The Stake

by Richard Laymon

  “Chicken.

  “What’s wrong with the way it really was?

  “Yuck. Horror’s supposed to be fun.

  “But there’s a real story there. Who is she? Who put the stake in her chest? Was the lock (brand new) put on the hotel doors by the same person who hid her under the stairs? Best of all, what happens if you pull the stake?

  “Lies there. Dead meat.

  “But what if life flows into her? Her dry, crusty skin becomes smooth and youthful. Her flat breasts swell into gorgeous mounds. Her sunken face fills out. She is beautifiil beyond your wildest imagination. She is breathtaking. (And bloodtaking.)

  “She doesn’t bite your neck, after all.

  “That’s because she’s grateful to you for freeing her to live again. Feels so indebted that she’ll do anything for you. You’re her master, and she will do your bidding. In effect, you have this gorgeous thing as your slave.

  “Real possibilities.”

  Nine

  Lane shoved her books onto the locker shelf, took out her lunch bag and shut the metal door. As she gave the combination lock a twirl, an arm slipped around her stomach, a mouth pressed the side of her neck. She cringed as chills scurried up her skin.

  “Stop it,” she said, whirling around.

  “Couldn’t help myself,” Jim said.

  Lane looked past him. The hallway was crowded. Kids were wandering by, talking and laughing. Those who weren’t with friends all seemed to be in a great hurry. Lockers slammed. Teachers stood near their classroom doorways, on the lookout for trouble. Nobody seemed to be paying any attention to Lane and Jim.

  “Did you miss me?” Jim asked.

  “I survived.”

  “Uh-oh. Am I in trouble?”

  “I don’t much care to be grabbed in public. How many times do I have to tell you that?”

  “Oooh, touchy. Are we on the rag?”

  Lane felt heat rush to her face. “Real nice,” she muttered. “Who died and made you king of the jerks?”

  He smiled, but there was no humor in his eyes. “I was just kidding. Can’t you take a joke?”

  “Obviously not.”

  He dropped the smile. “I don’t need this.”

  “Good. Adios.”

  Scowling, he muttered something Lane couldn’t hear, turned away and joined the flow of the hallway crowd. He walked about twenty feet, then glanced over his shoulder as if he expected Lane to come rushing after him.

  She gave him a glare.

  He smirked as if to say, “Your loss, bitch,” then continued down the hall.

  Creep, she thought.

  On the rag. What a shitty thing to say.

  She leaned back against her locker and took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. She felt hot with embarrassment and anger. Her heart thudded. She was trembling.

  Who needs him, anyhow? she told herself.

  I waspretty rough on him, she thought as she started down the hallway. It wasn’t as if he did anything all that awful. Just kissed my neck, really. No big crime. But he shouldn’t have done it right in front of everyone. He knows how I feel about that kind of thing.

  Even if I did give him a hard time, it was no reason to make a crude remark like that.

  She hadmissed him. All weekend she’d looked forward to seeing him again.

  She suddenly felt cheated and sad. Her new outfit made it worse. Like getting all dressed up for a party and being left at home.

  Why did he have to act like that?

  He can be such a jerk sometimes.

  Whenever he didn’t get his way, Lane got to see his snotty side. Afterward, though, he was usually quick to apologize, and he could be so sweet that she found it difficult to hold onto her anger.

  She supposed the same thing would happen this time.

  One of these days, she told herself, he’ll go too far and that’ll be the end of it.

  Maybe he just did.

  But the thought of breaking up with Jim made her feel empty and alone. He was the only real boyfriend she’d had since starting at Buford High — ever, for that matter. They’d shared so much. He might act like a creep sometimes, but nobody’s perfect.

  You’re just too chicken to dump him, she thought.

  In no time at all everyone in school would know they had split up. When that happened, she would be fair game. She’d either have to become a hermit or risk going out with virtual strangers — and some of them were bound to be creeps.

  At least you know you can handle Jim.

  True love, she thought. I must be out of my gourd. You don’t keep going with a guy forever just because he’s okay and you’re afraid you might do worse.

  When he tries to make up this time, I should just tell him to drop dead.

  On the rag. A, I’m not. B, screw him anyway.

  In the cafeteria she spotted Jim at one of the long lunch tables, surrounded by his jock friends. Betty and Henry were at a corner table, sitting across from each other at its far end, several empty chairs between them and the rowdy clique of girls occupying the other end.

  After buying a Pepsi at the “drinks only” window, she went to join them. “Mind if I sit here?” she asked.

  “Okay with me,” Henry said. “Just don’t embarrass us by sticking a straw up your nostril.”

  “The hell with that. How’ll I drink my pop?”

  “Take a load off,” Betty said.

  She pulled out the metal folding chair and sat down beside Henry.

  “So how come you’re not eating with Jim Dandy?” he asked. “Did your taste buds finally rebel at the prospect?”

  “Something like that. We had a little problem.”

  Betty, about to take a bite, frowned and set her sandwich down. “Are you all right?”

  Lane realized she suddenly had a lump in her throat. She didn’t trust herself to speak, so she nodded.

  “The dirt bag,” Betty said.

  “Want me to kick his butt?” Henry asked.

  “You’d need the Seventh Cavalry,” Betty told him. “And they already bought it at the Little Big Horn.”

  “Very funny.”

  “I don’t know why you put up with him,” she said. Her cheeks wobbled as she shook her head. “Good Lord, girl, you know darn well you could have any guy in the school. Except for Henry, of course. I’d be forced to kill him if he made a play for you.”

  “You ladies could shareme,” he suggested.

  “But I mean it, though. Seriously. Jim’s always giving you grief about one thing or another. Why do you stand for it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Because he’s so cute,” Henry said.

  “Stick it in your ear. This is serious.”

  “Maybe I will dump him,” Lane said. “It’s just getting worse all the time.”

  Grinning, Henry leaned sideways and slipped an arm around her back. “Saturday night. You and me. We’ll make beautiful music together.”

  Lane saw a quick look of alarm on Betty’s face. Then the girl narrowed her eyes and said, “Prepare to meet your maker, Henrietta.”

  “Sorry,” Lane told him. “I’d hold myself responsible for your demise. I can’t have that on my conscience.”

  “I’d die happy.”

  Betty’s face went red. She pressed her lips together.

  “That’s enough, Henry,” Lane said.

  He tried to hang on to his silly grin but it fell off. He pulled his arm in. “Just kidding,” he said.

  Just kidding. That’s what Jim had said. What was it, the standard excuse when a guy makes an ass of himself?

  Lane opened her bag and took out the sandwich. It was wrapped in cellophane. She saw egg salad bulging out between the bread.

  “Just trying to make you jealous, sweet stuff,” he said to Betty.

  “You’d stand as much chance with Lane as an ice cube in a hot skillet.”

  Tears suddenly burned Lane’s eyes. She slapped her sandwich down hard on the table. “I’m sorry!” she bl
urted. “Goddamn it! Don’t do this! You’re my friends!”

  They both gaped at her.

  “I’m sorry. Okay?”

  “Gee,” Henry said.

  “It’s all right,” Betty murmured. “You okay?”

  Lane shook her head.

  “I know just the thing to make you feel better.”

  “What?” Lane asked.

  “Let me eat that sandwich for you.”

  She gasped out a laugh. “Not a chance.”

  “Grab it off her, Hen, and I’ll forgive you.”

  He reached for it. Lane caught his wrist and pinned it to the table. “Try it again,” she warned, “and you’ll be picking your nose left-handed.”

  “He’s such a klutz, he’d put out his eye.”

  Lane let go. When she finished unwrapping her sandwich, she tore it down the middle and offered half to Betty. The girl leered at it but shook her head. “Go on,” Lane told her. “I don’t have much of an appetite, anyway.”

  “If you’re sure...” She took it.

  They ate their lunches and chatted, and everything seemed normal again. But Lane knew that damage had been done. Obviously, Betty had seen through Henry’s joking around — realized he would dump her in an eyeblink if he thought he stood a chance with Lane.

  Break up with Jim, and sooner or later Henry probably willask you out. Then you’ll be minus your two best friends.

  Jessica’s assigned seat in Mr. Kramer’s sixth-period English class was at the front of the room, just to the left of Lane’s desk. Today Riley Benson swaggered down the aisle and sat there. He slumped against the backrest, stretched out his legs and crossed his motorcycle boots. He looked at Lane. His face, with half-shut, sullen eyes, never failed to remind her of television news photos that showed men who put bullets into people for the fun of it.

  Twisting around, she saw Jessica in Riley’s usual seat at the rear corner.

  “We traded,” he said. “You got a problem?”

  “None of my business.”

  She turned to the front. The final bell hadn’t clamored yet, and Mr. Kramer rarely entered the classroom before the bell. She hoped he would show up soon. Riley had a reputation for starting trouble, and she was pretty sure that she’d already been chosen as today’s target.

  Thanks a heap, Jessica.

  The trade had to be Jessica’s idea. Lane could understand that. Battered the way she was, the girl probably wanted to be as inconspicuous as possible.

  It crossed her mind that Riley might be the guy who’d beaten up Jessica. She knew they’d been going together, and he sure seemed capable of such things. Maybe Jessica gave him some lip. She could’ve made up the mugging story.

  Lane looked over at him. His fingers were rapping out a rhythm on the edge of the desk. He had dirty knuckles, but they weren’t bruised or scraped. He might’ve been wearing gloves, though. Or done the damage with a blunt instrument of some kind.

  “You got a problem?” he asked.

  “No. Uh-uh.” She turned her eyes to the front.

  “Bitch.”

  This is really my day.

  She stared at Mr. Kramer’s empty desk. Her back felt rigid. Her heart was thumping hard and her face was hot.

  Come on, teacher. Where are you?

  “Fuckin‘ twat.”

  Her head snapped toward him. “Blow it out your ass, Benson.”

  The bell blared and she flinched.

  Riley’s lip curled up. “See ya after class. Count on it.”

  “Oh, I’m so scared. I’m trembling.”

  “Ya oughta be.”

  In fact, she was. Now I’ve done it, she thought. Why didn’t I keep my mouth shut?

  It was little consolation when Mr. Kramer entered the room.

  If only he’d shown up a couple of minutes ago.

  Roll book in hand, he settled down against the front edge of his desk and fixed his eyes on Riley. “I believe you’re in the wrong seat, Mr. Benson.”

  “You got a problem with that?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes, I do.”

  Lane felt a grin spreading across her face.

  Give it to him, Kramer.

  “Please return to your assigned seat. Now.”

  From the back of the room came Jessica’s voice. “I asked Riley to trade with be,” she said.

  “Neverthe...” For an instant, he looked surprised. Then concern furrowed his brow. “My God, what happened to you?”

  “I got wracked ub. Okay? Can I just stay here?”

  “Did somebody do that to you?”

  “No, I fell down the stairs.”

  Maybe she had a different story for everyone.

  “I’m very sorry to hear that, Jessica. But I’m afraid I’ll have to insist that you both resume your proper seats.”

  Riley mumbled something, gathered his books, and headed for the back of the classroom.

  Good show! Lane thought.

  No wonder Kramer was one of the most popular teachers at Buford High. Not only young, handsome, and clever, but he had the guts to keep discipline. Plenty of other teachers would’ve backed off and let Riley stay.

  Lane suddenly remembered Riley’s threat. She felt herself go hot and shaky again.

  Jessica slid into her seat. She sat up straight, facing Kramer. “Thanks a lot, teach,” she muttered.

  “You’re not outside, now. Take off those sunglasses.”

  That’s going a little too far, Lane thought.

  Jessica dropped her sunglasses onto the desktop. Lane could only see her right eye. It was swollen nearly shut. Her upper lid, shiny and purple, bulged as if someone had jammed half a golf ball underneath it.

  Kramer pursed his lips. He shook his head. “You may put the glasses back on,” he said.

  “Thanks a heab.”

  “Okay, we’ve wasted enough time. Take out your texts and turn to page fifty-eight.”

  Lane watched the clock. This was the last class of the day. It had forty-five minutes to go.

  He won’t try anything, she told herself. He wouldn’t dare.

  I’ll be okay if I can just get to my car.

  Thirty minutes to go.

  Ten.

  In spite of the air-conditioning, Lane was bathed with sweat. Her T-shirt felt sodden against her armpits. Cool dribbles trickled down between her breasts. Her panties were glued to her rump.

  With one minute to go she piled her books on top of her binder, ready to bolt for the door.

  The bell rang.

  She pressed the books to her chest, slid out of the seat and stood up.

  Kramer met her eyes. “Miss Dunbar, I’d like to speak with you for a minute.”

  No!

  “Yes sir,” she said.

  She sank back onto her seat and put the books down.

  Why was he doing this to her? Was he annoyed because she’d seemed in such a rush to get out?

  I’m doomed, she thought.

  Mr. Kramer stepped behind his desk and stuffed books into his briefcase. The kids hurried out. The room had doors at the front and rear. Riley didn’t leave by the front. He’d probably used the other door, but Lane forced herself not to look.

  Maybe he forgot about me.

  Fat chance.

  Mr. Kramer came around his desk and sat on its edge, facing her. He held some typed sheets in his hand.

  He wants to discuss one of my themes?

  But Lane could see that it wasn’t hers. It looked like erasable paper. The stuff always felt sticky, and the ink had a tendency to smear if you rubbed it, but she’d used it anyway until her father had told her to “throw away that junk and use some decent bond.” He’d gone on to say that only amateurs fooled with erasable paper, and editors hated it with a passion.

  “That isn’t mine,” she said.

  Mr. Kramer smiled. “I’m aware of that. What I have here is a book report that I found very interesting. It was written by Henry Peidmont. Is he a friend of yours?”

  “Yes
.”

  Henry, she knew, had Kramer for second period.

  “He’s quite a good student, but he does have a peculiar taste in literature. He seems to relish the macabre.”

  “Yeah, I’ve noticed.”

  Kramer fluttered the pages a bit. “This particular report deals with a book called Night Watcher, by Lawrence Dunbar.” He tipped his head sideways and smiled at Lane.

  So that’s it, she thought.

  I’m not in trouble, after all.

  Just in trouble with Riley.

  “He’s my dad,” she admitted, feeling a mix of pride and embarrassment.

  “Henry mentions that in his report.”

  Thanks, Hen.

  “We don’t have many real authors living here in Mulehead Bend. In fact, your father is the only one I’m aware of. Do you suppose he might be willing to come in sometime and talk to the class?”

  “He might. He’s kind of busy, but...”

  “I’m sure he is. We wouldn’t want to impose on him, but I think that the class might enjoy hearing what he has to say. I’ve never read any of his books myself. They’re not exactly my cup of tea.”

  “A lot of people feel that way,” Lane said.

  “I’ve seen his books on the stands, though. And I’ve seen any number of students with them.”

  “They need more parental supervision.”

  Kramer laughed softly.

  He may be a teacher, Lane thought, but he’s sure a neat guy.

  “I understand that the novels are pretty nasty.”

  “You were misinformed. They’re extremelynasty. I’m under strict orders not to read any until I’m thirty-five.”

  “I’ll bet you’ve disobeyed, though, haven’t you?”

  Lane grinned. “I’ve read ‘em all.”

  “Under the bedcovers, I presume.”

  “Some of the time.”

  “Well, I’d really appreciate it if you would talk to him. If he could find the time to come in, I think the kids would get quite a charge out of it. He might want to tell them about how he became a writer, why he chose to specialize in ‘extremely nasty’ novels, that kind of thing.”

  “I’ll check with him about it.”

  “Fine. I won’t keep you any longer now. But let me know, okay?”

  “Sure.” She picked up her books. As she scooted off the seat, she saw him glance at her legs and look away quickly.

  At least somebody appreciates the dress, she thought.