Original Tales of Terror and the Macabre by the World's Greatest Horror Writers

by Del Howison

  “No, wait!” Whimsey called, and stepped up. He, too, was transforming, gaining an aura of mystique and sexual magnetism. Even Clyde suddenly found him attractive.

  “Let me take him,” Whimsey reasoned. “He can’t hurt me.”

  Del acquiesced, and Whimsey grabbed the changing Harry, hustling him toward the front door. Jason and Lisa had already removed the nails from the table, and were sliding it up to allow access to the door. Del ran up, dodging a snapping bite from the lupine Harry, and positioned himself by the door.

  “Wait,” Whimsey counseled, and Del saw that, indeed, Harry was still changing, his arms contracting into his body to become front paws, his spine curling. “Wait … now!”

  Del suddenly jerked the door open, and Whimsey stepped out into the zombie mob with the werewolf. “Good luck!” Del called after them, before slamming the door shut.

  Almost immediately there came sounds of roaring, flesh-rending, and ripping outside. Del pressed an ear as close to the door as he dared, and he heard the sounds go on for a very long time. They didn’t stop, but rather drifted away into the distance, as the vampire and werewolf evidently took down the zombies in an ever-increasing radius.

  “Pete, I think we all owe you dinner for that one.” Del grinned at the screenwriter.

  The rest of the night passed without event. There were no more zombie noises outside. Of course the toilet did overflow once, and several authors demanded that Sue order more copies of their books in the future; but overall the group was surprisingly calm and collected.

  At about 7:00 A.M. the next morning, Del awoke from where he’d fallen asleep in his office chair; Sue was shaking him. “What is it, was I snoring?”

  “The sun’s up outside. I think we should take a look,” Sue said.

  Del considered, then rubbed the sleep from his eyes, stretched, and rose. “Okay. Seems quiet.” He moved to the door and listened for a long time, but heard nothing. He pulled the board partly aside and peeked outside, then looked back at the anxious Sue. “Here goes.”

  He pushed the door open and stepped out, timidly at first. He took a few more steps, and then they heard him exclaim, “Holy shit! I need a beer.”

  “What is it?!” cried Sue.

  “It’s a fuckin’ mess out here! It’s gonna take us forever to clean this up.”

  Sue joined him outside, as did a few of the others. There were zombie pieces everywhere—hands in the gutters, legs on the hoods of cars, even a torso across the outstretched arms of the fake Frankenstein monster that beckoned customers into the store. Del picked his way carefully through the chunks of meat and almost stumbled across the naked Harry, snoozing peacefully near what was left of the foliage that had once lined the storefront. Del knelt next to Harry and gently shook a shoulder. “Harry … hey, you okay?”

  Harry looked up, belched, and went back to sleep.

  Del grinned and stepped back. “Yep, he’s just fine. Wonder what happened to Whimsey?”

  Del jumped a mile as Whimsey called out from behind him, “I’m right here, Del!”

  “Christ, Whimsey, don’t do that!”

  Whimsey actually blushed. “Sorry. At least we cleaned out most of this area of the city.”

  Del nodded. Behind him they were all pouring out onto the sidewalk now. Somebody pointed to a building just beyond Dark Delicacies. “Hey, check this out!”

  Del turned to look and saw the name “DANE KETCHUSON” written in blood on that store’s front. “Guess he just had to get in one last signature,” somebody noted.

  “So, Del,” Sue asked her husband, “what are we gonna do now?”

  “I don’t know,” Del admitted. He thought for a second; then, looking around at those others who had survived, he noted, “Hey, we could be the last people left alive on earth, and that wouldn’t be so bad, would it? I mean—the horror writers finally get their day!”

  There were cheers and applause. There were also more than a few male eyes turned to Glory Osqui, the soft-core actress.

  “C’mon”—Del motioned at the group—“I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m starvin’. Let’s go see if we can bust into Smart & Final for a shopping spree.”

  And they did.

  DEPOMPA

  WILLIAM F. NOLAN

  THE YEAR IS 1960.

  His name is Terence Rodriguez Antonio DePompa, and he is on his way to death.

  He is dressed in casual, wine-colored sports slacks and a white polo shirt. He wears doeskin driving gloves and a black leather cap. A knitted silk scarf, imported from India, whips out behind him like a white flag.

  The winding Mexican highway he moves over runs to a dizzy height above the Gulf of California, with the water spreading to the horizon in a rippled sheet of sun-dazzled gold.

  The car he drives is an open-cockpit Mercedes-Benz 300 SLR. Its 3-liter, eight-cylinder fuel-injected engine generates nearly 300 horsepower. At 7,000 rpm, this machine is capable of 170 mph. In a near-identical model, the legendary British ace Stirling Moss won the 1955 Mille Miglia, Italy’s thousand-mile road race.

  Terry had purchased the car directly from the Mercedes factory in Stuttgart after flying to Germany in his private jet. The tooled-leather bucket seat, in fire-engine red, was custom fitted to his five-foot-eight-inch frame (he looked much taller on the screen), and he had the Benz painted in U.S. racing colors: white, with a metallic blue stripe running along the hood and back deck. In the late 1950s, with this car, he’d competed during Speed Week in the Bahamas, winning the Nassau Trophy over a potent trio of Ferraris driven by the prime American racers, Phil Hill, Dan Gurney, and Carroll Shelby. Terry’s best friend was killed during this event when a tire blew on the back straight, but the loss was minimal. Best friends were easy to come by.

  Following the event, a fat banker from Chicago offered DePompa a million in cash for the Benz. Terry declined politely. That same weekend, over a rum punch in Blackbeard’s Tavern, he was offered a factory ride in Europe with Ferrari, which he also declined. A reporter for the Nassau Blade asked him why he chose to risk his life in a racing car. Why didn’t he just stick to acting?

  Terry smiled for the camera (the smile that had fired the hearts of a million young women) and told the reporter: “Well, you see, I’m not sure whether I’m an actor who races or a racer who acts.” It was a line he’d often used in the past to explain his passion for motor sport.

  Of course, there were many other passions: bullfighting in Spain, bobsledding in Switzerland, big-game hunting in Africa, mountain climbing in Colorado—and beautiful women everywhere. (He’d tried a man once, at a gay bar in Detroit, but that had been a fiasco.)

  Margaret, Terry’s ex-wife, was working as a top fashion model when they met in New York at a cocktail party for Howard Hughes (who never showed up). She’d been gorgeous, and still retained her slim figure. She also retained their mansion on the Riviera, Terry’s custom-designed white Cadillac, their lavishly furnished apartment in Bel Air, three million in diamonds, and their five-bedroom town house on Fifth Avenue. Terry had called her “a greedy bitch” in court, and she had called him “an egotistic bastard.”

  They understood each other.

  DePompa ended up giving Margaret almost everything her lawyers asked for. Since he was now paid over half a million for each of his films, he felt no loss. Keep the bitch happy. Get her (and her lawyers) off his back. At least she was sterile, with no kids to muddy the water.

  For Terry DePompa, the Benz is a sheer joy to drive, ballet-gliding the tight curves and devouring the long straights. He savors the raw power of this swift metal beast, all his to control, to dominate (in a way he could never dominate Margaret).

  Terry smiles into the flow of heated wind, pressing his booted foot down harder on the gas pedal, feeling the engine surge. Control. Power and control.

  He touches the slight scar along his left cheek, remembering the violent fight with Margaret in their Bel Air bedroom last Christmas when she’d raked his face wit
h her sharp nails.

  It is nearly dark now, and an approaching truck flashes its headlights at Terry—reminding him of the spotlights shining into his eyes at Grauman’s Chinese in Hollywood for the premiere of Pain World when he’d placed his hands and shoe prints in the wet square of cement, with the sensual redhead from Vegas pressing her soft, tanned body against his.

  He snaps on his high beams, illuminating the chalk white ribbon of cliff road stretching ahead. He enters a mile-long straight with a wickedly sharp U-curve at the end. Terry knows this road, has driven it many times.

  His foot jabs harder on the gas pedal and the Benz responds. Roars. Bullet fast. And faster. Eating up the road at 100 … 120 … 130 … 140 … 150 …

  The straight ends. The curve is here.

  Terry smiles.

  He doesn’t slow down.

  * * *

  In his small New York apartment, twenty-five-year-old Dennie Holmes sits in his frayed pajamas on the faded rose throw rug in front of the television set. His dark eyes are intent on the screen as he leans forward to adjust the volume. The voice of newscaster Morley Purvis is now sharp and clear:

  “… dead at twenty-four in the twisted, charred remains of his fast German sports car. Life had tragically ended for the young screen idol, cinema’s new golden boy, who was—”

  Dennie switches to another channel. This time the newscaster is a woman:

  “… with the cause of the crash shrouded in mystery. No tire marks were found on the cliff road, proving that DePompa did not brake for the deadly hairpin curve. Could he have suffered a sudden heart attack? His family physician, Dr. Mark Kalman, claims that DePompa’s medical history shows no evidence of heart disease. However, an autopsy is not possible, since the actor’s body was—”

  A third channel.

  Margaret DePompa, in her early thirties, is being interviewed at her New York town house. Slim, bottle-blonde, and cat-featured, she dabs at her eyes with a dainty lace handkerchief. Her voice is strained: “… but our silly little quarrels meant nothing. Like any couple, we didn’t always agree—but we adored each other. Had Terry lived, I’m certain we would have remarried. He was (sobbing) the … the whole world to me.”

  The interviewer, anchorman Len Lawson, moves the mike closer to her. “Do you believe that your ex-husband deliberately drove to his death?”

  The reply is fierce and direct: “Never! Terry loved life far too much.” And she continues to sob.

  Lawson turns to the camera. “The life he loved so much and lived so fully began in poverty for Terence Rodriguez Antonio DePompa …”

  The scene shifts to a small, squalid Mexican village. The camera moves along the dusty street to enter a crude adobe hut and center on a timeworn old woman. Her head is bowed, as she rocks listlessly back and forth in a wicker chair.

  Lawson’s voice-over tells us: “Little Terry DePompa grew up here, in this poverty-ridden Mexican village after the boy’s father, an Irish-Italian bricklayer, deserted the family when Terry was three. His mother, Maria, mourns her famous son.”

  The interviewer’s voice is soft and gentle: “What was he like, Mrs. DePompa? Can you tell us about your Terry?”

  “He … don’t like play … with other boys. He … many times run away … like burro … My Terry … he never happy here. Run away to Mexicali for job …”

  The scene now shifts to DePompa himself, speaking directly into the camera during an earlier interview:

  “At fourteen I was working in a coffin maker’s shop in Mexicali and spending all my free time at the local movie house, dreaming that someday I might be up there, on that silver screen. Two years later, at sixteen, I got a job on a lemon grove in Chula Vista, on the U.S. side of the border. The owner’s wife took what you might call a ‘personal interest’ in me.” A knowing grin for the camera. “She paid my way into Dave Corey’s acting class in New York—and that was the start of everything.”

  The screen features DePompa in class, enacting a scene, fists clenched, eyes blazing.

  The documentary now centers on Dave Corey.

  “He was a natural,” says Corey. “Terry utilized his inner pain as a weapon. Watching him was like being struck by lightning. He shocked you. I knew he’d be great. From the moment he walked into my class, I knew he’d be great.”

  Lawson’s voice-over again, introducing Sidney Shibinson of Universal Pictures.

  “Me, I got an instinct for talent,” says Shibinson. “When I spotted DePompa doing a scene in Corey’s class, I right away knew for a fact that he could be the next Brando. We signed him for Universal that same week and put him into Drive the Blade Deep, The Black-Leather Boys, and Restless Rebel. And bingo!—he becomes famous overnight and makes himself a ton of money.”

  The voice-over: “Money and instant fame opened many doors for young Terry DePompa, allowing him to experience life on a multitude of exciting levels …”

  Action photos flash across the screen: Terry on a bucking bronco … executing a veronica with a bullfighter’s cape … speed-jumping a wide ditch on a dirt bike … whipping down a vertical ski slope … dueling with a masked opponent … firing a shotgun from a duck blind … mountain climbing in the high Rockies … blasting a tennis ball over a net … skydiving from a private plane … surfing the crest of a massive wave … taking the checkered flag in his 300 SLR—always with a beautiful woman in the background.

  Lawson once again: “No screen idol since James Dean has ever touched the lives of so many young people …”

  A nervous teenage girl stands in front of a DePompa poster in the lobby of a movie theater, wearing a T-shirt bearing Terry’s smiling face.

  Her voice is intense: “My girlfriend and me, we saw Restless Rebel fourteen times.” She fumbles for words. “Terry was like … like a religion to us…. He was us!” A tear rolls down her cheek. “Why did he have to die? Why?”

  Lawson speaks directly into the camera: “Indeed, there are many unanswered questions regarding the tragic death of Terry DePompa. But one thing is certain: His bright image will continue to burn forever in the hearts of those who—”

  Dennie snaps off the TV. He begins to pace the room, hands fisted, his face flushed. “Damn!” he says under his breath. Then, louder: “Damn! Damn! Damn!”

  * * *

  The girl moves back from the table, eyes wide, betraying her fear. She keeps moving away from Dennie as he advances on her.

  “Dennie, I—”

  “Shut up, bitch! Didn’t I tell you to shut your lousy trap?”

  “But you lied. You didn’t keep your word.”

  Dennie slaps her hard, across the mouth, bringing tears to her eyes.

  “You cheap little tramp,” he snarls, “this is the last time you’ll ever—”

  “Hold it! Hold it!” Dave Corey mounts the raised platform, shaking his head. Several other young men and women, all aspiring actors, are seated in folding wooden chairs, forming a half-circle around the platform.

  “What’s wrong now?” Dennie demands.

  “You’re doing him again,” Corey declares. “The way you walk, the angle of your head … even the way you slapped Susan. All him. All DePompa.”

  A strained silence.

  “True art in acting is never achieved by using borrowed emotions. Each actor must find that individual truth within himself or herself. Imitation is not creation.”

  Dennie stares at him. “You figure I haven’t got it, right?”

  “I never said that. You possess genuine talent, but you’re blocking it. You are walking in Terry DePompa’s shadow. The trouble is, you won’t—”

  Dennie cuts in, his voice edged with anger. “The trouble is I’ve wasted my time listening to you spout a lot of useless crap. I don’t need you to tell me what I am—and Terry didn’t, either. So I don’t happen to fit your mold. Well, Corey, to hell with your mold, and to hell with you!”

  And he stalks from the room, slamming the heavy soundproof door behind him.

 
* * *

  Margaret DePompa’s town house is alive with a babble of voices, the chiming of cocktail glasses, the tinkle of iced scotch, and the muted cry of a jazz trumpet.

  “Some people think that New Orleans jazz is outdated,” Margaret tells the mayor of New York, “but I find it liberating.”

  The rotund little man nods. “It’s part of our native culture, and native culture is never out of date.”

  A servant approaches, hesitant to break into the flow of conversation. Margaret turns to him. “What is it, Jenson?”

  “A young gentleman to see you,” says Jenson. “He is presently waiting in the foyer.”

  “And what does this young gentleman wish to see me about?”

  “He did not say.”

  “Name?”

  “Dennis Holmes.”

  She frowns. “Never heard of him.”

  “He seems quite … intense.”

  She turns back to her guest. “You’ll excuse me, Mr. Mayor?”

  “Of course, my dear.” He glances toward the bar. “I’ll just have another glass of your excellent Chablis. Good for the digestion.”

  And Margaret follows Jenson to the foyer.

  * * *

  “I saw you on television,” Terry is saying, “in a newscast about Terry—and I just had to meet you.” He hesitates, nervous and uncertain. “I know this is an intrusion, but Terry … well, he meant a lot to me.”

  “Did you know him?” Margaret asks.

  “Not personally. I mean, we never actually met. But I’ve watched all his movies, and I’ve read everything about him … the cover story in Newsweek … the interview in Life … I even saw him race once, at the airport in Palm Springs. He’s been kind of … a role model for me, if you know what I mean.”

  “Yes, I know. Terry affected many young people that way.” She regards him intently. “Your hair … you wear it exactly as he did. And that red jacket you’re wearing …”

  “Just like the one he wore in Restless Rebel,” Dennie says. “I got it from a novelty store in Hollywood. They had it in the window—along with posters from The Ravaged One, Dawn Is for Dying, and Fury on Friday. I got ’em all.”