by John Skipp
No, he thought. Peter Vincent doesn’t have troubles like this. Peter Vincent doesn’t get all wet behind the ears about some creepy guy’s coffin, either. Peter Vincent would stake a vampire with one hand while groping some bleached-blond fraulein with tits the size of basketballs in the other.
He was so engrossed in thoughts of Peter Vincent that Amy slid into the booth beside him without his realizing it. She watched him for a moment, his hands threatening to dig ruts in his forehead. Obviously lost in despair.
Her heart quivered a little. She put on her best sweetie-pie voice and purred, “Hi, Charley . . .”
No reply. Probably lost without her. She resumed, undaunted.
“Hi, Charley . . .”
Charley looked up. His eyes focused and widened in surprise. “Amy?” Then, recovering somewhat, “Amy! Look, I’m really sorry about the other night. I’m such a putz. I—”
“It was my fault, not yours,” she said, all sweetness.
“It was?” This was not the expected response. He looked like a man who’d been slugged with a sockful of nickels.
“Uh-huh . . .” she nodded, all seduction. She touched his hand lightly.
Charley felt faint. If God Almighty Himself had descended from heaven and sprayed him with a seltzer bottle, he’d have been no less surprised. This is it, he thought.
He squeezed her hand. “Look, Amy. I love you. I’m sorry about the other night, and I never want to fight with you again. Okay?”
Amy leaned back in the booth and beamed. “God, I’m so glad we’re getting this whole mess straightened out. I’ve been really miserable these last few days, Charley, and I . . .” She faltered, eyes shifting to the table top. “. . . I’d kinda like to pick up where we left off. Tonight, maybe?”
No response.
“Charley?” She looked up, smiling.
Her smile froze on her face as she realized that Charley was gone, halfway across Wally’s toward the TV on the wall.
“Charley, are you listening to me?”
Charley wasn’t listening to anybody. Charley felt as if his entire consciousness had been stuffed into a cardboard tube and fired straight at the TV screen. The whole world—love, Amy, Wallyburgers, sex—all faded into a miasma of gray mush as Charley stared, transfixed by the four o’clock news.
Another murder. The victim’s face, flashing on the screen.
A face that was all too familiar.
It’s the fox. His mind reeled. Omigod, I just saw her yesterday . . .
. . . That scream . . .
His ears strained for the sound, caught it in mid-sentence.
“. . . police are searching for further clues in the mutilation-slaying of Cheryl Lane, a known prostitute who appears to be the latest victim of the ‘Rancho Corvallis Killer.’ Authorities are quick to point out that . . .”
“Know what I heard on the police band last night?”
Charley’s attention snapped back. He turned to find Evil Ed standing beside him, leering like an idiot. Charley grimaced. “Knowing you, it must be bad.”
Evil Ed grinned. “There’ve been two identical murders in the last two days, Brewster. And get this,” he added gleefully. “Both of ’em had their heads cut off! Can you stand it?” He cackled. “Fuck Fright Night, Chucko. We got a real monster here!”
“You’re a sick man, Evil. Real sick.”
“Oh, Char-ley . . .” A voice from his past, coming up behind. Charley’s blood froze.
“Amy? . . .” he began.
Charley wheeled around and caught a cold Wallyburger right in the kisser. Amy ground it in for good measure, sending gobs of condiments dripping out the sides onto his down vest. Evil Ed hastily got out of range, enjoying the spectacle immensely.
Amy finished grinding, let go of the mashed bun. It stayed right where she’d left it, plastered to his face like something from a Warner Brothers cartoon. She wheeled around and stomped off, royally pissed but triumphant.
“Amy . . .” Charley stood there, dripping rings of onion, looking absolutely ridiculous. The crowd cast furtive glances and giggled. Evil Ed sauntered up, cooing maternally and wiping away flecks of ground beef with a hankie.
“Oooooo, Brewster, you’re sooo cool. You’ve got such a touch with the ladies . . .”
“Amy!” Charley shouted, but it was too late.
Amy was long gone.
FIVE
The Shelby Mustang whipped down the street and into the narrow driveway with practiced precision, hooking around the back of the Brewster house and sliding neatly into the garage. It cleared by inches the lawn mower and garden tools piled haphazardly against the side wall, and stopped just short of going clear through the back.
Charley threw it into park and killed the engine. He checked his reflection in the rear-view mirror; he’d washed his face pretty thoroughly, but there were still some telltale splotches of mustard and ketchup on his vest. That was all he needed right now: to explain to his mother. God . . .
He grabbed his books and started out of the garage. The neighbor’s house loomed before him, as though waiting for some cue to stomp through the hedge, across the driveway and . . .
He shook his head. That was dumb. The house next door had been empty for years. Sure, it looked like your basic haunted house—he sometimes wondered if years of staring out his bedroom window at the place had warped his mind—but it had never before held such a sense of foreboding.
Until last night.
Until the scream.
Charley studied the side of the house: three stories high, Victorian, imposing. The largest house on the block, and the oldest. It had not aged gracefully, its elegance having long since given way to a paint-flecked and gloomy decrepitude.
Twice as big and ten times as ugly, as Evil Ed was fond of saying.
There was a squat, ill-kept hedge running the length of the driveway, neatly dividing the properties. The neighbor’s lawn had grown wildly out of control where it hadn’t died. Weeds choked the base of the house, partially obscuring the basement windows (which you couldn’t see through anyway, dammit!), the long-forgotten coal chute . . .
. . . and the storm doors.
Where they took the coffin.
Charley’s feet were moving before his brain had told them, carrying him across the driveway before he had a chance to argue. Not that he would have put up much of a fight.
He had to know what was going on.
And there was only one way to do that.
(Fuck Fright Night, Chucko. We got a real monster here!)
He had left his books piled in the driveway and pushed his way through the hedge. The yard looked even worse from the other side. He cast a wary glance around, his own house looking like an oasis of cheerful suburbia, and crept toward the storm doors.
Charley climbed onto the doors and tried to peek in the windows. No such luck; there were curtains or blankets or something on every window on the first floor.
He jumped down and studied the storm doors. They were the big, heavy, steel lean-to type, very rugged and almost as old as the house itself. He grabbed the handle and gave it a tug.
No chance. There was a brand new cylinder lock installed. One of the fancy ones, a Fichet or something, the kind that folks who live in big cities might need. But in this neighborhood? he thought. Nobody needs security like that around here.
Unless they’ve got something to hide.
He was about to get on his knees and check out the basement windows when the voice stopped him dead in his tracks.
“Hey, kid! What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
If he’d eaten lunch, he probably would’ve thrown up. The voice wasn’t just stern; it wasn’t just harsh. That voice was cold: the kind of voice that says I’ve killed people for less than that and means it most sincerely.
Charley put on his most casual face and turned around. He quickly wished he hadn’t.
The source of the voice was, beyond any doubt, one of the coffin-carrying n
eighbors. He looked like a cross between Harrison Ford and Anthony Perkins: rugged, angular features and deep eyes under prominent eyebrows.
Those eyes. Cold. Incalculable. Any pretense to attractiveness ended with those eyes. He moved a little closer. Charley instinctively backed up, almost tripping over the storm doors. He was very close to panic, fumbling for an excuse.
“Ah, n-n-nothing,” he stammered.
The man was dressed in work clothes, a carpenter’s apron around his waist. He held a large claw hammer in his right hand, gesturing with it, dripping casual menace. He smiled; rather, his lips skinned back to reveal perfectly even teeth. There was no affection in it. His eyes remained unchanged.
“See that it stays that way, kid. Mr. Dandrige doesn’t like unexpected guests.”
“Uh, yessir, you bet, no problem.” Charley fumfuhed a few seconds more, trying like hell to be nonchalant when part of his brain kept screaming don’tkillmedon’tkillmedon’t . . . He beat as graceful a retreat as possible, under the circumstances, cold sweat trickling down his back as he plowed through the hedge.
When he dared venture a look back, ever so casual as he stopped to retrieve his books, the man was gone. The house seemed just a little darker, more hulking, more . . . dead.
He hoped it was just his imagination.
SIX
The Marine Corps Band pumped its last majestic chords, the Blue Angels arced in tight formation into the sunset, and Charley’s head tipped back, mouth open in a full-throated snore.
Channel 13 signed off for the night. Flickering snow filled the TV screen—the only light in the room.
He was supposed to be on stakeout. He was not very good at it. No stamina. He had set it up well enough: lights out, a nice comfy chair, the binoculars and a well-stocked store of munchies. He was determined to know if anything funny was going to occur.
But after four hours of staring intently at the utterly black exterior of the neighbor’s house, boredom and fatigue took their toll. Had he stayed awake, he would have seen the cab pull up and dispatch its lone passenger. Seen the stranger climb the steps next door, and the light flick on shortly thereafter.
The light in the window. Directly across from him.
Instead, Charley slept.
And he dreamed.
In his dream, there was music: haunting, sensual music that pulsed and strobed and seemed to go right through him. And voices: whispers that rustled like dry leaves, too quiet to understand. But relentless.
There was a presence in the room. Hot. Pulsing. The air was heavy with a musky odor.
He felt the woman’s touch. Vibrant. Hungry. He groped blindly, found her belly, her breasts, her neck.
Her neck was beautiful.
He wanted her badly.
Brushing her hair back, he kissed her neck, rubbing his teeth along the cords of tight muscle, tasting her salt skin. He felt the need burning in him: to touch, to taste, to kiss . . .
He pulled her body closer. She turned to meet his gaze . . .
. . . and her eyes glowed, bright red and feral, the sockets sunken and shriveled, the flesh of her face puckered and ancient, mouth yawning wide to reveal plaque-encrusted teeth, long teeth, very, very sharp. Her nails dug into the small of his back, and . . .
Charley awoke with a start.
“What a weird dream,” he mumbled, rubbing his eyes, disoriented. Then he heard the music.
It was coming from the window across the driveway. And there was light. He sat up, clutching his binoculars.
The shade was up, offering an unobstructed view of what was going on in the room. Charley’s throat went dry. The music was coming from there.
Haunting, sensual music . . .
The window was open, the night breeze fluttered the curtains. A beautiful young woman stood in front of the window, rocking seductively in time with the music. Her blouse was open, exposing her midriff.
It was a very nice midriff. Charley swallowed hard and glued the binoculars to his eyes.
The woman was swaying even more sensually, if such a thing were possible. She stared into the middle distance, as if enthralled by something she saw there. Then, to Charley’s complete amazement, she slid out of her blouse and stood still, torso glistening in the moonlight.
Charley rarely saw so much unabashedly nubile female flesh. He leaned over, slapped off the TV and enveloped himself in darkness, watching.
She was incredible: petite, with shoulder-length hair, full pouting lips and wonderful breasts. Charley bit his lip, hard. Who is this guy? he wondered. How does he get these women?
And what is he doing to them?
He was stumped. Still, she didn’t appear to be in any danger. In fact, she seemed to be quite enjoying herself. She was rocking back and forth now, breasts jiggling languorously in her bra. She turned at one point and faced Charley directly. He ducked, afraid she’d see him.
But she didn’t. He was sure of it. Something in her movements bewildered him; they were too fluid, too dreamy, too . . .
Drugged. The word came to him. Or hypnotized. I don’t know. It scared him, suddenly, and he was half tempted to lean out the window and call to her.
Then Dandrige appeared.
The man was, in his own way, as beautiful as the girl. He crossed the room as if gliding several inches above the floor; and when he reached the girl, he seemed to hover more than stand. He touched her shoulders, and she seemed to stiffen with anticipation.
Dandrige massaged her shoulders tenderly for a moment, then reached around and deftly unhooked her bra with a grace and economy of motion that amazed Charley almost as much as the act itself.
The bra slid to the floor. Her nipples were hard. Dandrige cupped a breast in each hand. She arched back, lips parted.
Charley, meanwhile, was losing his mind. It was too cruel. His girlfriend hated him, he was failing algebra, and the neighbor was threatening him with terminal carpentry. Now this guy was rubbing the nubbins off the girl of his dreams.
The girl of his dreams . . .
He salt bolt upright in his chair. The girl in the window, the girl in Dandrige’s arms . . .
. . . was the girl from his dream.
He looked out the window. Dandrige, one hand still cupping a breast, brushed the girl’s hair away from the slope of her neck with the other. He kissed her neck, rubbing his teeth along the cords of taut muscle. Her eyes glazed over. Her lips moved, imperceptibly whispering, soft as the rustle of dry leaves. Dandrige smiled, showing teeth.
“Oh, no,” Charley whimpered. “Oh, God, no . . .”
Dandrige’s teeth were long and very very sharp. Charley gasped and dropped the binoculars. They hit the floor with a clatter.
Dandrige stopped, teeth poised an inch from her neck. Charley sank further into the darkness of his room, unable to look away. Dandrige seemed to be looking right at him. Right through him.
With eyes that were red as glowing coals.
Charley felt his bowels turn to water. “No . . .” he whispered.
Dandrige smiled. Long, yellow teeth.
He reached up, grasping the shade with long, crooked fingers. Pulled it down slowly, lackadaisically.
And waved bye-bye.
“MOM!!!” Charley bolted down the hall, hitting his mother’s door loud and hard. “MOM!!!”
Judy Brewster was down for the count, lost in a Sominex-induced dreamland. A pink satin sleep mask effectively blotted out the entire upper half of her face. Charley’s dramatic entrance barely served to prod her to consciousness. “Charley?” she asked blearily.
“You gotta wake up, Mom!” He was hysterical, his arms flying wildly around him. “I don’t believe it! Mom! Jesus!”
Judy looked at her son as if he were an emissary from the planet Zontar. “What?” she asked sleepily. “What are you talking about?”
“He has fangs, Mom! The guy who bought the house has fangs!”
“Charley . . .”
“I’m SERIOUS!” His voice squeaked in
to dog-annoying frequencies. He made an effort to bring it back down. “I saw him through the window with my binoculars, Mom! He’s got fangs, I tell you!”
“Binoculars? Charley, that’s spying! That’s not nice.”
“FANGS, Mother! LONG ones!”
“Oh, Charley.” She yawned heavily and rolled over. “I have to be at work at seven tomorrow.”
Charley stared at his mother, incredulous. He was about to try a more subtle approach, like throttling her, when a car door slammed outside. Leaping to the window, he saw the handyman walking away from a shiny black Cherokee Jeep. Its gate was down, as if in anticipation of a heavy load.
“Argh!” Charley was out of his mother’s bedroom as quickly as he’d entered. Judy sat up in bed.
“Charley?” she said.
Charley slipped out the back door and scuttled across the driveway toward the hedge. The rear door of the Dandrige house was wide open, the porch light providing the only illumination.
His heart was pounding, sending blood surging into his temples. Fatigue, exertion and terror mingled inside him, making him light-headed. He crouched down in the bushes, feeling ill.
The handyman came out the back door, carrying a large bundle wrapped in plastic and trussed with heavy twine. A gaping hole opened in the pit of his stomach as Charley guessed its nature.
The handyman tossed the bag unceremoniously into the cargo hold of the Jeep. He was about to climb in, and Charley was about to get sick, when the flutter of leathery wings froze them both.
Charley looked around, afraid to move, afraid to breathe.
The beating wings ended in a flurry of motion to his left. He scanned the darkened façade of the Dandrige house, searching for its source.
Less than ten feet away, the night air seemed to darken, to condense, into the shape of a man. The specter solidified and moved across the lawn. Toward the Jeep.
“Here. You forgot something.”
It was Dandrige. He tossed his servant a purse.
The bundle’s purse.
The man caught it one-handed, turned back to the Jeep with a nod.
