by John Skipp
That left only one other possibility: a prank. The message of Brian dePalma’s Carrie hadn’t been lost on him: if they could find a way to fuck you up, they would. That was the sentence that God and the world had passed on misfits: trap them and kill them.
He knew his lot. He just wasn’t very happy about it. So he was greatly apprehensive when he picked up the receiver and brought it to the side of his head. Like Russian roulette.
“Hello?” he said, trying to be strong.
“Hello, Eddie?” came from the other end. Pretty, soft, intensely feminine. Definitely not one of the dogs.
“Uh . . . yeah.” His mind was boggling, his heart going pitter-patter. Who is this? he wondered, then echoed the question out loud.
“This is Amy Peterson. Charley’s . . . friend.” She sounded nervous and embarrassed and deeply worried. It took Evil Ed a moment to pick up on; he was too busy being disappointed and pissed. “I need to talk with you about something.”
“What?” Snippy.
“Well . . .” and now her unhappy hesitation showed through clearly, “. . . have you noticed anything funny about Charley lately?”
“Other than his face, you mean?”
“I’m not kidding, Eddie. This is serious. He’s acting really crazy, and it scares me.”
“Yeah?” For some reason, it hadn’t occurred to Evil Ed that Charley might have been losing it with everyone. “Yeah?” he repeated, running yesterday’s conversation through his mind. He started to smile.
“Well, he did come over yesterday,” he continued. “It was pretty demented. He said he needed my help, because—”
“Oh, God.”
“—a vampire was trying to kill him. Is that the same story you got?”
“Yes. Oh, God.” In his mind’s eye, he could see her pacing and chewing on her knuckles. The image amused him.
“Sounds to me like your boyfriend has blown a gasket, kiddo. You might just want to gift-wrap him for Three Northeast.”
“What?”
“The mental ward at Hammer Memorial Hospital.”
“Eddie!” she cried, and her voice was so plaintive that it made him question his own warped sense of humor. “Please, stop making fun and talk with me for a minute. We’ve got to figure out what we’re going to do—”
“Wait a minute,” he cut in, not joking now. “Waitaminutewaitaminutewaitaminute. Hold your horses. Where do you get this ‘we’ business?”
“Well, I . . .” He’d yanked the rug out from under her on that one. It didn’t feel as good as he’d thought it would. “I just thought that you’d want to help him,” she rushed on. “You’re his best friend, and—”
“I think we’re speaking past tense, Amy. He was my best friend. Now he’s just another jerk who ignores me in the halls. And if he wants to cut out paper dollies of Dracula, he can go right ahead. Just make sure that he uses safety scissors.”
“That’s really mean, Eddie.”
“I’m feeling really mean, Amy. Not that anyone gives a shit. It seems to me that you all wouldn’t be running to my assistance—”
“Yeah?” Now she sounded angry, and Evil Ed heard the distant sound of tables being turned. “What about the time when Chuck Powell and Butch Masey cornered you behind the cafeteria? Or that time in the woods out back of the football field?”
“How’d you know about that?” Evil Ed was on the defensive. The memory of that scene in the woods loomed up, pathologically vivid, in his mind’s eye. He still had a scar on his right arm from the broken-off tree branch, its jagged edge raking a five-inch furrow across his bicep, Chuck and Butch and three other guys dragging him off the trail and throwing him down.
And who saved my ass? Evil Ed remembered sickly. Who gave Chuck a black eye and knocked the wind out of Joey Boyle? Who?
But the point was already made.
“Charley told me,” she was saying. “Charley talks about you a lot. We’ll be watching a movie on Fright Night, and he’ll say, ‘Evil Ed and I must’ve seen this one a dozen times.’ Or we’ll be sitting at Wally’s, and he’ll start talking about the time that you had all ten of the highest scores in Space Invaders—”
“That was a long time ago,” he interrupted.
“Okay. Fine,” she countered. “You’re right. It’s all ancient history. You are not your brother’s keeper. God didn’t make the little green apples, and—”
“All right, already!” he burst in angrily.
There was a taut moment of static and silence that stretched across the telephone wire.
“So what are we going to do?” he concluded.
“Mrs. Brewster?” Amy pushed open the kitchen door a little more, poked her head inside. “Mrs. Brewster? Charley? Anybody home?”
No answer. Just the mellow hum of the refrigerator. Amy turned to Evil Ed. They shrugged at each other and stepped inside.
At the foot of the stairs they heard the faint clacking of wood against wood. Then silence again. “Come on,” Amy said, and they headed upstairs.
Charley’s door was closed. A wafer-thin wedge of light poked out from underneath it, along with a delicate scraping sound. They paused for a moment, exchanged quizzical glances.
“What’s he doing in there!” Eddie whispered in her ear.
“I don’t know. But I think that we’d better find out.”
“Let’s do it.”
They didn’t notice the crucifix until they were nearly upon it. It was large and weighty, silver mounted on a thick mahogany base. It hung a foot above the “NO TRESPASSING” sign on his door, reflecting light.
They shared one last apprehensive glance. Then Eddie sighed, put his hand on the doorknob and twisted.
The full force of the room’s transformation assailed them.
“Jesus Christ!” Eddie yelled. Charley’s head jerked toward them suddenly; he yelped and jumped a foot out of his chair. Amy let out a little screech and brought her fists up to her mouth, eyes bulging with shock. The three of them stared at each other for a long silent moment.
“Jesus Christ,” Evil Ed repeated quietly.
Charley’s room had become a combination fortress/cathedral. Every square inch of table or desk space was covered with glowing candles. Dime-store crosses hung everywhere, vying for wallspace with the BMW and Mustang posters, overwhelming them at every turn. Huge strings of garlic were draped all around the window and over the bed.
On the floor at Charley’s feet, a pair of rough-hewn wooden stakes lay one atop the other. They were carved from slats of grape fence: three feet long, five inches wide, three quarters of an inch thick. Charley had whittled them down to crude, ugly points.
A third one was in progress. He held the malformed embryo of it in his left hand, his old Boy Scout knife in his right.
Driven through a man’s chest, any one of them would have taken a large portion of the heart with it, straight out the back and into the coffin’s plush upholstery—given that the man was a vampire, at rest in his casket, a good daylight’s distance from the cold dominion of the moon.
“You’re probably wondering what I’m doing,” Charley said.
“You got that right,” Evil Ed replied. Amy, for the moment, was speechless.
“I’m getting ready,” he said. “Dandrige can’t get me if I stay in my room. The first time his little playmate leaves, I’m going over there and putting one of these things”—brandishing the stake in his hand—“through his goddam heart.”
“But—” Amy started to say. It was the first sound she’d uttered since her opening screech.
“No,” Charley stated. His voice was flat and blunt. “I don’t want to hear about how I’m acting crazy. I don’t want to hear about how I’m living in a fantasy world. I have a new next-door neighbor. He’s a vampire. Last night, he almost killed me. I don’t give a fuck whether you believe me, my mother believes me, Peter Vincent believes me, or not.
“There’s an honest-to-God vampire next door, and he wants me to die because I k
now what he is. If you don’t believe me, go to hell. I don’t want to argue with you. I don’t have time.”
He went back to whittling his stake.
“Wait a minute,” Evil Ed said finally. “What do you mean, ‘whether Peter Vincent believes me or not’? Did you actually talk to him?”
“Yeah,” said Charley, not looking up. A short, thin, curling slice of wood dropped to the floor like an autumn leaf.
“And what did he say?”
Charley spat out a bitter little chuckle. “Same as everybody else. I’m nuts.” His blade stroked violently along the wooden shaft. “It doesn’t matter.”
“What do you mean, it doesn’t matter? That’s a pretty arrogant statement, if you don’t mind my saying so. Has it ever occurred to you that you might be wrong!”
“Has it ever occurred to you that I might be right!” Charley stood up, quivering, stake and knife still in hand. “Dammit, did that ever occur to you? You didn’t see him bite that girl in the neck! You didn’t see him turn from a bat into a man! You didn’t see him come in here and try to kill me last night!
“You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about!”
“Charley. Please.” Amy pleaded. It was almost a whisper. She was almost in tears. “This is crazy. You’ve got to stop—”
“Amy.” Cold-faced, stern. “Do me a favor. Go home.”
“We’re only trying to help!” she blurted.
“Great. If you want to help, grab one of those stakes and come with me; it’s the only kind of help I need. Otherwise, just go home, okay?”
“Amy, let’s go,” Evil Ed said quietly.
“But . . .” She whipped around to face him. Her eyes were moist and pleading for mercy.
“Come on. There’s no point. He isn’t going to listen to us.” Evil Ed looked slightly disgusted with the whole thing.
“He’s right,” Charley concluded. “I’m not going to listen.”
Amy and Charley stared at each other for a minute that dragged. Charley’s expression was fixed with determination. Amy struggled for the same effect, but kept threatening to break down in tears.
“Come on,” Evil Ed insisted. “Amy, let’s go.”
Amy nodded ever so slightly, her gaze dropping from Charley’s. Slowly, she turned and headed for the door. Evil Ed smiled and stepped aside, motioning toward the hall. She stepped into the middle of the doorway, stopped, turned to face back into the room.
“I love you, Charley,” she said.
Then she turned back, not waiting for a reaction, and left the room.
“Way to go, Brewster. You’re a class act, all the way.” Evil Ed leered, a bit wearily, and then followed her.
“Now what do we do?” Amy wanted to know. They’d made it all the way out of the house in silence; now they were on the sidewalk out front, staring up at the flickering light behind Charley’s shuttered window.
“This is pretty crazy,” Evil Ed admitted. “I never thought Chucko would go this far off the deep end. I mean, did you look at those stakes?” Amy nodded grimly. “Can you imagine pounding one of those suckers through somebody’s chest? It’s like—”
“Eddie!” Her eyes were red and bulging. They looked scarier than any undead peepers Evil Ed had ever seen.
“Okay, okay. I’m sorry.” He took a deep, indignant breath that showed just how sorry he really was. “And I do have a plan of sorts, though I don’t know if it’ll work.”
“Really?” The menace in her eyes softened, turned to piercing concentration. “What is it?”
“Let’s see . . .” Scratching his head exaggeratedly. “Do you have any money, for starters?”
“WHAT?” She was instantly furious. “YOU—”
“It’s not for me, Amy! Jesus! Wouldja relax a second?”
She took a deeper, more indignant breath that showed just how relaxed she was really getting. Then she settled down to listen.
Two minutes later, she was starting to grin.
Three minutes later, she said, “I’ve got the money. No problem.”
Four minutes later, they had cinched their roles in the horror to come.
THIRTEEN
It makes sense, mused Peter Vincent, in the most perverse sort of way. The Fearless Vampire Killer falls prey, in the end, to the most terrifying bloodsuckers of them all.
He held a handful of bills, all long overdue, many marked “last notice.” One was an eviction notice, in fact, giving him three days to vacate his apartment. It was just the sort of cheeriness he required to make his single worst day in history complete.
“Damn it all,” he announced to the room. The walls, and the endless memorabilia hanging from them, had no response. Evidently, over thirty starring roles in classics like Blood Castle, Fangs of Night and I Rip Your Jugular didn’t mean anything. Nor did five years as the only ghost host in American late-night TV who could show his own films. Nor did those same five years spent in the same apartment under the pretense that the rest of his life was taken care of.
Peter Vincent was scared. More than that, Herbert McHoolihee was scared. The man behind the pseudonym had been cowering since he first auditioned for a bit part in Fingers of Fear. He’d gotten a bigger part than he’d bargained for, and Peter Vincent had been born. Twenty years of relative success at the top of his field had submerged the insecurities of little Herbert.
But as the heroic mask eroded, he came more and more to resemble poor Dorian Gray’s portrait. His so-serious image had become ridiculous, even to his own eyes. His once-commanding features held no conviction. The weightiness of his former preeminence had become a 150-pound cinder block, attached to his neck by a stout length of chain and then lobbed into the river.
Herbert McHoolihee was drowning, and Peter Vincent couldn’t save him. Now, at last, the dream was over.
And the nightmare was free to begin.
There was a knock on the door. The landlord, no doubt, come to verify receipt of the killing document. Peter moved wearily across the room and let the door creak open.
There were a couple of teenage kids in the doorway. The boy was a bit on the freaky side; he had electroshock-therapy hair and a manic, slightly crazed expression on his face. The girl was much straighter, with short brown curls and wide green eyes gracing a virginal, prom-queen appearance.
“Mr. Vincent,” the girl said timidly. “May I speak with you for a moment?”
Peter got over his momentary surprise, assessed them briefly. They were clearly in earnest about something or other. Then he thought about the bills, and his empathy departed. “I’m afraid this isn’t the best time—” he began.
“Please,” the girl said, and there was no missing the desperation in her eyes, her voice. “It’s terribly important.”
“Ah, well,” he sighed. “Come on in.” A couple of minutes wouldn’t hurt, he supposed. Perhaps give the old ego a bit of a boost. He bade them enter with a sweeping gesture, closed the door behind, and led them into the heart of the living room.
“Now what can I do for you?” he continued. “An interview for your school paper? Some autographs, perhaps?”
“No,” the girl insisted. “I’m afraid this is much more important.”
“Oh, really?” Frowning slightly.
“I know you’re a very busy man, Mr. Vincent, but we’re trying to save a boy’s life.”
“Well, yes.” Harrumphing. “I can see where that might be more important. Would you care to explain yourself?”
“You remember a fruitcake named Charley Brewster?” the boy cut in. He had been gawking at the movie posters, with open admiration; now he stepped forward, focusing on the conversation. “He said he came to see you.”
“No,” Peter answered, wrinkling his brow with mock concentration as he shook his head.
“He’s the one who thinks a vampire is living next door,” the girl interjected.
“Ah, yes.” Peter grinned as he spoke. “He’s quite insane.” Then he flashed a look of fatherly concer
n and said, “Dear me, I hope he’s not a friend of yours.”
“She’s got the hots for him,” the boy said, leering maliciously. The girl blushed and smacked him in the arm with her fist. He yelped.
“We need your help to stop him, Mr. Vincent. You see, he really does believe that his next-door neighbor is a vampire. He’s planning to kill him.”
“With a stake through the heart,” the boy added, all wicked glee.
Peter stared at them for a moment. “You’re putting me on,” he said finally. The girl shook her head with total sincerity. “My God. Young lady, your friend needs a police psychologist, not a vampire hunter.”
“Please, Mr. Vincent,” she started to plead.
“I’m afraid not, my dear. You see, Hollywood beckons. I’ve been offered the starring role in a major motion picture. I’ve even had to retire from Fright Night, so—”
“You’re kidding!” the boy exclaimed. He looked suddenly crestfallen. It warmed Peter’s heart.
“I’m afraid so. Why? Are you a fan of the show?”
“Since day one,” the boy replied unhappily.
“Oh, my goodness,” Peter purred. “Well, we certainly can’t let you get away without an autograph, can we?” He started to rummage through the papers on his desktop in search of a pen.
“Mr. Vincent. Please.” The girl’s voice had taken on a sudden, sharper tone. He turned to her, startled.
“I’ll hire you,” she concluded. “I’ll give you money.”
“How much?” Peter interjected, quick as a wink.
“Five hundred dollars.”
“I’ll take it.”
Peter Vincent’s entire being transformed at the sound of those three magic words. Five hundred dollars. He could pay the rent and hold off the phone company, give himself time to find a new base of operations. There was a station in Cleveland that had expressed interest in him; God only knew how many other Saturday-night horror shows needed hosting by someone with his obvious gifts.
