the young actor had to figure the show’s doom was not far behind Robbie’s.
The idea flopped. It was a belly flop into a pool off a high dive. Right out of the gates, it was clear the audience was not responding favorably to the recent addition with his new brand of crude humor and maximum snark. The troublemaker cousin of the three Pennington siblings, was not the shiny success the showrunners of the sitcom had hoped for in their quest for a seventh season ratings boost. What was once a bright cable powerhouse was now a blurry image on a fuzzy, flickering television. And like other unsuccessful characters on so many hit shows—Chuck Cunningham on Happy Days, the short-lived Judy Winslow of Family Matters, All My Children’s, Bobby Martin—Robbie Tanner would take the short walk (the short walk that felt so long) up the stairs to the second floor, where only a little bit of wood and sheet rock separated fiction from reality, never to be seen again. Gone and quickly forgotten. Expunged from cultural memory. A moment later, Keith would walk back down the steps and be left to his own devices—free to find another job—never to play the doomed character again. This was not the Keith Kelvin who millions of teens rioted over. In fact, Keith was counting his lucky stars that Robbie Tanner hadn’t robbed his career like the directors were going to rob the role of its existence. “You got robbed!!!!”
An internal chuckle passed through Keith, even as he continued to act in front of rolling cameras. That damn catchphrase.
Good riddance.
Keith spoke into the telephone receiver, having an imaginary conversation with Robbie Tanner’s best friend, Eddie Lowry, about how he was going to stay with his aunt for a while due to getting in trouble with the local fuzz. Robbie Tanner didn’t have an aunt. Not really. The writers hadn’t even seen fit to give her a name. Though Keith had heard a couple of the executive producers jokingly referring to her as, “Quick Fix Kathy.” She was just ‘my aunt in Everton” in Robbie’s own words. In reality, Keith was walking about thirty feet upstairs and then going home to his own parents with a big fat check.
With a labored, “I’ll see you around, buddy,” he finished his last fictional goodbye to Eddie. There shouldn’t have been a reply, but as Keith placed the receiver into the cradle, he swore he heard a voice utter the same strange words again, “Please, Keith, don’t make me go upstairs.” The uttered words held the dejected tone of someone who knew the outcome had already been decided before the pleading passed his lips.
Keith hung his head and paused. It said in the script he was supposed to stop and hang his head in an uncharacteristically emotional minute, but when tears brimmed in Keith’s eyes, he was astounded. He had not mastered the art of crying on cue. Where were the tears coming from?
Keith wiped his eyes. Time to drive the nail in the coffin, he thought. As he went to move his feet, they were stuck for a split second. From his mouth came a quiet, mundane, “I got robbed.” They were not his words. They drifted from his chapped lips with a disembodied tenor, like they were muffled behind a thin wall.
Forcing his feet to move, he strode around the green floral couch, past the giant grandfather clock, and started up the steps. The moment his sneaker touched the first step, a screaming rang in his ears. A panic-stricken voice shouting, “No! No! Not upstairs! Not upstairs! No!” He rubbed his ear on the far side of the camera, obscured by his head.
Keith groaned internally. Working twelve hours a day for a solid two weeks was taking its toll on him. He needed a good night’s sleep. A vacation. That vacation was a mere twelve steps away. Twelve steps to freedom. For Robbie, a death march.
Keith took the stairs one at a time. The carpet crunched under his shoes. Finally, he reached the top landing. His legs burned. The staircase had felt much longer than the hundreds of times he had climbed it previously.
A whimper drifted in his head again. “Please…don’t, Keith. Please…I don’t wanna go. Don’t make me go.”
Keith groaned, feeling feverish. Maybe he was coming down with something. No matter. He had a job to do. He turned the corner and disappeared. No more cameras. No more set. Just a long hallway with a few rooms for prop storage—mostly ones they had kept just in case they ever needed to be reused, but they never were.
Keith rubbed his temples. One take and done. That’s how he liked it. He reemerged around the corner and shouted from the top of the landing, “How was that?”
“Perfect, Keith. Perfect. That last line was a nice addition,” Thomas the director replied.
Keith grinned. “I thought so!” Did he?
“That’s a wrap, kiddo.”
He took a deep breath and exhaled in relief. stretching his hands to the ceiling, then with long strides, went down the steps two at a time—for the last time.
Robbie Tanner wept in the corridor. He wept for himself and for the other creations brought to life and discarded just as quickly—because he knew he was not the only person that had cried upstairs. He could only go forward, down the hallway with its pox green wallpaper and brown carpet worn so thin that the concrete showed through in spots. The scent of stale delivery food, mothballs, and broken dreams funneled directly to his nose. It all smelled like death to him.
The lonely tones of a skipping record player reverberated behind one of the side doors. It sounded like The Monkees’ “Last Train to Clarksville,” but Robbie wasn’t really sure, amid the warbling intermittent skips.
Hesitantly, he started forward, quaking in his canvas high tops. And as he neared the scuffed up black door at the end of the hallway, the dented brass doorknob rattled, and the door opened. It was pulled inward by a tall hyena puppet wearing a bold red fedora made of felt and plastic that Robbie recognized as Hogan Hyena from the recently cancelled show, Furever Friends. Just inside was a cute, auburn-haired girl with round glasses sitting beside a middle-aged woman with curly blonde hair wearing an apron. They were both huddled together in the closest corner to the door. And behind them was a wall of roiling white emitting an acidic sizzling, and that wall was creeping closer.
“Come on in,” Hogan said. “The only thing left to do is die. But you’re welcome to do it with us.”
Robbie Tanner took hold of the hyena’s outstretched paw and shut the door behind him.
Morgan Chalfant is a novelist, poet, and an instructor of writing at Fort Hays State University. He is a native of Hill City, Kansas. He received his bachelor's degree in writing and his master's degree in literature from Fort Hays State University. He is the author of the horror/thriller novella, Focused Insanity, and the urban fantasy novels, Ghosts of Glory and Infernal Glory. In his free time, he likes delving into horror movies, collecting ancient weapons, practicing martial arts, and has a perpetual love for 1980s pop culture. You can find him online at Instagram: @eyesonly34 or at his Amazon Author page.
By
Morgan Chalfant
“Please don’t make me go upstairs,” a voice whispered. Keith Kelvin heard the strange words in his head, but they were not part of the lines he had memorized in his trailer, so he pushed them back and forged ahead with his dialogue. He only had one scene left to do and he was free. Free to move on to bigger and better roles. The workers on the set of the struggling television show, Pennington Lane—actors, camera people, boom operators, stage hands, and unit directors—quieted as the director gave the signal and the cameras began to roll.
Keith began his lines, speaking into the phone receiver and twirling the cord around his forefinger. There wasn’t, of course, anyone on the other end, but that was an actor’s job: to imagine. He carried on the conversation as the script had read. The last lines he would ever read as Robbie “The Rob” Tanner on Pennington Lane. This was his character’s swan song on the dying television show. It was no secret. The director had told him with a single two-minute phone call before he arrived that morning on set.
Keith was okay with it. It was just another character, and he had played many since he was in high demand. The go to actor of his age. Girls loved him and boys wanted to be him—but nobody wanted to be Robbie Tanner with his catchphrase, “You got robbed!” always shouted at the moment of victory. It was Keith’s first foray into experiencing the disdain of the viewer, and he had to figure that if Robbie Tanner could speak for himself, he would be hurt. Although Keith experienced the abundant dislike vicariously, nonetheless, it was a hatred that had a profound effect on him. Keith was ready to wash his hands of the young delinquent, having already booked a part in an upcoming Hollywood film under some director named Spielberg.
Pennington Lane, a half-hour sitcom that portrayed the hilarious misadventures of the five members of the loudly acerbic Pennington family, had debuted to moderate ratings, but had spiked in its second season and continued the upward climb until the beginning of season six, where its demographic had fallen off like bumbling dad, Archie Pennington’s, red 1970 Barracuda, when he forgot to put the emergency brake on and it rolled down the pier and into the ocean. The executives had challenged the writers to create a new vibrant character to jump start the show. They had invented Robbie Tanner, the mousy, teenage cousin of the Pennington children. But it was Keith Kelvin, the sixteen-year-old child star and heartthrob that had brought him to life. And if someone as popular as Keith couldn’t save the flailing show, the young actor had to figure the show’s doom was not far behind Robbie’s.
The idea flopped. It was a belly flop into a pool off a high dive. Right out of the gates, it was clear the audience was not responding favorably to the recent addition with his new brand of crude humor and maximum snark. The troublemaker cousin of the three Pennington siblings, was not the shiny success the showrunners of the sitcom had hoped for in their quest for a seventh season ratings boost. What was once a bright cable powerhouse was now a blurry image on a fuzzy, flickering television. And like other unsuccessful characters on so many hit shows—Chuck Cunningham on Happy Days, the short-lived Judy Winslow of Family Matters, All My Children’s, Bobby Martin—Robbie Tanner would take the short walk (the short walk that felt so long) up the stairs to the second floor, where only a little bit of wood and sheet rock separated fiction from reality, never to be seen again. Gone and quickly forgotten. Expunged from cultural memory. A moment later, Keith would walk back down the steps and be left to his own devices—free to find another job—never to play the doomed character again. This was not the Keith Kelvin who millions of teens rioted over. In fact, Keith was counting his lucky stars that Robbie Tanner hadn’t robbed his career like the directors were going to rob the role of its existence. “You got robbed!!!!”
An internal chuckle passed through Keith, even as he continued to act in front of rolling cameras. That damn catchphrase.
Good riddance.
Keith spoke into the telephone receiver, having an imaginary conversation with Robbie Tanner’s best friend, Eddie Lowry, about how he was going to stay with his aunt for a while due to getting in trouble with the local fuzz. Robbie Tanner didn’t have an aunt. Not really. The writers hadn’t even seen fit to give her a name. Though Keith had heard a couple of the executive producers jokingly referring to her as, “Quick Fix Kathy.” She was just ‘my aunt in Everton” in Robbie’s own words. In reality, Keith was walking about thirty feet upstairs and then going home to his own parents with a big fat check.
With a labored, “I’ll see you around, buddy,” he finished his last fictional goodbye to Eddie. There shouldn’t have been a reply, but as Keith placed the receiver into the cradle, he swore he heard a voice utter the same strange words again, “Please, Keith, don’t make me go upstairs.” The uttered words held the dejected tone of someone who knew the outcome had already been decided before the pleading passed his lips.
Keith hung his head and paused. It said in the script he was supposed to stop and hang his head in an uncharacteristically emotional minute, but when tears brimmed in Keith’s eyes, he was astounded. He had not mastered the art of crying on cue. Where were the tears coming from?
Keith wiped his eyes. Time to drive the nail in the coffin, he thought. As he went to move his feet, they were stuck for a split second. From his mouth came a quiet, mundane, “I got robbed.” They were not his words. They drifted from his chapped lips with a disembodied tenor, like they were muffled behind a thin wall.
Forcing his feet to move, he strode around the green floral couch, past the giant grandfather clock, and started up the steps. The moment his sneaker touched the first step, a screaming rang in his ears. A panic-stricken voice shouting, “No! No! Not upstairs! Not upstairs! No!” He rubbed his ear on the far side of the camera, obscured by his head.
Keith groaned internally. Working twelve hours a day for a solid two weeks was taking its toll on him. He needed a good night’s sleep. A vacation. That vacation was a mere twelve steps away. Twelve steps to freedom. For Robbie, a death march.
Keith took the stairs one at a time. The carpet crunched under his shoes. Finally, he reached the top landing. His legs burned. The staircase had felt much longer than the hundreds of times he had climbed it previously.
A whimper drifted in his head again. “Please…don’t, Keith. Please…I don’t wanna go. Don’t make me go.”
Keith groaned, feeling feverish. Maybe he was coming down with something. No matter. He had a job to do. He turned the corner and disappeared. No more cameras. No more set. Just a long hallway with a few rooms for prop storage—mostly ones they had kept just in case they ever needed to be reused, but they never were.
Keith rubbed his temples. One take and done. That’s how he liked it. He reemerged around the corner and shouted from the top of the landing, “How was that?”
“Perfect, Keith. Perfect. That last line was a nice addition,” Thomas the director replied.
Keith grinned. “I thought so!” Did he?
“That’s a wrap, kiddo.”
He took a deep breath and exhaled in relief. stretching his hands to the ceiling, then with long strides, went down the steps two at a time—for the last time.
Robbie Tanner wept in the corridor. He wept for himself and for the other creations brought to life and discarded just as quickly—because he knew he was not the only person that had cried upstairs. He could only go forward, down the hallway with its pox green wallpaper and brown carpet worn so thin that the concrete showed through in spots. The scent of stale delivery food, mothballs, and broken dreams funneled directly to his nose. It all smelled like death to him.
The lonely tones of a skipping record player reverberated behind one of the side doors. It sounded like The Monkees’ “Last Train to Clarksville,” but Robbie wasn’t really sure, amid the warbling intermittent skips.
Hesitantly, he started forward, quaking in his canvas high tops. And as he neared the scuffed up black door at the end of the hallway, the dented brass doorknob rattled, and the door opened. It was pulled inward by a tall hyena puppet wearing a bold red fedora made of felt and plastic that Robbie recognized as Hogan Hyena from the recently cancelled show, Furever Friends. Just inside was a cute, auburn-haired girl with round glasses sitting beside a middle-aged woman with curly blonde hair wearing an apron. They were both huddled together in the closest corner to the door. And behind them was a wall of roiling white emitting an acidic sizzling, and that wall was creeping closer.
“Come on in,” Hogan said. “The only thing left to do is die. But you’re welcome to do it with us.”
Robbie Tanner took hold of the hyena’s outstretched paw and shut the door behind him.
Morgan Chalfant is a novelist, poet, and an instructor of writing at Fort Hays State University. He is a native of Hill City, Kansas. He received his bachelor's degree in writing and his master's degree in literature from Fort Hays State University. He is the author of the horror/thriller novella, Focused Insanity, and the urban fantasy novels, Ghosts of Glory and Infernal Glory. In his free time, he likes delving into horror movies, collecting ancient weapons, practicing martial arts, and has a perpetual love for 1980s pop culture. You can find him online at Instagram: @eyesonly34 or at his Amazon Author page.