Fright Night

by John Skipp

  She was very, very thirsty.

  “ACK!” Charley screeched. He fell back, stake clattering to the floor, still caught in her clutching grasp. She landed on top of him, scrabbling clumsily toward his throat. Her eyes glowed like foglamps, seeing nothing.

  “Charleeeee . . .”

  Peter looked up, eyes bulging. Dandrige was nowhere in sight. Quickly, he grabbed the stake off the floor and positioned himself behind Amy, ready to deliver the killing blow.

  Charley screamed, “Peter! NO!” Amy, still weak from the transformation, smacked her lips in anticipation.

  And, from far off downstairs, laughter.

  Harsh, mocking laughter.

  Sonofabitch, Peter thought. And, switching grips on the stake, placed a well-delivered blow to the base of Amy’s skull.

  She went out like a light, slumping over Charley’s sprawling form. He pushed her off gently, but not without a sense of revulsion.

  She smells so rotten, he thought.

  Peter hoisted him up. “Thanks,” he said, somewhat sheepishly. “You saved my life.”

  “My pleasure,” beamed the actor. “Now let’s go find that son of a bitch. We’re not the only ones who are running out of time.” He turned and headed for the stairs.

  Charley glanced at his watch. Five fifty. “Where do you think he is?”

  Peter shrugged. “He’s got nowhere to go but down.”

  Charley and Peter hit the hallway, Peter pausing to drop the catch on the attic door. It was not the world’s strongest lock, and Peter eyed it disdainfully. “She won’t be out for long, you know,” he said, “and she’ll be much stronger the next time.”

  Charley nodded sourly, the image of the undead Amy fresh in his mind. He felt queasy at the thought of pounding a stake through her. He felt much better about pounding one through Dandrige.

  If he could find him.

  They moved along in silence, Charley half lost in thought, Peter a walking bundle of paranoid nerve endings. They were about ten steps from the head of the stairs when they heard it.

  Very soft. Very deliberate.

  “What was that?” Peter said, standing stock still. Charley snapped to, staring at him blankly.

  “What was what?”

  It came again, so soft one might miss it entirely if one were not attentive. The sound of wood, creaking on brass hinges. Opening, then closing.

  The sound of the front door.

  “Sonofabitch!” Charley yelled, hurtling past Peter Vincent. He bounded down the steps, taking them three at a time. From the landing, he caught a fleeting glimpse of his prey.

  As long taloned fingers slid gracefully around the door, closing it with a click.

  It took maybe ten seconds to clear the bottom steps of the sprawling Billy-thing’s oily remains. Another three to hit the door and fling it open, murder in his heart.

  But by then it was gone.

  “Damn!” Charley yelled. “Damn damn damn damn!”

  Peter stood at the top of the stairs, staring down from the promenade. “Charley,” he yelled, “get away from the door! It could be a trap!”

  Charley almost wished it was. Anything would beat this peekaboo bullshit, he thought.

  “Dandrige, show your face if you’re so tough!” he called out.

  Peter looked down at him like he’d just swallowed a turd. “Charley,” he squeaked.

  Charley had about had it. He whirled around like a teenaged Kali-cultist, waving his cross. “DANDRIGE! C’mon out and kill me if you can!”

  “Charley, come here!” Peter cried, adamant.

  “DANDRIGE IS A CHICKENSHIT DOUGHWAD! DANDRIGE IS A PENCIL-NECKED GEEK! DANDRIGE IS AFRAID OF HIS OWN SHAD—”

  He was cut off in mid-epithet as every clock in the Dandrige house went off in ragged unison, a cacophony of tones and timbres, all pointing to one crucial fact. The time.

  Six o’clock.

  Charley stared up at Peter Vincent, smiling wickedly. Peter looked at him like the original stern father figure, was about to repeat Charley, you get up here right this minute . . .

  . . . when the enormous stained-glass window behind him shattered inward, spraying him with a rainbow of glistening shards. He threw his arms up protectively and crouched down.

  “Not nice,” hissed the vampire, just a few feet away. “Très, très gauche.”

  Peter Vincent was slack-jawed with terror. It took considerably more will than he thought he had to even speak. His voice came out forced and brittle. “Charley, stay right there,” he said. “I mean it.”

  Dandrige winked at him patronizingly. “So,” he crooned, “just the two of us, eh? Real man-to-man stuff. I like that.” He nudged conspiratorially, circling for the kill.

  Peter pulled his cross out reflexively, holding it at arm’s length. Dandrige smiled a long smile. “I told you before. You have to have faith for that, you pathetic. Old. Man.

  “Let me tell you something about my kind,” he continued, his voice cutting the air like a razor. “You’ll no doubt find this information utterly absorbing. We kill for three reasons: for food, for spawn and for sport.

  “The latter is decidedly the most painful.

  “Your way, Mr. Vincent.”

  Dandrige moved in, closer and closer, his words simultaneously degrading and hypnotic. The world seemed to close in around Peter as the vampire spoke, blinding him to everything but his words, his mouth.

  His teeth.

  And then, just as he was about to slip over the edge, he saw it. And the cognizance of it brought him back, made him whole again.

  Seeing it made him think the whole affair very, very funny.

  He wanted Dandrige to see it, too.

  Dandrige felt something go subtly askew. One moment, the old fart was putty in his hands; the next, he was awake, aware . . .

  . . . and smiling.

  Peter Vincent beamed like an only child on Christmas morning. The cross seemed to grow heavier in his hands. He let it drop slightly, clearing his throat.

  “Mr. Dandrige,” he said. “I have learned several things of inestimable value this night. First, that you are above all else an insufferable ass; and second,” he winked, “even a pathetic old man can have his day.

  “Look over your shoulder.”

  Dandrige turned with mounting horror to see the first pink tendrils of dawn breaking over the neighboring rooftops. He let out a little primal screech, then whirled to face Peter Vincent. Peter held up the cross, the tiniest scintilla of dawn pinging off it like red-hot needles firing straight into Dandrige’s eyes.

  “Nooo . . .” he hissed, and broke away. He ran to the stairs to find Charley at the bottom, his cross another impenetrable obstacle.

  “Got him!” Charley cried.

  And then they heard the shrieking, clawing sound coming down the hall.

  From the attic.

  “Amy . . .” said Charley, faltering. Showing an instant of indecision.

  In that instant, Dandrige leapt.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  By his own admission, Charley had experienced close to three thousand four hundred hours of cinematic horror and mayhem in his brief life. He had seen giant carnivorous rabbits, twelve-year-olds in the throes of demonic possession, dogs split open and spewing the tendrils of alien hosts, an endless parade of vampires, psychos and blood-sucking freaks. He had seen special effects that ranged from the insanely laughable to the mind-bendingly authentic.

  He had seen nothing to prepare him for the sight of Jerry Dandrige diving headfirst toward him and mutating on the way: arms twisting and stretching into wings, incredibly huge, eight feet if they were an inch; legs stunting in mid-fall, shriveling into tiny hooked appendages; body bristling even as it shrank.

  And his face . . .

  . . . his face was the worst. It led the charge, mouth gaping and screeching, down and down.

  Charley ducked at the last moment, and the bat-thing snatched at him, coming away with a bleeding divot of scalp. Charley scre
amed and clutched his head. The bat-thing arched high toward the vaulted ceiling, turned, swooped again . . .

  . . . and ran straight into Peter Vincent, coming down the stairs. It bowled him over, attaching itself to his neck viciously, all teeth and tiny claws and furious beating wings.

  They fell to the floor in a heap, Peter fighting the onslaught desperately, the creature tearing at him and trying to secure a killing hold. Charley raced forward, grabbing it roughly by the wings . . .

  . . . and the bat-thing lashed out, jaws snapping, and fastened itself to his hand, shaking it like a pitbull shakes a rat, the blood spurting hot and black. Charley fell back with a howl, and the bat-thing turned back to Peter Vincent, pausing only once to arc its head back . . .

  . . . and laugh, an insane, impossible cackle that burst from its tiny lungs as the nightmare visage turned back on the prostrate form beneath it, eyes shiny and mad with blood-lust . . .

  . . . utterly unaware of the soft, bright beams of morning sun that inched down the stairs . . .

  . . . the killing sun . . .

  Charley looked up in pain to find Peter on his last legs, unable to fight any longer. The bat-thing reared its head in triumph . . .

  . . . and the first light of day hit it square in the head.

  Its scream was a hideous, bleating thing. It pulled its head away, one side crisping under the prolonged exposure. It jerked away from Peter Vincent and careened down the hall toward the basement, knocking over furniture and knickknacks as it went. A thick, acrid plume of smoke trailed after it.

  It smelled of dead things left too long in the sun.

  Charley crawled over to Peter Vincent, who lay coughing in the warming sun. “My God, Peter, are you all right?” he asked. Peter nodded, bruised and scratched but miraculously unhurt.

  They looked around, the sudden stillness entirely unnerving. Peter groaned. “Charley, help me up,” he said. “We don’t have much time.”

  Wounded and disheveled, they made their way toward the cellar door. Not knowing that something else made its way downward through a darkened rear stairwell.

  Something changed.

  Something growing.

  Something very very hungry.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  They descended the stairs to the basement with roughly the same enthusiasm Dante reserved for the Inferno. The darkness was complete, the only visibility provided by Peter’s flashlight. It cut swaths across the darkness, revealing a hodgepodge of musty furniture, all covered by heavy canvas dropcloths. Beyond them were what appeared to be four rather large windows covered with securely fastened blackout drapes.

  And there were rats. The flashlight illuminated scuttling bodies darting in and out of the row of antiques, poking whiskered faces out of bookshelves and cubbyholes, indignant at the intrusion. Not a lot—no great hordes—but enough to preserve the aura of decay.

  No coffin, though. After a dozen sweeps of the beam, Peter saw no sign of Dandrige. Or his coffin.

  Charley stood beside him in the darkness, holding a kerchief to his scalp. The wound wasn’t deep, thank God, but it had bled, and thin rivulets dried and caked on his cheeks.

  They glanced at each other, and without a word began ripping the dust covers from the furniture. They found several mirrors (evidently removed from pieces of furniture upstairs), a rather imposing chest of drawers, an armoire and several pieces worthy of Sotheby’s.

  But no coffin.

  Then Peter noticed the rats. Rats everywhere, but a concentration of them seemed to favor the armoire. He dropped down to the floor, training his flashlight underneath.

  His eyes bulged wide in his head.

  “Charley, help me move this thing!” They grabbed matter-of-factly and heaved . . .

  . . . and the rats poured out in a flood, beady-eyed and bloated. Charley and Peter just stared, silently mouthing Jesus Christ in unison.

  It was an alcove, tiny and oppressive. The stone walls were cold and mildewed. Another window, recently bricked up, adorned one wall (probably hadn’t had enough time to do the others, Charley thought).

  The rats were everywhere, hundreds of them, chittering and squawking at the intrusion. And two coffins: one ornate, hardwood, brass-bound; the other plain, little more than a large packing crate. Peter looked in the lesser, feeling the soil. There was something inside. Carefully he picked it up, shining his flashlight upon it. It was a jacket.

  Amy’s jacket.

  Charley moaned at the sight of it. He’d almost forgotten her in the madness of the last few minutes. He threw a concerned look at Peter, whispering her name.

  As if on cue, the stairs creaked. Charley started back through the darkness, toward the door. Peter called out, hoping to stop him.

  No such luck. In an instant, the shadows swallowed him up. Peter rushed over to the coffin, grabbing the lid with shaking hands.

  Only to find it resist. The clasps released all right, but some internal mechanism was evidently in place. So, he did what any vampire hunter worth his salt would do in such circumstances.

  He picked the lock.

  Charley picked his way carefully through the darkness; afraid of what he’d find, more afraid of not finding it.

  It: the girl he loved, the once-and-future Mrs. Charles Brewster. He pressed on, his eyes slowly adjusting to the darkness. He couldn’t stand it: the pain, the loss, the destruction of his car, his friends, his love life . . . his whole life. It was too much. It was unbearable. It was . . .

  It was standing before him, calling his name.

  “Charleeee . . .”

  He recoiled instantly. Amy looked hurt. She brought her hands to her throat coquettishly. “Don’t be afraid, Charley,” she purred. “It’s only me. Amy . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  She advanced slowly, with a husky sensuality he’d never dared dream of. Her eyes burned into him, red-rimmed and horrible, yet somehow . . . soft. Yes, soft and wanting. She wants me. The thought appeared in his mind of its own volition, a palpable thing.

  Amy smiled knowingly, unbuttoning her blouse as she spoke. Charley stared unbelievingly. She was naked underneath. She ran her hands from her belly to her breasts, an inviting, languorous gesture. “What’s wrong, Charley? Don’t you want me anymore?”

  He did. He felt himself slipping, wanting to slide, to slide fully into her . . . need. She had changed; she was ripe fruit, dangled in front of a starving man. She smelled of sweet, fresh orchids. Her breasts were full and heavy, responding to her kneading, nipples hard as thimbles. Her belly was firm and quivering, her mons . . .

  Amy took his hand gently and put it there, undulating her hips, a preview of coming attractions. Charley groaned and fell into her arms, pressing into her. Nothing matters anymore. Nothing but this, forever and ever and . . .

  He opened his eyes to stare at his beloved. “Oh, Charley,” she breathed. “I love yoooooo . . .” His vision blurred, started to fade. But not before he glimpsed himself in a mirror.

  Standing with his arms wrapped around nothing, dry-humping the thin air before him.

  Reality poured back into him like a bucket of icy sea water. He pushed away from her, thrusting his crucifix forward. She hissed like cold oil on a hot plate, burying her face in her hands.

  “It’s not my fault, Charley. You promised you wouldn’t let him get me. You promised . . .”

  She started to cry. Charley faltered, wracked with guilt. “Amy, I’m sorry,” he whispered, dropping his guard.

  And Amy whirled, teeth flashing, whipping one delicately clawed hand around to knock the cross spinning into the darkness. Charley never knew what hit him.

  She dropped the thin veneer, advancing on him slowly, like a hungry wolf advances on a cornered buck. Sure of itself.

  Sure of the kill.

  “I know,” she smiled. “But you’ll do.”

  Peter Vincent heard the commotion, guessed what was happening. He prayed that Charley could hold out a few more minutes, until he got the coffin open
. He glanced over at her coffin, a few feet away. In desperation, he leaned over and kicked it. It fell to the floor with a clatter, soil spilling everywhere.

  A scream cut through the darkness, an animal shriek of fear and outrage.

  Good, he thought.

  The lock clicked open. Peter threw back the lid, stake in hand.

  Dandrige lay in his coffin, not breathing, not moving. The entire left side of his face was a mass of seared flesh, the hair burned away, the eyelid drooping.

  Preview of coming attractions, he thought, and brought the stake down hard . . .

  . . . as the vampire’s arm lashed out, catching the old man by the throat, its one good eye blazing with raw, primal hatred. The stake missed its mark, plowing into the vampire’s shoulder as it sat up in the coffin, raising Peter several inches off the floor and throwing him . . .

  Amy screamed like a cat in a burning cage, leaping at Charley. He fell back against one of the mirrors, smashing it to the floor, where it shattered into a million fragments. He landed hard and scrabbled backward like a crab, cutting himself over and over . . .

  Peter Vincent landed in a choking heap upon the wreckage of Amy’s coffin. Dandrige rose up, the portrait of a dark god, wreaking vengeance on the desecrating infidels. He pulled the stake from his shoulder and flung it, the tip still smoking, across the room.

  Peter backed against the wall, mind racing. Dandrige scowled horribly.

  “I’ve had it with you,” the vampire spat. “You are dead meat, my friend.” He stood directly over Peter, leaning over to pick him up . . .

  . . . as Amy crawled up to Charley, his blood from a dozen tiny lacerations more than she could bear. She licked her lips like a dog in an Alpo commercial, thin trails of saliva pouring out the corners of her mouth.

  Charley backed into a pile of dropcloths and scrambled up over them, until he was flush against the wall. He spread his hands out in either direction, as if hoping to flatten out entirely. Amy grasped his ankles, making horrible smacking sounds.