by John Skipp
“Four years,” he said aloud to the empty car. It was funny to count down the days like that, look back over a quarter of his total lifespan and think, Yeah, Eddie and I have been best friends since seventh grade. We used to hang out constantly: playing crazy games, reading comics, watching Fright Night together . . .
His mental processes stopped with that name. Fright Night. It conjured up images of a million vampire sieges, in glorious color or somber black and white. It conjured up pictures of Peter Vincent, standing tall against the undead hordes that slavered for the blood of the innocent.
It conjured up scenes of bloody horror, substituting Charley himself for every bloodless victim ever flashed across the screen.
And it conjured up a battle plan: his only hope of salvation.
Charley veered left on Rathbone Avenue, whipped sharply into the parking lot of the Super-Saver shopping center. The Mustang screeched into the first available space and died promptly at a twisting of the key. He threw open the door, not bothering to lock it, and slammed it shut as he ran toward the complex of stores.
He hoped that they had what he needed.
Darkness had already fallen when the last nail was slammed home. The darkness hung outside the window, chill and bloated as the corpse of a drowned man. Charley stared out into it for a moment, then stepped back to appraise his handiwork.
The window had been secured with ten-penny nails he’d acquired from Carradine Hardware. Garlic from the Super-Saver was strung around it in garlands, using thread from Reisinger’s. There hadn’t been any holy water, but plastic crucifixes were cheap and plentiful; he’d picked up three, kept one constantly at his side. The hammer and the needle were household property; he’d put them back in a minute, once he was satisfied with the job.
Other pieces of vampire lore were floating around in his mind. He hadn’t gotten around to whittling stakes yet, though there were some good slats of grape fence out in the garage that made prime candidates. No way was he going out of the house until morning. That was certain. If Jerry Dandrige wanted him, Jerry Dandrige would have to come and get him.
That was the other thing that made him feel reasonably secure. If everything he’d ever seen about vampires held true, they couldn’t come into your house without being invited. He knew that he sure as hell wouldn’t be sending out invitations.
His mother’s voice cut through the clamor of his thoughts. “Charley?” it called. “Come down here for a moment, would you, please?”
“Just a second, Mom!” he called back, feigning cheerfulness. “I just gotta finish something!”
Quickly he pushed a heavy chest of drawers in front of the window. It probably wouldn’t help, if worse came to worst, but it sure didn’t hurt.
Then he trotted down the hall, hit the stairs and rapidly descended. The physical work had invigorated him, made him feel more confident. He was almost in a good mood when he entered the living room and said “What?”
His mother was standing in the living room, a drink in her hand. She was beaming.
“Honey?” she said. “There’s somebody I’d like you to meet.”
That was when he glanced at the old quilted chair. His father’s chair, high-backed and nearly heart-shaped, which only special guests had used in the seven years since . . .
There was somebody sitting in the chair. Charley couldn’t see his face, hidden by the chairback’s curving wings. But the hand that protruded from the man’s tweed jacket was long-fingered, almost feminine. There was an expensive diamond ring glimmering brightly on one pale-white finger.
Charley’s breath caught in his throat. This can’t be happening.
His mother’s guest leaned forward, smiled and skewered him with its eyes.
“Hi, Charley,” the vampire said. “I’ve heard so much about you.”
Charley’s jaw dangled slackly. If all the saliva in his mouth hadn’t dried up in terror, he might have drooled. All the muscles in his body were jammed. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe. He could only stare at the monster before him with moist and bulging eyes.
Jerry Dandrige was beautiful. There was no way around it. Jerry Dandrige was quite possibly the best-looking man that Rancho Corvallis had ever seen. His smile was impish, and infinitely amused. His dark eyes sparkled with intimate knowledge. Up close, his charisma was overwhelming. Charley could see why the girl in the window had danced with him.
Now the vampire was doing the same thing to his mother.
Judy Brewster looked like a teenage girl on the Beatles’ first American tour; all she needed was a mob around her to start screaming and crying and tearing at Dandrige’s clothes. As it was, her basic perkiness had accelerated to fever pitch. She was falling all over herself, giggling and fawning and oozing desire.
It was disgusting. Worse yet, it was terrifying. Charley had a nightmare feeling that Jerry could drain his blood right there and Mom would ask him if he wanted another drink. And she’d giggle while she said it, he added sickly.
Jerry Dandrige stood. He was only a little bit taller than Charley, but he might as well have been Goliath. “I’ve been looking forward to this,” he said, moving closer.
Charley still couldn’t move, but he was dangerously close to soiling his underwear. Omigod, his mind silently intoned, I’m gonna die, I’m gonna die . . .
. . . as the vampire closed to within a foot of him.
Stopped.
And extended a hand in greeting.
“Well, say ‘hello’ to Mr. Dandrige, honey!” his mother piped. She turned, as if confidentially, to Jerry and added, “I don’t know what’s wrong with him sometimes! Honest to goodness, we didn’t raise him like that!”
(Say “hello,” Charley.)
“Hi,” Charley said. He had no choice in the matter. Nor could he stop his right hand from coming up and engaging with Dandrige’s in what looked like a hearty handshake.
(That’s right.)
The vampire was controlling him. Charley’s mind was fully conscious of the fact; but his will was gone, his bodily motion out of his hands.
(Fun, isn’t it? Now let go.)
The handshake ended. The connection did not. Jerry Dandrige had him; his ears and mind picked up two different conversations at once.
“Your mother was kind enough to invite me over,” the vampire said. His voice was thick with honeyed sexuality, sweet and musky all at once. “I might never have made it over here
(But you knew that, didn’t you?)
otherwise. But now she tells me that I’m welcome any old time. Like
(In the middle of the night . . .)
tomorrow, for lunch . . . which, unfortunately, I won’t be able to make. But I told her that I’ll be having friends over in the weeks to come, and she offered to bring the refreshments
(Like everybody she knows . . .)
over. Isn’t that great?”
(Say “yes.”)
“You bet!” Charley enthused with an emotion that was not his own. He could feel his lips twisting themselves into a smile. It was like being force-fed slime, but he couldn’t even crinkle his nose with disgust.
Then Mom stepped between them, starry-eyed and beaming. “It’s so marvelous that you’re getting along so well!” she crowed.
And the connection was broken . . .
. . . and Charley staggered backward, mewling faintly, his flesh gone so white that he looked like he’d been bitten. His mother stared after him, stunned, as he hit an end table and sent it clattering to the floor. The vampire just smiled and smiled.
“CHARLES ALAN BREWSTER!” his mom shouted imperiously. “What on earth is wrong with you?”
Keep it together, Charley’s mind informed him. He’ll kill us both right now if I don’t keep it together. He stopped, stooped and righted the table with jittering hands. “Sorry, Mom,” he chirped in a falsetto of terror. “I just gotta get back to my homework, that’s all.”
“Well, be careful!” she advised cheerfully. “I wouldn�
��t want anything to happen to my baby boy!”
“No,” the vampire echoed, grinning. “We certainly wouldn’t want that!”
Dandrige’s good-bye was the last thing Charley saw before turning to race up the stairs.
And into the safety of his room.
He hoped.
TEN
The shadows.
Charley sat, mesmerized by the oblong fingers of blackness that curled around the window.
Shadows. No big deal. Same damn shadows that had been there for the last twelve years. Same tree, same streetlight, same simple gradations of light and dark.
So why are they making my flesh crawl? he thought.
He sat, as he’d been sitting for the past five hours, staring fixedly out his bedroom window. The cheap plastic crucifix was threatening to come apart in his hands, the gold leaf staining his fingers. He’d been rubbing it like a prize Labrador retriever for the better part of the evening.
Ever since the light came on.
Just as he’d begun to recover from Dandrige’s visit, the vampire’s bedroom light had blinked on. Charley ducked reflexively, his heart doing Tito Puente in his chest, and crouched there a good three minutes before daring to venture a peek.
The light was still on, but the shade was down. No discernible movement, no furtive displays. Nothing. It just sat there, throbbing like a beacon.
Or a lure.
Charley watched, and waited. For what, he was too frightened to think. His room, dark but for his flickering Coors sign, strobed incessantly. The light in the window of the Dandrige house pulsed, ever so slightly out of sync. The tree threw its long, black fingers across the yard, rustling softly in the night air.
Eventually, Charley slept.
In his dream, he flew. He soared through the night, high above Rancho Corvallis on leathery wings, the wind rushing past and filling his ears with whispers, many many voices that melded together to form one all-encompassing howl, a night cry, harsh and sweet.
He arched, tiny jaws yawning to reveal tiny sharp teeth, and screamed, a high, chittering song. He swooped and caught a moth, rolling in mid-flight, and crunched it in his mouth, savoring the juice.
Wanting more.
He rolled and dove back to earth, to the safe, staid little homes, their soft, sleeping occupants oblivious to the nightsong, and yearned to swoop down and bury sharp teeth in their soft, stupid throats.
Something hit the roof with a thud. Charley jerked upright in his chair, heart racing. He shook his head, trying to dispel the tatters of the dream.
“Huh wubba?” he mumbled, staring at the ceiling. He listened hard, heard only the familiar night sounds of the house he grew up in. The soft rush of air through the heating ducts. The bubbling of the aquarium. The hum of the no-frost refrigerator down in the kitchen, doing its duty. His mom, snoozing away.
The creak of beams in the attic.
The attic?! Charley jumped straight out of his chair. The creaking of the beam was soft but regular, moving away from him. Soft and regular . . .
Like footsteps.
Mustering all his bravado, Charley moved gingerly toward the door. He opened it a crack, poked his head out cautiously, ready to retreat at a moment’s notice.
“Mom?” His voice came out a squeak. “Mom, are you out there?”
The hallway was empty, and deadly silent. He crept out, feet making little whuffing sounds on the shag carpeting. He tiptoed to his mother’s door, opened it a crack.
Judy Brewster lay peacefully, mask in place, sleeping the sleep of the just. A bottle of Nytol was perched on the bedside table, within easy reach.
Something was downstairs now. A sound, faint yet palpable, emanating from the darkened portico. Like fingernails on glass.
Soft.
Relentless.
Charley’s knees wobbled. With Mom tucked away, that greatly narrowed the possibilities of who was making that sound. He didn’t want to think about that. Not in the dark, alone. He had to check it out, though.
Hey, no big deal, he thought, fooling no one. S’probably mice or something. Sure . . .
He gripped his crucifix a little tighter and went downstairs.
Charley stood in the portico, breathing a sigh of relief. The creepy scratching noise that reverberated through the entire living room had revealed itself to be a tree branch, scraping harmlessly against the window. Charley felt a flood of relief. So much for things that go bump in the night, he thought, and detoured through the kitchen for some munchies.
He didn’t notice, as he made his way to the kitchen, that the scratching stopped.
Jerry Dandrige stood calmly gazing down at the sleeping form of Judy Brewster. He took the room in at a glance: the wonderfully cheesy furniture (Nouveau moustique, très chic, madame!), the boudoir scattered with wigs and cosmetics, the infamous Judy Brewster herself (Well, hel-loooo! Come in! Can I get you a drink? Tee-heeee . . .) deep in repose.
It was too easy.
He touched her briefly, contempt mingling with the longing for her hot blood. She smiled, a nocturnal fantasy in motion. Then he turned past the open window and glided across the floor.
He paused as he passed the boudoir mirror, smiled wickedly. “You know,” he purred, “you look marvelous!”
No reflection smiled back.
When he shut the door behind him, he very nearly yanked it off its hinges.
Charley never heard his mother’s door crack shut. He was immersed in constructing a sandwich, head buried in the fridge.
He put the last finishing touches on it, a certifiable Dagwood—bologna, salami, turkey roll, three kinds of cheese and pickles—and munched it noisily all the way up the stairs . . .
. . . scarcely glancing at his mother’s door.
He padded down the hall softly, shouldering open his door. Took another big bite before sliding inside. Locked the door, pushing his desk chair under the knob. Sat down, turned on the TV, took another big bite . . .
. . . and felt the tiny hairs rise on the back of his neck.
He turned around very slowly, so as to give the bad feeling plenty of time to go away. No such luck. His sensory information registered in microseconds, each one progressively worse than the last, until he had turned quite far enough.
And he and the vampire were face to face.
Charley wanted to run. He wanted to scream. If a coordinated air strike could be arranged, he wanted one of those, too.
As it was, the best he could manage was to leap out of his chair, spraying bits of partially chewed sandwich through the air.
The vampire lashed out casually and caught Charley’s throat in a vise-lock grip, shutting off his air supply without a squeak. He smiled magnanimously.
“Now, now . . . we wouldn’t want to wake your dear mother, would we, Charley? That would be a terrible thing to do, wouldn’t it?” The vampire nodded. Charley nodded. The vampire smiled. Perfect teeth. “Because then I’d have to kill her, too. Right?” He tightened his grip infinitesimally. The pain was excruciating.
Charley nodded. He had no choice. The vampire worked his head like a ventriloquist works his dummy. Up and down, up and down. Yes, Boss, anything you say, Boss.
“Right,” the vampire concluded, flinging Charley the length of the room with such force that he smashed clear through the dry wall, leaving an enormous gaping hole. Charley slid down the wall and lay in a crumpled heap.
Dandrige sauntered across the floor as if on a fashion runway. Coolly elegant, reeking of menace. He picked Charley up one-handed—all 167 pounds of him—without even leaning to support the load. Charley’s eyes swam in his head as if he were a steer in a slaughterhouse, his brain going MAYDAY MAYDAY MAYDAY MAYDAY . . .
“Do you realize the trouble you’ve caused me? Spying on me, almost disturbing my sleep this afternoon, telling policemen”—he tightened his grip—“about me?”
He slammed Charley into the wall for emphasis. Charley wondered dimly how many successive slams it would take to
induce complete renal failure. His face was the color of ptomaine poisoning. Jerry leaned in.
“You deserve to die, boy, and I think you should. But then, that could be messy. Too close to home.” The vampire smiled. “You see, I like my privacy. And I like this town. In fact, I’d like to stay here for a long, long time.” He loosened his grip on Charley, but continued holding him pinned to the wall. Charley gasped for breath.
“Of course, I could give you something you saw fit to deny me: a choice. Shall we make a deal, hmmm? You forget about me, I forget about you.
“Whaddaya say, Charley?”
Charley fumbled, his life in the balance.
Then he remembered his cross.
He wormed his hand into his pocket and started to whip it out. Dandrige caught his wrist on the way out and pulled it up and away, threatening to dislocate his shoulder in the process. Charley yelped, and got his head slammed into the wall for his trouble.
“Not so easy, Chuck. I have to see it.” Jerry held his hand at arm’s length and squeezed until Charley couldn’t take it anymore. The crucifix dropped to the floor.
“If you k-k-kill me, everybody’ll be s-suspicious,” Charley blurted. “My m-mother, the police . . .”
The vampire paused a moment, then smiled beatifically.
“Not if it looks like an accident.” He yanked Charley over to the window, pushing away the heavy dresser with one foot. “A fall, for instance.” He flipped the lock, started pulling the nails out one by one with a dainty he loves me, he loves me not cadence. “ ‘Disturbed teenager with paranoid fantasies about vampires, of all things, suffers a nasty fall while trying to barricade his bedroom.’ ”
He swung Charley around, opening the window with a flourish. “ ‘A terrible tragedy for all concerned, of course. But lately he had seemed so withdrawn, Officer, and you know what they say about suicidal teens . . .’ ”
Slowly, inexorably, Dandrige pushed back and back, easing Charley out the window. The boy kicked and clawed like a maniac, legs splaying wildly, arms thrashing, hands searching for any hold. His right hand found purchase on the windowsill, and he twisted his torso in the killing grip to find something more substantial.
