TO WAKE THE DEAD

by Richard Laymon

  Months later he had the finished music. A huge symphony played by an orchestra of electric guitars, computers, and synthesized percussion. At times he’d replayed it so loudly that she’d had to clamp her hands over her ears and leave the studio.

  But the studio underground was so perfectly soundproofed, she couldn’t hear the music once the series of three doors had been closed in the corridor that led to the stairwell that, in turn, led to the ground floor.

  Her father would invite his friends across to listen to the music. Sometimes he’d debut a piece on the rooftop patio. Many times April had joined them there, sipping drinks on comfortable loungers, enjoying the cooling breeze after the heat of the day. And from the sophisticated sound system installed there they’d listen in awe to the music as it swooped and soared, filling the night air with shimmering guitars.

  Afterwards, her father’s friends would congratulate him. Although she could never see their faces, of course she recognized the voices. There’d be a sprinkling of Hollywood actors, a band member or two from the Grateful Dead, Jefferson Starship, the Eagles, Talking Heads. Later years would find representatives from newer bands such as REM, Grandaddy, and Krakow.

  She listened to the pitter-patter of guitar notes. Keyboards swirled like restless spirits, whooshing round the room from speaker to speaker.

  That hollowness came to her again. That sense of loneliness that was so great, it felt as if a cavern had formed inside her. Empty. A vacuum.

  Her hand rested on the cool silk of her dress. She felt her thigh beneath.

  She imagined that it was a lover’s hand. She imagined the hand squeezing her leg before gently gliding upward, up over her stomach, up to her throat, where it would slide around the side of her neck, then pull her gently toward her lover’s lips.

  But who could love a girl like me? I’m blind. Most men wouldn’t be interested.

  Oh, yes, they’d be interested in the sex. In years past she’d had many lovers who’d stayed a few weeks before dumping her.

  But was there anyone out beyond those walls who would commit to loving her forever? To make her a wife?

  She had money. Royalties from her father’s albums saw to that. She could hire more help around the house. Even a nanny if children came along.

  But how could she reach out there into the city and make a man notice her? How could she make him fall in love with her and care for her?

  She finished the milk and set the glass down on the table beside the chair. Music filled the room. But it was no longer a comfort.

  She needed a companion now. Right now. But she knew she couldn’t conjure a lover out of thin air. Equally, that her craving for companionship was nearly overwhelming. She wanted to cry out. Wanted to beat the walls with her fists. Wanted to push her fists into that empty ache in her stomach.

  Even pain would be preferable to that gnawing emptiness.

  This was the time of night when desperation grew intense.

  A desperation that often led to shameful thoughts. Even more shameful deeds. But what could she do?

  If only there’d be a knock on the door right now. And she could open that door and welcome in a stranger who would take away this ache of loneliness.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Beckerman watched the flashlight beam shoot through the dimly lighted room and sweep up a pair of pale legs. The gal had a hand over her crotch. She had a knocker missing, as if someone might have hacked it off with a cleaver before doing the same to her nose. Maybe took them home for souvenirs.

  “Turn you on, Gonzalez?” he asked.

  “Up yours, man.” The younger watchman swung his beam to another statue: a nude, armless male.

  “Look at that, will you? Damned Greeks don’t show diddly on the gals, but they’ve got the guys hanging out all over the place. That seem fair to you? Huh, Gonzalez?”

  Gonzales didn’t answer. He turned his flashlight to another statue, then another.

  Beckerman suddenly understood. “Christ, Gonzalez, you take a prize.”

  “Hey, man, you can’t be too careful in this line of work.”

  “Careful, right. You gotta be real careful you don’t die of boredom. You’re new, you’ll see.”

  Gonzalez checked another statue. “You’re the soul of respect. Quinn died here last night.”

  “Proves my point. The guy died of boredom. Fell asleep on the stairs.”

  “You think that’s funny, Beckerman?”

  “It ain’t as funny as a shit attack in a whorehouse, but it’ll do.”

  “I don’t think that’s fu—”

  “Holy shit!” Beckerman grabbed Gonzalez’s arm. “That one moved!”

  “Huh? Which?”

  The pale beam jerked from statue to statue.

  “There! See?”

  “Where?”

  “Yeek! Here it comes!”

  Gonzalez wrenched his arm away. He shoved Beckerman. “You think that’s funny, man?”

  “I theeenk so,” Beckerman said, mimicking him.

  “I’m gonna break your face.” He shoved Beckerman again.

  “Hey, lay off. Can’t you take a joke?”

  “That ain’t no joke.” He raised his flashlight like a club. “This is a joke?”

  “Calm down, hombre. For Christsake. You want to—”

  The sound of a thud interrupted him. “What the hell was that?”

  Gonzalez was already running for the doorway.

  “Wait up, damn it!” Beckerman called, keeping his voice a loud, hoarse whisper. He rushed into the hallway and found Gonzalez standing motionless, eyes searching the poorly lighted area ahead, revolver out.

  “Don’t be so eager, kid. Let’s stay cool, and take it slow and easy… and stay alive. If we’ve got bandits we’ll contain ‘em and call the cops. No fancy shit, right?”

  Gonzalez nodded.

  “Okay, let’s have a look.”

  They stepped forward silently. As they approached the entrance to the Callahan room, Beckerman saw that the cordon was hanging loose. He could remember hooking it into place himself after an earlier inspection of the room. He pointed at it. Gonzalez nodded.

  Crouching by the entry, Beckerman looked inside. Nobody in view. But the lid of the mummy’s coffin lay on the floor.

  It hadn’t been there earlier.

  He straightened up. “I’ll stay here,” he whispered. “Go phone the cops.”

  “Forget it, man. We can take ‘em.”

  “Do what I said, okay?”

  “Tu madre,” Gonzalez muttered, then rushed in.

  Beckerman pulled his revolver. Followed. Their light beams crisscrossed the room. Strange shadows lurched on the walls, jumped, writhed; phantom shapes. Beckerman kept his finger off the trigger to stop himself from snapping off shots at them.

  Then the overhead lights came on, killing the shadows. Beckerman took in every corner. He found no one. Gonzalez, hand on the light switch, grinned nervously at him.

  They went to the coffin and looked in. It was empty.

  “Oh, shit,” Beckerman muttered.

  “Hey, man, maybe they moved it?”

  “Someone did.”

  “I mean, the museum people put it someplace else, you know?”

  “You’re an optimist, kid. Face it, we’ve been ripped off. Let’s get it in gear.” He was already running as fast as his limp would allow. “You secure the front door, I’ll check the rear.”

  They split up. Beckerman ran down the hall to a fire door at the far end. He pushed the metal door open gently, trying not to make a sound. For a few moments, he listened. He heard nothing. Stepping onto the landing, he eased the door shut.

  A single, dim bulb above the door provided the only light. Sidestepping, he looked up the stairwell toward the third floor. The light didn’t carry far. As he stared at the dark, upper stairs, his tense excitement changed.

  Changed to fear.

  He raised his flashlight. His thumb poised on the switch, ready to send a b
eam into the darkness above him, but he didn’t dare; couldn’t bear to push the switch.

  Hadn’t felt like this since he was a kid. A kid lying in bed clenched with terror, staring across the room at the black opening of the closet. That yawning maw. Nothing inside the closet. Nothing harmful. Nothing to hurt a kid. Okay? He could prove it by turning on a light. To turn on the light, though, he would have to get out of bed. If he moved, IT would leap out, grab him, gnaw the life out of him.

  Lowering the flashlight, he turned away. He took two steps across the landing, wanted to look back over his shoulder—just to make sure—but didn’t because it would be too much like gazing into that closet once again.

  He started slowly downward. The bulb from the landing threw his huge shadow on the wall ahead. He felt nervous looking at it. What if a second shadow suddenly appeared beside it?

  You’re going nuts, he told himself.

  He was glad when he turned at the next landing. No more shadow. Below him, the light of the first floor looked like an old friend.

  He hurried down to it.

  Yeah, and you know you’re following Quinn’s footsteps; just don’t go tripping over your own feet, okay?

  He opened the door, looked out. No sign of anyone. Careful to avoid turning his eyes toward the upper stairs, he crossed the landing and stared down toward the basement.

  He had a new shadow. He watched his feet to keep from seeing it. At the next landing it disappeared. But there was no friendly light shining below. Only hostile darkness. That same hostile darkness that once occupied his open closet.

  Where was that light? Why was it no longer shining? The damn thing must have burnt out. Shit.

  Or did someone take care of it?

  He turned his flashlight on. No hesitation. He was beginning to feel some of his old confidence.

  That all changed, halfway down the steps, when he heard a sound behind him. Scraping sounds like a dead, windblown leaf skidding across concrete. A dry sound.

  He whirled around.

  He stared.

  The thing was standing half-a-dozen steps above him. In the bright beam of his flashlight, he saw more than he wanted to: arms and legs like sticks, bulging joints, red hair falling in glossy swathes; a gaunt and eyeless face.

  Its mouth opened wide.

  He screamed as it leapt down at him, red hair billowing.

  Gonzalez heard the scream. He ran across the lobby, flung open the metal door of the fire eat.

  “Beckerman!”

  From below, he heard faint sounds. Splashing sounds like water spattering concrete. He rushed down the stairs. At the landing, he shined his light into the darkness. Something was on Beckerman, hunched over his sprawled body, head jerking like a dog tearing meat from a carcass, only he couldn’t see clearly because of the mane of hair that blazed fiery red in the beam of the flashlight.

  It wasn’t a dog.

  It had red hair like a woman.

  It was working on Beckerman’s neck. Blood flew, raining against the walls and floor. Crimson. Liquid. Riverlets of gore.

  With alarming speed, the creature scurried off the bloody body and turned. The light beam hit its face.

  Gonzalez went numb. He wet himself. Warm liquid ran down his leg. As it drenched his socks and pooled in his boots, it helped bring him back to reality.

  “Freeze!” he shouted.

  The creature attacked, arms reaching out, mouth gaping, eyes twin pits of darkness that seemed to plunge into eternity.

  Those teeth.

  Those godawful white teeth.

  Framed by black, dead lips.

  Gonzalez reacted. Dropped the flashlight. Clutched his right wrist. Aimed. Snapped off four shots, the blasts coming so fast they sounded like continuous, terrible explosions.

  He knew the bullets hit the target. They had to. The range was nothing. An arm’s length. But did they stop the thing?

  Did they hell.

  It rushed against him. Red hair, a billowing mass around the shriveled face. Good God, it looked as if the creature’s head had burst into flame. Swirling reds, golds; the hair seemed to double the size of the body.

  At that moment it struck. He jammed the muzzle to its chest, fired his last two rounds.

  Their impact hardly made the thing twitch. Like shooting a cardboard box. Cordite smoke billowed.

  Fingers clutched his face and hair. Claw fingers. Fingers with curling, misshapen fingernails. He stumbled backward, fell onto the landing, lost the revolver; it went skittering across the floor, sending out sparks as gunmetal collided with marble.

  The face pressed toward him, mouth snapping, its eyeless sockets eager somehow. Those voids filled with something more than darkness. Something unseen, hungry, evil, murderous.

  He tried to shove the snapping mouth away. The dry stick tongue worked behind the teeth. Raising his hands, he pushed at the shriveled head, trying to force it back. The head twisted, quickly shaking the mass of hair that tumbled over his own face; ancient tresses fell into his mouth; dusty curls reached the back of his throat. He convulsed, gagging at the mouthful of hair.

  He lost his grip on the twisting head. Its teeth caught two of his fingers. He felt the bite, heard the crunch of bone, saw his hand come back with finger stubs dripping.

  The thing clawed his face. He cried out as it pierced his left eye.

  He heard teeth snapping.

  He heard flesh rip as they found his throat.

  He heard…

  … nothing…

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The girl with red hair and green eyes was watching him when he woke up. She lay on her side gazing through the bars of the cage.

  Ed Lake waited for her to speak.

  She didn’t.

  Didn’t move either.

  Merely watched his face.

  Ed remembered how he’d heard her being tortured in the dark just a few hours ago. He burned inside, outraged that someone could do such a terrible thing and…

  … and he burned because he remembered something else. He remembered how the cries she’d made turned him on.

  Christ, he thought she’d been having sex. That she was enjoying. Not hurting.

  But that didn’t make it all right, did it? He remembered how he couldn’t take his eyes off her naked back when the light came on. It was only when she turned that he’d seen how the skin around her nipples had been sliced in a sunburst effect of radiating cuts.

  Now…

  Well, now she just stared at him with those green eyes.

  So what do you say in a situation like this? When you’re in a cage? When the stranger in the next cage has just had her breasts sliced?

  Hi-ho, honey. You’re looking great.

  Hardly.

  Those nipples of hers must be aflame with pain.

  Not that she showed the hurt, though. Her gaze was steady.

  At last he had to say something, even if totally lame-brain: “Are you okay?”

  She didn’t answer. Just kept on staring.

  “I’m sorry about what they did to you. It was terrible. I mean it must have…”

  Her eyes rested on his.

  He clenched his fists. “The motherfucker should have his heart ripped out… ripped right out, the bastard.”

  She gazed at him. Then: “Don’t become too involved with what happened.”

  “But… hell, it was barbaric… the way you bled.”

  “I can take it.”

  “Take that mutilation, but—”

  “Listen, do you know what the alternative is?”

  “The alternative?”

  “The alternative is far worse. Ask Marco.”

  “That’s right.” Marco’s voice came from behind. Ed glanced back at the blond-haired guy in the next cage. “The alternative is… grrch.” As he made the noise he drew his finger across his throat.

  “They’ve killed people?”

  “Then where you goes, nobody knows.”

  “But you people ta
lk like this is normal. That this is how the entire world is.” Ed couldn’t believe how the pair accepted the situation. “Remember who you are. You’ve been kidnapped by crazies, put in cages, and now you’re being tortured.”

  Marco said, “You learn to adapt.”

  “It’s out of our hands,” she said.

  “If you don’t accept this is your life now, you’ll crack up,” Marco said.

  She nodded. “Then you’re as good as dead.”

  “Jesus H. Christ,” breathed Ed. “I’m not going to surrender to this. I’m not.”

  “Your funeral, bud.” Marco lay back down his mattress. “Wonder when they’ll bring breakfast today.”

  “Soon,” she said.

  “Hope it’s not hardboiled eggs. They lock me up tight.”

  She shrugged. “Might be bacon sandwiches. We haven’t had those for a while.”

  “I hope the coffee’s hot. It’s been tepid the last couple of days. Boy, oh, boy, that’s one thing I hate. Tepid coffee.”

  Jesus H. Get this! They’re talking like a couple of people staying in a cheap hotel. Not a godforsaken torture chamber. Ed wanted out. This was madness. Maybe these two were mad.

  Hell, maybe he was mad.

  Imagining this.

  Maybe he was in a psychiatric ward somewhere.

  The shock of being dumped by Janey was too much.

  Now he was in a rubber room; he was shot full of lithium, drooling, kacking his diaper, whining for Mom. But not here. Not in this beast house. Where bad things happened to decent people. Where invisible torturers came in the dark.

  “Hello… hell… owe.”

  He snapped out of it. Looked across at the girl.

  She held her hand out through the bars. The blanket was pulled up over her breasts, preserving her modesty.

  “Hello,” she repeated. “Anyone home?”

  She smiled, straightened her fingers. They were just inches from his cage. “Guess we haven’t been properly introduced. My name is Virginia.” Her eyes were solemn. “Don’t laugh. My parents told me I was conceived there.”

  Marco chuckled. “Count yourself lucky your mother wasn’t screwed in Nantucket.”