by John Skipp
“I certainly will,” Amy said.
“Thank you, sweetie. You’re a doll.” They beamed at each other. How can she possibly be so NICE? Amy thought. Then Mrs. Brewster added, “And thank you for helping Charley with his algebra. It drives him crazy, poor dear. He just can’t seem to get the hang of it. You know, I always had a hard time with math in school!”
She giggled. Amy could picture her, giggling her way through finals back in the fifties; she wondered what it would have been like to be a teenager then, and couldn’t imagine it.
She wondered, briefly, what Mr. Brewster had been like. And why he’d left her.
Mrs. Brewster was prattling on about her youth, her grades, some crazy girlfriend who was in love with Wally Cleaver. Amy shifted her attention to Charley for a second, wondering if she was still mad at him or not, wondering what he was feeling.
He was looking out the goddam window again.
She followed his gaze. From where she was standing, she couldn’t see anything. If he was bored it was understandable, but it was not polite. The least you could do is pretend to pay attention, she told him silently.
She was pissed again. She tried not to let Mrs. Brewster see it. “Well, I’ve got to be running,” she said. “I promised I’d be home by midnight, and I’m already a little late.”
“Oh! Well, good night! And be careful going home. Drunk drivers are everywhere.” Even when she was serious, the lines in Mrs. Brewster’s face were smiling. Long-standing habit, immortalized in flesh.
“I’ll be careful,” Amy said. Then, almost as an afterthought, she turned to the window and said, “Good night, Charley.”
“Yeah. Good night,” he muttered, abstracted.
It was the last straw. She’d gone up and down and up and down with him; and even after she’d told him how she felt, he was still the same jerk, his binoculars pointing the wrong way.
He didn’t turn until she’d slammed the door behind her.
“That wasn’t very nice,” Mrs. Brewster said, “not walking Amy to the door.”
“What?” Charley said. His mind was aswirl. There were lights on in the house next door. He hadn’t seen lights there for almost a year.
“It wasn’t very nice. It was rude. You know that.”
“Yeah, but . . .” There was no arguing with it. She was right. It was rude.
But the fact was that he had seen two strange men carry a coffin into the basement of an abandoned house. Now there were lights on in the living room. It seemed to him that Amy should have checked it out with him instead of just getting pissed. It seemed to him like he wasn’t entirely off the wall in wanting to know just what the hell was going on.
“Mom,” he said, “there are some people next door.”
“Oh! That must be the new owner!”
“What new owner?”
“Didn’t I tell you? Bob Hopkins finally sold the place.”
“To who?”
“I don’t know. Some man who likes to fix up old houses, apparently. I just hope that he knows what he’s in for. That place would need a lot of work before I’d be willing to live there!”
She giggled. Mom always giggled. Sometimes he wanted to throttle her for it; sometimes it endeared her to him. Tonight it was completely irrelevant.
When he closed his eyes, he could still see the coffin: huge, ornate and bound in brass. It was a beautiful piece of work, and it looked incredibly old. It was the kind of thing that he would covet, ordinarily; the kind of thing that he and Evil Ed would have a blast with, camping it up in classic Peter Vincent style.
So why had he gotten such a horrible chill, seeing it? And why wouldn’t the thought of it leave him alone?
As if in answer, the late-night newscaster came on TV: pudgy-faced and leisure-suited, the words “Robert Rodale” in videotype across his chest. “Good evening,” he said. “This is a KTOR News Break. Tonight the headless body of an unidentified man was found behind the Rancho Corvallis railway station . . .”
Reflexively, Charley turned back to the window. The blinds were drawn in the house next door.
And the horror was only beginning.
TWO
Fifth period ended at the sound of the bell, flooding the halls of Christopher L. Cushing High with life. Students swarmed through opening doors, running the maze of corridors from classroom to classroom like laboratory rats in search of Velveeta Heaven.
The exodus from Room 234 was slightly more lethargic than average. This was the room of the infamous Mr. Lorre: master of the pop quiz, inventor of the ten-ton homework assignment. He had sprung both on his Algebra II class today, and his victims were less than elated.
Charley Brewster dragged himself out of the classroom like a man crawling out of a train wreck. His quiz paper dangled limp from one hand. A large red “F” adorned it like the mark of the devil.
“The bastard,” he moaned. “Why didn’t he warn us?”
“That’s the whole point of a pop quiz, Brewster. To surprise you.”
Charley turned without enthusiasm to face the voice from behind him. Evil Ed Thompson was not the most heartwarming sight in the world, even at the best of times. And this was not one of them.
Evil Ed was a certified freako. He was short and spidery, with a Billy Idol hairdo and a rubbery face that could leer and twist itself in a million lunatic ways. He was gloating now, and the smirk on his face would have made Jack Nicholson proud.
Evil Ed, of course, had aced the quiz. He always did. He was smart as a fucking whip. It was what let him get away with being so incredibly weird. It was also the key to his popularity, which was nil.
In fact, Charley was one of the few people who would talk with Ed Thompson at all. Sometimes Charley wondered why he bothered. The answer was obvious: they were the only two hard-core monster freaks in Cushing High.
“Cheer up, Bunky. You can always get your diploma off a matchbook, worse comes to worst.”
“Piss off, Evil. You’re a pain in the butt.”
“Call me anything you want to, Boss. Only you’re the one who’s flunking algebra, not me.”
Charley was trying to think of something snappy to come back with when something beautiful caught the periphery of his vision. He whirled to see Amy, nose in the air, schoolbooks cradled to her bosom as she marched past the doorway.
“Amy!” he called, brightening suddenly.
She brushed him off. He knew that she’d heard him. He knew that she knew that he knew that she’d heard him. The repercussions echoed back at him like a ricocheting bullet. He sagged further into his sneakers and leaned against the doorway as she disappeared into the crowd.
“What’s the matter?” Evil Ed said, cackling. “She finally find out what you’re really like?”
“Shut up, Eddie! I’m serious!”
“OOOO! OOOO!” Evil Ed made a grand display of flapping his wrists. “I’m rigid with terror, Chucko! I’m soiling my dydees!”
“Asshole!” Charley yelled, storming off in Amy’s direction. She hadn’t spoken to him since Saturday night, and he was deeply afraid that she never would again. He knew that he would never catch her—he was going to be late for sixth period, no matter how he looked at it—but some gut-level impetus made him follow her anyway, pointlessly, digging himself deeper as he went.
Behind him, Evil Ed’s high-pitched cackle cut through the crowd. For some reason, it gave him a chill.
He’d been having a lot of them lately.
THREE
Charley’s beet-red sixty-eight Mustang wheeled into the driveway at dusk. He’d been driving aimlessly for the last two hours, radio cranking while he tried to air out his mind. It was getting weird in there, and he had reached the point where he needed to start sorting it out.
He needed to apologize to Amy, for one thing. He didn’t quite know how to go about it—biting the big one wasn’t one of his favorite pastimes—but he knew that it had to be done. There weren’t words to express how much he missed her, how big
an emptiness had formed inside as a result of her not being around. The flip side of love was rearing its ugly head for the first time. He didn’t just want to see her; he needed to see her, with every fiber in his being. And he needed to concoct a scheme that would bring them back together, no matter how low into the dirt he had to grovel.
That was for starters.
Then there was the house next door. He had to straighten himself out in terms of that coffin business. He had seen it, yes; it was a strange thing to own, yes again. But then, as he’d noted before, it was something he’d pick up in a second if he had the bucks. It was a pretty cool thing to own. Maybe, if he screwed his balls on, he might drop by and visit neighbors quirky enough to invest in things like that.
Schoolwork came in at a big Number Three. It was obvious that he had some work to do if he didn’t want to repeat the year. It wasn’t that he was too stupid to understand; it was just that he generally didn’t give a shit.
But he didn’t want to spend another year in eleventh grade while all his friends plunged forward into their last year of school. He didn’t want a reputation as a full-blown airhead. Whether he liked it or not—whether it made sense or not—he would have to get cracking and learn what they wanted him to know.
Algebra was the big one. Algebra was the first one that he had to tackle. And if I get it down, he thought, Amy will really be impressed. She’ll come over to help me and I’ll already know what I’m doing. She’ll be shocked. Maybe she’ll faint, and I can get her undressed before she has time to argue. He didn’t know what he’d missed on Saturday night. He’d never seen her open blouse.
Charley put the car in park and cut the engine, sighing heavily. Mom would want to know why he was late, and he’d have to make up something. It wasn’t that she was bitchy; it was just that she felt like she needed to know every tiny little thing that happened in his life. He wondered if every mother in the world was like that.
A cab rounded the corner onto King Street just as he got out of the car. It was surprising, because cabs almost never came into his neighborhood. Rancho Corvallis was an automotive town; the bus service stank, and the one cab company had maybe six cars. Charley paused to watch the anomaly cruise toward him. He was startled when it stopped in front of his house.
He was even more startled when the foxiest girl he had ever seen slid out of the cab and faced him.
She was blond and blue-eyed and incredibly gorgeous. She had a body that could cause cardiac arrest in one-celled organisms, packed into a dress that clung to her every curve as if its life depended on it. When she smiled at him, Charley felt his knees turn to molten butter.
“Is this Ninety-nine King?” she asked, going into a Little Girl Lost act. The sight of her sexy, pouting lips sent his hormones into overdrive.
“Uh-bubba,” he said. She looked at him quizzically. She didn’t understand that he was trying to get his mouth to work. “Uh, n-no,” he continued. “It’s r-right next d-door.” He pointed a jittering finger.
“Thanks,” she purred, smiling. The effect was devastating. Somehow he sensed that she knew what she was doing to him. Even as she turned away, offering a spectacular view from the rear, he realized that part of him went with her—wrapped around her little finger, as it were.
Charley whistled softly, appreciatively, as she departed. She smiled back at him, over her shoulder. She’d heard it. He blushed a little, but couldn’t keep himself from smiling back.
Wonder if she’ll be a regular fixture around here, he mused. He hoped she would, though it might not endear him to his new neighbor. Whoever he is, Charley added, he’s got excellent taste.
Lucky bastard.
He watched her walk up to the old house and put a dainty finger to the buzzer. The door opened almost immediately. Charley couldn’t see who let her in. But she was still smiling as she disappeared into the house. It washed away whatever nervousness he had.
All was right with the world.
Several hours into the darkness of that night, Charley wandered down to the kitchen for some Cheese Doodles and Coke. Mom was at the table, blearily reading the evening paper. She’d worked all day, and he knew that she would not last much longer into the night.
Lights were on in the old house. He thought about the girl again, peered over for a glimpse of her through the windows. All the blinds were drawn. Oh, well, he thought, turning absently to his mother.
“Mom, have you seen the new guy next door yet?”
“No,” she said yawning. “But I’ve heard a couple of things.”
“Like what?”
“Well, his name is Jerry Dandrige. He’s a young man, and I hear that he’s very attractive.” She giggled and yawned at the same time, no mean feat. “I also hear that he’s got a live-in carpenter. With my luck, they’re probably gay.”
Charley grinned and wrinkled his forehead. “No,” he said. “I don’t think so.”
“Oh? What do you know that I don’t?” She leaned forward in her chair, almost hungrily.
“Oh, nothing.” He opened the fridge and pulled a can of Coke off the plastic six-pack ring. A quick scan of the counter revealed an absence of Cheese Doodles. “Are we all out of munchies?”
“ ’Fraid so.” Pause. “So what do you know about Jerry Dandrige?”
“Nothing. I told you.”
“I think you’re . . .” yawn “. . . holding out on me.”
“No, I’m not. Honest.” He let the refrigerator swing shut and headed for the living room. “Look, I gotta go up and study some more, okay?”
“You’re studying?” She sounded genuinely shocked.
“What do you think I’ve been doing for the last couple of hours?” he called back over his shoulder. Then he was climbing the stairs to his room, her response muffled and unintelligible.
It was true, though. He’d been at it since dinner. His desk was a clutter of textbooks and notebooks: English III and American government, geography and the dreaded algebra. There was a lot of back homework that had never been done, more than enough to keep him busy all night.
Most of the easiest stuff had been dispensed with already. He was down to brass tacks, and it was driving him crazy. He sat down and looked at the open algebra book. Its contents made him want to scream.
It is essential for you to memorize this rule: The square of the sum of two terms is equal to the square of the first term, plus twice the product of the first term by the second term, plus the square of the second term.
“Right,” he muttered. It had lost him on the first curlicue of logic. He looked at the equation that was supposed to illustrate the point.
(a+b)2 = a2 + 2ab + b2
“Yeah, okay.” It sort of seemed to make sense when you looked at the numbers, although he couldn’t say exactly how. The explanation was still total gibberish to him.
Charley popped open the Coke and swigged heavily on it. If someone’d offered him a beer, he would have drained it in one gulp. They want me to memorize this shit, he silently moaned, and I can’t even figure out what they’re talking about.
He was locked in mid-swallow when the scream slashed a hole in the night.
Carbonated sugar-water sprayed through the air, spattering the desktop, books and papers with a million wet splotches of brown. He choked, the bubbles scorching his nostrils, burning like fire in his spasming throat. Tears flooded his eyes. He cupped his whole unhappy face with his hands.
By the time he recovered, the scream was long gone. It had only lasted a second, if that, and it had almost been faint enough to write off as imagination.
But it was still ringing in his mind’s ear; a single bright bauble of terrified sound, one second of horror that twitched in the air.
And then silence.
Total, terrible silence.
Charley looked out the window. All the lights were off at the Dandrige house. Its walls were blanketed in darkness. He didn’t know for a fact that the scream had come from there.
But when h
e pictured the beautiful girl in his mind, it was no longer a heartwarming recollection. Her face and the scream were inextricably locked together.
He doubted that he would see or hear either of them again.
His algebra homework was still spread out before him. He marveled at how much the drops of cola looked like blood.
FOUR
Charley sat in his usual booth at Wally’s, blearily rubbing his forehead. An open-faced Wallyburger sat expectantly before him, awaiting its customary overdose of mustard, ketchup and garlic powder.
Charley was oblivious. To the burger. To the half dozen video games screeching and squonking in the background. To their players, smoking and laughing and absorbing the latest in recreational radiation. To the garbled din of “The Young and the Restless” blasting from the Trinitron bolted to the wall and aimed right at him.
The nonstop chaos that formed the daily fabric of Wally’s Burger Heaven, teen mecca of the Rancho Corvallis Mall, was all but lost on Charley. He wanted nothing more than to continue massaging his face, as if the act might magically revitalize his beleaguered brain.
“My day was a disaster,” he moaned. “My life is a disaster . . .”
The burger sat, mutely sympathetic. He slathered it with condiments apathetically.
The unfairness of it all was entirely beyond him. Stay up all night studying, then fall asleep in Lorre’s class. Way to go, Brewster. What a chump. You’ll be in summer school the rest of your stupid life.
The thought made his stomach twist into hard little knots. He stared at the burger, then swept it aside. His life was ruined, utterly ruined.
“Amy hates me,” he mumbled. The words stuck in his throat like a lump of sour milk. Three months of heartfelt emotion and raw animal cunning, right down the dumper. She’ll never go to bed with me now. Hell, she won’t even speak to me!
He wondered if Peter Vincent had such female troubles.
