Night Show

by Richard Laymon

  She hung there, numb with pain, her feet still on the second stair, her side against the post, all her weight tugging at her wrists. As she tried to pull herself up, the rope snapped. She dropped. Her back and head pounded the floor.

  She lay there, stunned at first. As the pain started to fade, she realised she was free.

  Free of the banister!

  If she could just untie her feet . . .

  Opening her eyes, she raised her head. Her skirt was rumpled around her waist, her panties pale in the darkness, her bare legs angling up to the second stair.

  She drew her knees forward. She spread them, reached between them with her tied hands, and felt the knotted rope. As her fingers picked at the coils, a movement drew her eyes to the top of the stairs.

  A dim figure stood in the darkness.

  Linda’s breath burst out as if she’d been punched in the stomach. Her bladder released. She clawed at the knots as the warm fluid spread down her buttocks.

  Her eyes stayed on the motionless form. It just stood there.

  She jerked a knot loose and kicked her feet. The bonds held. Another knot! She grabbed it, picked it, winced as a fingernail tore off.

  An arm of the figure swung forward. A pale object seemed to break off. It hung in the air, fell, and hit the stairs midway down with a harsh thud. Gazing through the gap in her upraised legs, Linda watched it tumble down the remaining stairs. She saw trailing hair, a blur of face. She heard herself whimper again. She ached to throw herself out of its path, but the knot was pulling loose. She tore at the rope. The knot opened as the thing thumped off the final stair and rolled against her rump. A single, wide eye peered through the crevice between her legs. With a shattering scream, Linda kicked her legs free and rolled aside. She flipped over. On her belly, she glanced from the severed head to the stairway.

  The figure was halfway down, walking slowly as if he had all the time in the world. He was naked, boney, and dead pale. A dark beard hung to his chest. He held a long object in his hands – an ax!

  Linda shoved herself to her feet. She staggered back, whirled around, and raced for the door. She hit it with her shoulder. She swept down her tied hands, seeking the knob.

  Found it!

  Her sweaty hands twisted the knob. She dropped back, jerking the door open, crying out as it hammered her knee. Her leg buckled. She dropped hard to her rump, losing her grip on the knob.

  The door swung open wide. In the dim light from the porch, she saw the man striding slowly forward. His head was tilted to one side, his face ragged with open sores, his tongue drooping out.

  ‘No!’ she shrieked.

  He raised the ax high.

  With her good leg, Linda thrust herself backward. She slid over the doorsill, and tumbled onto the porch. She rolled, forced herself to her knees, and scrambled for the porch stairs. She hurled herself off them. Clearing the three steps, she caught the walkway with her knuckles and landed flat with an impact that slapped her breasts and thighs and slammed the breath from her lungs. Dazed, she flopped onto her back.

  She sat up, and peered into the porch.

  The front door of the Freeman house swung shut.

  Inside the house, Tony lowered his ax and leaned back against the door. He started to peel the makeup and false beard from his face.

  In spite of the chilly air, he wasn’t cold.

  The tremors that shook his naked body had nothing to do with cold.

  They had to do with excitement.

  He’d scared himself silly. His heart was thundering, his guts knotted. Touching himself, he felt his gooseflesh, his stiff nipples. His penis was shrunken as if to hide. His scrotum was shriveled the size of a walnut.

  My God, what a charge!

  Hefting his ax, he made his way across the dark foyer. He stooped, picked up the mannequin head by its hair, and eagerly started up the stairs toward the black upper story of the house.

  2

  DANI LARSON leaned forward, bracing her hands on the sill, resting her forehead against the window pane. ‘I’m so afraid,’ she said. ‘Margot, Julie, Alice – all dead.’

  She flinched as Michael touched her bare shoulders. ‘It’s all right, honey,’ he whispered. ‘You’re safe here.’ His lips brushed her shoulders.

  ‘Michael, no.’

  ‘I’ll help you forget.’

  ‘I don’t want to forget. He’s out there somewhere, looking for me.’

  ‘Worrying about it won’t help.’ His hands slipped around to the front of Dani, held her breasts gently through the thin fabric of her nightgown while he nibbled her ear.

  She arched her back, moaning as if with pleasure. Suddenly, she gasped. Her eyes bulged. Her mouth jerked open, ready to scream.

  ‘Cut, cut! Beautiful! That’s a print!’

  ‘Aw shit,’ Michael said. ‘Just when I was starting to enjoy it.’

  ‘Should’ve blown your lines,’ Dani said, peeling his fingers off her breasts.

  The window flew up, and Roger Weston poked his head inside. ‘Beautiful, gang. Lovely. Ready for the splash scene, Dani?’

  ‘We’ll set it up.’

  ‘Good kid.’

  She turned away, caught Jack’s amused look, and shrugged.

  ‘Let’s go to it, kid,’ Jack told her.

  Dani bared her teeth.

  ‘Should’ve done that to Rog,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t like to abuse short people. They’ve got enough troubles.’ She picked up her blue windbreaker with MIDNIGHT SCREAMS printed across the back, slipped it on to cover the top, at least, of her sheer nightgown, and snapped it shut.

  Then she followed Jack to a corner of the set, where Ingrid stood with her mouth agape and terror in her eyes. The mannequin was a duplicate of Dani: five foot six and slim, with shoulder-length auburn hair, gelatin eyes the same emerald color as her own, and lightly tanned latex skin. It was exact to the tiny scar on its chin, the slightly crooked upper front tooth.

  Dani noticed, as she approached, the blatant dark thrust of its nipples through the gown.

  She hoped that her own hadn’t been so apparent.

  They must’ve been, though. Identical nightgowns, identical breasts. She’d cast them, like the rest of Ingrid, from molds of herself. She’d taken great care, sitting half-naked in her workshop, comparing, trying to find a perfect match of the flesh tones even though she hadn’t known the nightgown would be quite so revealing.

  If she hadn’t made them so well, maybe she and Ingrid might have both been spared the embarrassment . . .

  ‘Problem?’ Jack asked.

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘You look upset.’

  ‘No, it’s all right. Just wishing the negligees weren’t so transparent.’

  ‘She looks great. You did, too.’

  ‘You’re not supposed to notice those things.’

  ‘I’m a man.’

  ‘I’m your boss.’

  Jack laughed, and clawed fingers through the side of his dark beard. ‘Gonna be the pits, blowing her away.’

  ‘I don’t need the competition.’

  He wrapped an arm around Ingrid’s waist. With a hand bracing her head, he tipped her sideways. Dani grabbed the legs, and lifted.

  They carried Ingrid to the window. Dani lowered her feet to the chalk marks, and they set her upright. As Jack left to fetch the other mannequin, the continuity girl held a Polaroid snapshot through the window: Dani’s final moment with Michael. Using the photo as a guide, she arched Ingrid’s articulated back and placed her fingertips on the sill.

  Jack set down the Michael mannequin behind Ingrid.

  Dani hadn’t bothered to rename it, hadn’t needed to. Constructing Michael’s duplicate, she’d felt none of the eerie discomfort she’d experienced in making her own. Even giving her model a rather silly name like Ingrid hadn’t been enough to dispel her uneasiness. At one point, she’d gone so far as to cover Ingrid’s terrified face with a paper bag.

  This morning, she’d let Jac
k do the dirty work on Ingrid while she worked on Michael: stuffing the hollow skulls with blood packs and calf brains fresh from the butcher. Jack had seemed reluctant, too. But he was a good fellow, always followed instructions.

  Now, they adjusted Michael so he pressed against Ingrid’s back, his lips against her neck. They raised his arms, placed his hands over her breasts.

  Ingrid, at least, would have no cause for modesty.

  Dani checked the final positions against the Polaroid. ‘All set,’ she called through the window.

  Roger strode forward. Dani handed the snapshot out to him. He stared at it through his oversized glasses, then studied the set-up. ‘Beautiful, beautiful. Okay, shut the goddamn window.’

  Jack lowered the window. He stepped back. He looked at Ingrid. For an instant, Dani saw a hint of sorrow in his eyes. It vanished, and he winked at Dani. ‘This is gonna be good,’ he said.

  ‘Hope so.’

  They walked around the wall. From the front, the façade appeared to be the side of a small, woodframe house. The young couple looked frozen behind its window.

  The set was crowded, people standing around with coffee cups, others busy adjusting lights, the sound man in headphones fiddling with dials like a HAM operator tuning in to exotic bands, Roger peering through the Paniflex and turning away to instruct the weary-looking cameraman.

  ‘I’m off,’ Jack said.

  ‘Give it your best shot.’

  He laughed, and headed away.

  While she waited, Dani made her way to the coffee machine. The aluminum container was nearly empty, the fluid black and grainy as it trickled from the spout. In her styrofoam cup, it looked like watery mud. She took a sip and winced at the bitter taste. As she set the cup down, someone reached from behind and squeezed her breasts.

  ‘Hey!’ She flung up her arms, forcing the hands off, and whirled.

  Michael grinned.

  ‘Don’t you ever do that again,’ she said, barely able to control her rage.

  ‘Whoa!’ He raised his open hands as if to ward off an attack. ‘So sorry. I just couldn’t help myself. My hands have been burning ever since . . .’

  ‘Don’t be a jerk.’

  ‘Come on. You enjoyed it.’

  ‘See how you enjoy a punch in the face if you ever try that again.’

  ‘The lady doth protest too much, methinks.’

  ‘Think again.’

  ‘Quiet on the set,’ announced a nearby voice. ‘Scene forty-four, take one.’

  The studio went silent, and a red dome light began to spin. Dani stepped silently away for a better view. Michael stayed at her side.

  She spotted Jack near one of the cameras, dressed now in jeans and a parka, a blue ski mask over his head, a shotgun in his hands.

  ‘Action,’ Roger said.

  Jack ran forward, hunched low in front of the window, brought up the shotgun. But he didn’t fire. Instead, he looked over his shoulder. He stood upright and turned around, lowering the weapon.

  ‘Cut, cut, cut!’ Roger snapped. ‘What the fuck’s going on!’

  Jack shook his head.

  ‘Jeezus! Dani?’ Roger twisted to face her. ‘Dani, did you tell your boy what’s going on? We’re making a goddamn movie here. This ain’t fun and games, it’s the real thing. If he can’t pull it off . . .’

  ‘He’s fine,’ Dani said.

  ‘Bull-fuckin’-shit! You said he could handle it. Nobody touches the goddamn trigger but your boy here. Requires precision, all that bullshit. All right. Okay. Christ! Now let’s get it together, huh? That too much to ask?’

  ‘You okay, Jack?’ Dani asked, burning from the tirade, embarrassed for herself and Jack, furious with Roger.

  Jack nodded.

  ‘Okay,’ Roger said in a calm, almost cheerful voice. ‘Let’s try it again.’

  Dani blew out a long breath. She felt drained, as if Roger’s tantrum had shaken out all her energy.

  ‘Feathers a bit singed?’ Michael whispered.

  She glared at him, then turned her attention to Jack.

  ‘The gun loaded?’ Michael asked her.

  She ignored him.

  ‘Quiet on the set. Scene forty-four, take two.’

  Jack was crouched off-camera, waiting.

  ‘Action.’

  He ran forward, crouched in front of the window, shouldered the shotgun and fired. The blast stunned Dani’s ears. She saw the window blow in. Buckshot slammed into the right side of Ingrid’s face, into Michael’s forehead as he kissed her neck. Their latex skin disintegrated into pulp. Ingrid’s eye vanished. Red, clotted gore exploded from both heads as the two figures flew backwards and vanished from the window.

  ‘Cut, cut! Beautiful!’

  ‘Not bad,’ Michael said.

  Dani realised she was holding the side of her face, covering her eye. She quickly lowered her hand. It was trembling.

  She hurried toward Jack. He was bending down to pick up the spent, red cartridge.

  ‘Great shot,’ Dani said. ‘Right on the mark.’

  He straightened up, and turned to her. He dropped the shell into a pocket. ‘Like I said, the pits.’

  He handed the shotgun to Bruce, the prop master.

  ‘You did fine,’ Dani told him. She took his arm, and led him off to the side.

  ‘Sorry I screwed up,’ he said.

  ‘Roger’s a bastard.’

  ‘No, he was right. I screwed up.’

  ‘That’s no reason for him to fly off the handle. He’s a spoiled baby.’

  Jack pulled the ski mask off his head, and rubbed his face. Stroking his ruffled beard, he shook his head. ‘I am sorry. It made you look bad.’

  ‘Hey, we’re doing great work for that turkey. Our efforts are the only saving grace in his stupid, harebrained movie, and he’d better realise it.’

  Jack appeared, for an instant, as if he might laugh. Then his face darkened. He gnawed his lower lip, and looked into Dani’s eyes. ‘That first time, when I was taking aim . . . Hell, you’ll think I’m crazy, but I got the feeling it was you in the window. Really you. A switch got pulled, or something. I just couldn’t shoot. I had to make sure . . . and then I saw you standing over there with Michael, and I was all right.’

  Dani stared at Jack. She remembered the day, only two months ago, when he had entered her house for the job interview. His size and shaggy beard had intimidated her, at first; he looked like a wild mountain man. But his mild, intelligent eyes and quiet voice quickly won her over. She liked him, hired him over thirty-two other applicants who’d responded to her ad in the Reporter. He soon proved himself to be a competent employee – better than competent: energetic and eager, a fast learner, innovative and usually cheerful. But he’d been an employee, nothing more. They’d kept their emotional distance, stayed safely impersonal.

  Until now.

  Looking into his eyes, Dani felt a warm tremor of excitement.

  ‘Guess it’s out of the bag,’ he said, a worried, glad look on his face.

  ‘I guess so,’ Dani said. ‘What’ll we do about it?’

  ‘How about a kiss?’

  She stepped close to Jack, felt his arms wrap around her, pull her snugly against his parka. Hugging him, she tipped back her head. He smiled down at her. His lips and beard pressed her mouth.

  She knew that others might be watching, but she didn’t care. It only mattered that this man she had worked with, joked with, had wanted her all along and kept it to himself. If he hadn’t hesitated to shoot Ingrid, the masquerade might have gone on and on.

  She eased her mouth away. ‘How come you never . . . said anything?’

  ‘Didn’t want to get canned. Look what happened to Al.’

  She winced at the mention of her previous assistant. ‘He was a turkey.’

  ‘A turkey who put moves on you.’

  ‘How’d you know that?’

  ‘Just a guess. His work was good: he went straight from you to the Steinman Studios. So it had to be something
else.’

  ‘He tried to . . .’ Dani’s face burned. ‘He thought I was being coy when I told him to lay off. He tried to force the issue.’

  ‘Bastard.’

  ‘Well, it’s over. He got canned and you got the job, so it all worked out for the best.’

  ‘Indeed it did,’ Jack said.

  Dani grinned at him. ‘Indeed, indeed.’

  3

  ‘TO INGRID, Dani toasted.

  ‘May she rest in peace.’

  Dani clinked the rim of her vodka and tonic against Jack’s, and took a sip. They were sitting outside at Joe Allen, the restaurant where she’d been fêted several months ago by Roger and the producer of Midnight Screams. She remembered listening to their eager descriptions of the effects they envisioned and finally, over coffee, signing the contract. The contract led to Ingrid, to Jack’s revelation. It seemed only fitting that she should bring Jack here tonight.

  A starting place, of sorts.

  She stared at him, nervous and excited, wondering if he felt the same way. He certainly didn’t look nervous. Puzzled, maybe, studying her eyes as if searching for answers to the same questions that whirled through Dani’s own mind: where will this lead, to joy and fulfillment and an end to the loneliness, or to a bitter parting? The alternatives seemed too big, the chances of failure too great. She suddenly felt overwhelmed and afraid. She set down her glass. It left her hand cold and wet. She rubbed her hands together, squeezed them, pressed them to her chin.

  ‘Dani?’

  She tried to smile. ‘I’m not sure if I’m ready for this.’

  ‘Me too. Let’s forget the whole thing.’

  His response shocked her into laughter. ‘You creep!’

  ‘See how easy it is, now that we don’t have to worry about a serious relationship, a commitment, the heartache of rejection?’

  ‘Much easier,’ she admitted. ‘But I think I prefer it the other way.’

  ‘I do, too.’

  ‘We’ll give it a try.’