The Stake

by Richard Laymon

  Who’s going to write Pete’s book, he thought, if I have a heart attack and keel over dead?

  Pete opened the door. Larry shined his light into the lobby. Its beam trembled on the stairs to the left, jerked past the banister and downward, sweeping over the empty space to the right.

  They stepped inside. Pete shut the door.

  I’m in, Larry thought. Good Christ.

  The wind was gone. He heard it, but it no longer blew against him. The hotel was warm. Not as warm as the van, though. He couldn’t stop shivering. His skin felt tight. He knew he was goose bumps from head to toe. An icy hand seemed to be squeezing his genitals.

  He swung the flashlight back and forth. Over the sandy, hardwood floor. Across the registration counter. Along the walls. Turning slowly, he lit the boarded windows at the front. The closed doors.

  The click and blink of the camera made him flinch. Its automatic film advance buzzed.

  “Wanta get the general layout,” Pete whispered. He took several more photos, turning in a full circle to capture every foot of the lobby’s empty interior.

  While he reloaded, Larry squatted down to ease a cramped feeling in his bowels.

  “You okay?” Pete whispered.

  “Hardly.”

  “Crap your pants, you’ll have to walk home.”

  “Ha ha.”

  “I’m going up and get a couple of the landing.”

  Larry stood but didn’t go with him. He aimed the light at the stairs. Pete climbed them, holding the camera in both hands. And stopped abruptly.

  “Very interesting. Have a look.”

  Grimacing, Larry forced his wobbly legs to carry him to the stairway. He made his way upward until he reached Pete’s side.

  Four dirty, weathered planks lay across the landing. They covered the hole left by Barbara when the boards gave out beneath her.

  “You know what this means,” Pete said.

  “Let’s get out of here.”

  “God, I hope he didn’t take our vampire.”

  God, I hope he did, Larry thought.

  Hope he doesn’t show up.

  What if he’s the coyote eater?

  Larry shined his light up the stairs. It reached into the second-floor corridor, threw a faint glow high on the wall. He stared, half expecting a wildman to shamble into the beam.

  Pete’s got a gun, he reminded himself.

  But the scare will probably kill me.

  He wished he could make himself look away from the upstairs corridor. But he didn’t dare take his eyes off it.

  Pete drew the revolver. “Hang onto this for a minute.”

  Larry switched the flashlight to his left hand and took the gun in his right. He aimed both toward the top of the stairs.

  The solid, heavy feel of the .357 was comforting.

  Very comforting.

  Almost like putting on a coat, the way it soothed his chills and calmed him. But better.

  No wonder Pete’s been so cool about most of this. He’s had the pig-iron on his hip.

  Pete snapped a photo of the landing. Then, letting the camera dangle by its strap, he crouched and lifted one of the boards. He propped it upright against the wall. When all four planks had been removed, he took two shots of the gaping hole.

  No longer worried much about an intruder, Larry lowered his gaze to the break in the landing. He saw the splintered edges of wood that had gouged and scraped Barbara. He remembered the feel of her body when he’d wrapped his arms around her. The soft warmth of her breasts against his forearm. The way she’d looked later, standing in the sunlit doorway with her blouse open.

  His mind came back to the present as Pete began setting the boards back into place. He realized he was no longer shivering at all. He wondered if it was having the gun or thinking about Barbara that had taken away the shakes. Probably both, he thought.

  “Okay,” Pete said, getting to his feet. He held out his hand for the weapon.

  “Let me keep it,” Larry said.

  Pete was silent for a moment. Then he shrugged and said, “Sure, why not?”

  They turned around and started down the stairs.

  “We’re gonna have a lot of good shots of this place. Did that Amityvillebook have photos?”

  “Nope.”

  “Great. We’ll be going it one better.”

  They reached the bottom of the stairway and stepped around the newel post, shoes crunching on the sandy floor.

  The panel alongside the staircase was shut, just as they had left it. The body of Christ on the crucifix gleamed golden.

  Pete took a few strides backward and snapped a photograph to show the staircase enclosure.

  Stepping up to it, he ran his hands along a seam in the paneling. He tried to dig his fingers in, then gave up and took out the tire iron. He pushed its wedge into the crack. Slowly, as if trying not to make a sound, he pressed the bar.

  “Open, sesame,” he whispered.

  With a soft groan and squeak of nails, the slab of wood moved outward half an inch.

  Pete slipped the fingers of his left hand into the gap. He shoved the bar under his belt. Using both hands, he eased the panel toward him. Nails squawked. The gap widened.

  At last the panel came off completely. It was about four feet across. Pete stretched out his arms and grabbed both edges. He looked like a life-size imitation of the body on the cross as he lifted the panel and carried it aside — the crucifix almost touching his cheek. He propped the slab against the staircase, rubbed his hands on the front of his pants, then moved backward and took a shot of the opening.

  Larry waited until Pete was beside him. Together they stepped under the staircase.

  Let the thing be gone, he thought as he swung the flashlight to the left.

  It lit the foot of the coffin. Raising the beam slightly, he saw the old brown blanket covering the body. The blanket was propped up like a small tent over the stake. Beyond the upthrust area of blanket was the corpse’s dark face.

  Pete nudged him with an elbow.

  “What?” Larry whispered.

  “Nobody absconded with it.”

  “Too bad.”

  “I’ll get a shot from here,” Pete said.

  A small patch of red light from the camera’s flash attachment appeared on the blanket. It floated upward to the underside of a stair just above the corpse’s head, then found the face. Over the pounding of his heartbeat Larry heard the camera make brief, whiny buzzing sounds as its autofocus made adjustments. The red light trembled on the tawny forehead, touched a sunken eyelid, roamed down a hollow cheek and settled on the upper row of teeth.

  Larry shut his eyes in time to miss the sudden shock of brightness. He saw it through his lids. Then another.

  “Come on,” Pete whispered.

  He opened his eyes. He followed Pete. Though he kept the coffin lighted, he avoided looking at it.

  Crouching, Pete reached the end of the coffin and grabbed its edge. He gave it a yank. The coffin moved toward him, scraping on the floor. Larry stepped out of the way, and Pete dragged it past him.

  Dragged it out from under the staircase and into the lobby. Larry followed it out.

  “What are you doing?” he blurted in a loud whisper.

  “Don’t like it under there,” Pete said.

  “Christ.”

  Larry, himself, was glad to be free of the enclosure. But this was going too far. Way, way too far. The thing didn’t belong out here. It belonged under the stairs, for godsake, not in the lobby.

  “We’ve gotta put it back.”

  Instead of responding, Pete took a photo.

  The white of the flash hit the sandy floor, the coffin, the feet and face of the corpse, its blond hair, the blanket.

  The blanket.

  Larry’s chest tightened. “Pete.”

  “Stop whining, would you?”

  “The blanket.”

  “What about it?”

  “We didn’t leave it that way.”

  �
�Hey, you’re right.”

  Sunday, Pete had flung the blanket carelessly onto the corpse, leaving it heaped on the chest and belly. Barbara had pulled a corner down to cover the groin. Now the blanket was spread out smoothly, shrouding the body from shoulders to ankles.

  “Must’ve been the same guy who did the landing,” Pete said. He sounded pretty calm about it. Even without the gun.

  “That means he knows we found the body.”

  “He doesn’t know wefound the body. Just that someone did.”

  “I don’t like this.”

  “He’s not here, is he?”

  “He might be.” Larry pointed his light toward the top of the stairway. He saw no one.

  “He shows up, we can ask him about this.”

  “Right. Sure. What if he doesn’t like the idea of a couple guys messing with his vampire?”

  “You got any idea what a .357 does to a person? Just wing him, he’ll think he got hit by a Mack truck. So don’t shoot unless you have to.”

  “God,” Larry muttered.

  “Keep me covered while I get some skin shots.” Pete bent down and tossed the blanket off the corpse.

  Larry’s eyes and flashlight went straight to the stake protruding from the center of its chest.

  Pete wandered around the coffin, snapping half a dozen pictures. Then he faced Larry and lowered the camera against his belly. “Okay, pal. Time to see if she’s for real.”

  Cold streaked up his spine.

  “Don’t.”

  Pete grinned, raised his eyebrows. “You said we don’t want her if she’s a dud.”

  “For Christsake, it’s night.”

  Pete stepped toward him. He lifted the camera strap over his head. “Maybe you should record this for posterity.” He slipped the strap over Larry’s head. The weight of the camera pulled against the back of his neck.

  Pete stepped to the far side of the coffin and sank to his knees. He wrapped a hand around the end of the stake.

  “Don’t. I mean it.”

  “Don’t be a pussy, man.”

  Larry aimed the revolver at him.

  Pete’s smile fell away. “Jesus Christ.”

  “Take your hand off it.”

  The hand jumped off the stake as if burnt. “It’s off, it’s off. Jesus!”

  Larry lowered the gun.

  He shook his head. He couldn’t believe he’d actually threatened his friend with the magnum. He felt sick. “I’m sorry. God, I’m sorry, Pete.”

  “Jesus, man.”

  “I’m sorry. Look, we’ll take it with us. We’ll take it home. We’ll do the book. Okay? And you can take the stake out, but not till the right time. We’ll do it in daylight. We’ll cuff her first, or something, like you said. We’ll do it right, so nobody gets hurt. Okay?”

  Pete nodded and got to his feet. He stepped around the coffin.

  Larry met him beside it. “Here, you’d better take this thing.”

  Pete took the revolver from him. “I oughta stick it in your face and see how you like it,” he said. “Goddamn, man, you know?”

  “Go ahead. I deserve it.”

  “Nan.” He holstered the weapon. He clasped Larry’s upper arm and looked him in the eyes. “We’re partners, man. We’re gonna be richpartners.”

  “I shouldn’t have pulled down on you, Pete. I don’t know what... I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

  “No sweat.”

  They shook hands. Larry felt his throat go tight. He knew he was close to tears.

  “Okay, compadre,” Pete said. “Let’s haul this bitch out of here and head for home.”

  Seventeen

  “Don’t do it! I’m warning you!”

  “Ah, don’t be a pussy.” Pete started to pull the stake from the chest of the corpse. It slid slowly upward.

  Larry fired. The slug punched Pete’s forehead. A spray of blood and brains flew up behind him. As he tumbled backward, Larry saw that he still clutched the stake. It came all the way out.

  “No!” Larry shrieked.

  Hurling the revolver aside, he ran toward the coffin, toward Pete sprawled on the lobby floor, toward the pointed shaft clenched in his dead hand.

  You bastard! he thought. You bastard, how could you do this to me!

  Gotta get the stake! Gotta shove it back in! Fast! Before it’s too late.

  But he couldn’t run fast enough. The sand sucked at his feet. Moments ago, it had just been a thin layer. Now the sand was thick, heaped like dunes on a beach. Had somebody left the door open? He looked back. The door was open, all right.

  A man stood there, ankle deep in the sand, the wind at his back flapping his dark, hooded robe. A robe like a monk. The hood concealed his face. In his upraised right hand he held a crucifix. “You’re screwed now,” the stranger called. “Up shit creek without a paddle.”

  Terrified, Larry turned his eyes away from the stranger and tried to run faster over the soft, shifting sand.

  I’ll never make it in time, he thought.

  He was still far from the corpse. It still looked like a dried-up mummy. But he could hear it breathing.

  Maybe that guy will lend me his crucifix.

  He glanced back. The hood fell away. The stranger had the eyeless, bloody head of a coyote. The crucifix, now clamped in its maw, crunched as the thing chewed.

  When he looked forward again, he gasped.

  The coffin was empty.

  But then he saw that Pete was sitting up. He suddenly felt so overwhelmed with relief that he nearly wept. I didn’t kill him, after all! Thank God! Thank— He felt himself shrivel inside.

  Pete wasn’t sitting up because he was alive. He was being held by the brown hag on the floor behind him. Its withered legs were crossed around his waist. Its arms hugged his chest. Its mouth sucked and chewed on the exit wound at the back of his head.

  Larry yelled and woke up.

  He was alone in bed. The room was dark. Rolling onto his side, he checked the alarm clock: 4:50. He groaned as he realized this was Saturday morning and he’d been in bed less than an hour.

  He remembered what they had done.

  God, if only the whole thing had been a nightmare. What if I only dreamedthat we went out there.

  He knew it was too much to hope for.

  They’d done it, all right.

  At least I didn’t shoot Pete, he thought. Thank God thatwas just in the nightmare.

  He climbed out of bed. Naked, sweaty, and shaking, he stepped to the window. The moon hung low over the roof of the garage.

  He didn’t want to think about what was inside the garage.

  We’ve gotta call this off, he told himself.

  We’ve gotta take it back, put it back under the staircase.

  He wondered if he could do it by himself.

  No. Alone, he wouldn’t be able to face the thing, much less drive it out to Sagebrush Flat and drag it into that damn hotel.

  He returned to the bed, sat down on the edge of the mattress, slumped forward and rubbed his face. He felt wasted. He needed sleep. A lot of sleep. But he knew the kind of dream that waited for him.

  Never should’ve done it, he thought. Never should’ve.

  He wandered into the bathroom, turned on the shower and stepped under the hot spray. The water felt wonderful splashing against his chilled body. It soothed his shivers, eased the tightness of his muscles. But it didn’t help the fog in his head. His mind seemed numb.

  Won’t be able to write today, he thought. Not unless I get some sleep.

  Work on correcting the manuscript?

  That’s why you didn’t go with Jean and Lane.

  God, he wished he had gone with them. None of this would’ve happened.

  He saw himself in the hotel again, aiming the revolver at Pete.

  Hell, I wouldn’t have shot him.

  But even to aim at him...

  That was the worst part. That was even worse than the damn corpse in his garage.

  Just have to live with it,
he told himself. It happened, you can’t make it go away.

  The thing is to do the book for him. Even if it doesn’t hit the big-time like he hopes, it ought to sell. Give him a chunk, he’ll be happy. He’ll figure it was worth having a gun pointed at him. Then maybe I can stop feeling guilty.

  So write the book.

  Larry shut off the shower, stepped out of the tub and dried himself. He made his way sluggishly into the bedroom. He took a sweatsuit and socks from his dresser, dropped onto the bed and struggled into the soft shirt and pants.

  Write the book, he thought. But not today. Too wasted.

  In the kitchen he made a pot of coffee. He carried his mug into the living room, settled down in his recliner and started to read. His eyes moved over the lines of the paperback. But the words seemed disconnected, meaningless.

  One hour of sleep, he thought. What do you expect?

  He closed the book. He gazed into space while he sipped his coffee.

  Can’t just sit here like a zombie.

  Work on Madhouse, he thought. Should be capable of that, just going through and changing it back to the way it was in the first place.

  He pushed himself off the chair, picked up his empty mug and headed for the kitchen.

  Damn copyeditor. Hadn’t been for her, I’d be in L.A. right now. Wouldn’t have gone out to that damn town. None of this shit would’ve happened.

  He filled his mug with coffee, carried it into his work room and gazed at the manuscript. He sighed. The chore seemed too great.

  Maybe make some notes for The Boxfirst. Work something in about the guys going out to bring it home, stumbling across the campfire... the coyote eater... what if he’s a guy who’s connected to the past somehow? Could be a character in the sixties section. One of the bikers? He’s stuck around for some reason, mad as a hatter, living off the land.

  Maybe a dumb idea, he thought. Who’s in any shape to judge? Might as well put it down, though. Decide later whether it’s worth pursuing.

  He turned on the word processor and brought up the notes he’d made yesterday. He scrolled down to the last entry. “But maybe there are some other ‘box’ angles. Fool around with it.”

  A coffin is a box. There’s an angle for you.

  He typed, “Notes — Saturday, October 8.”

  Spaced down, tapped out, “Guys go to fetch jukebox. In ditch nearby, they find campfire and disgusting remains of a coyote someone had eaten for dinner. Who? A crazy hermit who was the main badass biker in the sixties section. He’s still around after all those years.”