Don't Read After Dark: Keep the lights on while reading these! (A McCray Horror Collection)

by McCray, Carolyn

  They entered the ballroom as a huge clock lowered from the ceiling. Cecilia was impressed, until she realized that two tortured bodies represented the hands on the clock.

  Gross.

  The curtains parted as the crowd rushed forward. Which gave Michael and her plenty of room to make their way toward the buffet table. Maybe Francesca was right, and they did have chicken wings. Her stomach seemed decidedly hungry now.

  The undertaker emcee took to the stage with a flourish. The crowd screamed in anticipation.

  “And now the moment approaches! Midnight,” the emcee said low, stalking the stage, looking down upon the audience. “The witching hour. When everything evil lifts its head from the mud—”

  But a girl, dress ripped and bloody, burst onto the stage. Was this some kind of publicity stunt?

  “Help!” she screamed.

  Did Cecilia recognize the voice? It was hard to tell. Cecilia tried to get up on her tiptoes to see over the crowd as the emcee turned to the girl.

  “Looks like someone’s started the party early!”

  “He’s going to kill us all!” the girl screeched.

  Despite her stomach complaining, Cecilia hopped up, trying to clear the heads of all those in front of her. Was that red hair she saw? It was hard to tell, as security pulled the girl to the side of the stage.

  “What some people won’t do to get close to Diana Dahmer!” The emcee opened his arms wide. “What would you do?”

  Cecilia couldn’t hear the girl’s response over the screaming crowd. It appeared that they, too, would do anything to get on that stage.

  “I can’t hear you!” the emcee egged them on.

  How the crowd could get any louder, Cecilia did not know. All she knew was that the sound nearly popped her eardrums.

  The clock’s hands aligned at midnight as a loud gong sounded. Tombstones rose from the stage floor as fog spread across the stage. Cecilia couldn’t care less about any of that. She needed to know if that was Helen being dragged away.

  But if Cecilia thought that the teenage crowd had been whipped into a frenzy with the emcee, she had no idea of the response once the band hit the stage. The crowd rushed forward, nearly crushing themselves against the wooden barrier.

  Diana Dahmer, dressed in black skintight pants and no shirt, rushed out, screaming, a bloody handprint on his chest. If he was saying anything intelligible, Cecilia couldn’t make it out, but the crowd ate it up—screaming with him and trying to climb onstage.

  Off to the side, she saw that usher again.

  The one with the Inquisition costume.

  Weird. What was he doing up there?

  * * *

  Helen screamed as the hawk mask came toward her. She grabbed onto the security guard, clutching at his uniform.

  “It’s him! He’s the killer,” she pointed at the usher.

  But the guard pulled her hand away. “Damn! Keep your hands to yourself.”

  No one was listening. Could they not see the blood splatter on his cape? The wounds on her face? As the usher approached, it didn’t matter. She just needed to get away.

  “Arrest me! Arrest me now!”

  “Look, chick, I’m paid minimum wage.”

  As the usher stepped forward, Helen begged. “Fine, then get me to your supervisor. Now!”

  “All right. All right,” the security guard grumbled. The usher took a step back.

  That’s right, bastard. You will pay.

  Then, Dahmer screamed into the microphone. “Who wants to hitch a ride to hell?”

  The crowd slammed into the barrier. Dozens of teens jumped the partition and climbed onto the stage.

  “Need some help here!” one of the guards yelled from the stage.

  The security guard leaned in that direction. Helen clutched at his shirtsleeve. “No!”

  But then the usher was there, at her side. How did he move so quickly?

  “I’ve got her,” the mechanized voice said.

  “No! It’s him!” she screamed, but the security guard shrugged her off.

  “Fine by me,” he said. “She’s a handful.”

  The usher grabbed Helen around the waist and lifted her from her feet.

  “Help!” she screamed, but the crowd, the music, and her own tears drowned her out.

  “You’ve been a very bad girl,” the usher whispered.

  Sobbing, Helen knew exactly what the punishment would be.

  * * *

  “Do you mind?” Cecilia asked Michael, as she put her hands on his shoulder.

  “Not at all.”

  Cecilia jumped up, using Michael as a bracing, but the girl was gone from the stage, as well as the creepy usher.

  “Crashing the stage doesn’t seem like Helen,” Michael said.

  She glanced down at him. “Hello. Goat and golf cart.”

  This was exactly something that Helen would get herself entangled in. Not that her friend would have actually thought it through, of course. No, Helen was more the type to stumble into trouble rather than to create it.

  Taking one last look at the stage, Cecilia still wasn’t sure if it had been her friend.

  “Well?” Michael asked, as she hopped down.

  Cecilia couldn’t immediately answer him. Between all the jostling, the hot bodies surging around her, and the flashing strobe lights, Cecilia’s stomach protested, and she felt the nausea rise again.

  “Here,” Michael said, guiding her past the buffet, where he snatched a couple of crackers. He then escorted her to the stairs. “You stay here.”

  “But Helen—”

  “While you eat those, I am going to go find security to see if that was Helen. And if it was…” Michael smiled. “I’ll try to break her out of whatever lockup they’ve got.”

  Cecilia nibbled at the cracker, willing her stomach to behave.

  “But if I deliver Helen, you will agree to have one dance—only one, just with me,” Michael said as he stood up.

  “To this?” Cecilia asked, scrunching up her nose.

  “Even knights in shining armor need some reward.”

  Cecilia studied Michael’s face. He had done so much already, and had asked for very little in return. “Okay. One dance.”

  He clapped his hands and gave a thumbs-up as he backed away and turned toward the door.

  If only her stomach were so happy.

  * * *

  The wheels hydroplaned on the slick road as Paxton turned into the parking lot. The slip seemed dark and lonely, except for one little light down in a fishing boat’s hold. Slamming on the brakes, the car slid more than stopped at the curb.

  His partner didn’t even wait until he put the car in park before hauling ass out the door and drawing her weapon. Paxton followed suit, making his way to the other side of the boat. “Gimpy” Gomer was a rather pathetic career criminal and an even worse informant. He usually gave them the tip after the crime was committed. But the one thing Gimpy had in his corner was some serious sailing skills.

  And what better night to put them to use? With the Coast Guard locked down, no one would be patrolling the waters—a perfect time to move some seriously contraband product. But the boat looked as derelict as its owner. The paint, once a nice blue, had dulled to a cracked gray. That is, what you could see of the side that wasn’t covered in barnacles.

  As the rain beat down, Paxton leveled his weapon at the would-be pirate.

  “Gimpy, you wouldn’t be thinking of doing anything illegal, would you?” Ruth called out from the other side of the boat.

  The man looked up, spotted the detective’s badge, and threw himself toward the other side. His hand fished around under the railing.

  “Looking for this?” Paxton asked the scruffy sailor as he held up a small Saturday night special.

  “Hey!” Gimpy shouted, pulling the rain slicker over his head. “You can’t do this! You don’t even have a warrant!”

  Paxton hopped inside the small fishing vessel. “And what would we need a warrant f
or, Gimpy?”

  “I wasn’t doing anything wrong,” Gimpy insisted.

  Ruth too jumped down into the boat. “Besides launching against the Coast Guard’s orders? I believe that is a felony.”

  The man shuffled between Paxton and Ruth. “I was just … just … just prepping my rig for the storm.”

  “Sure,” Ruth snorted. “And I’m a size four.”

  Actually, Paxton would have guessed that she was, but who was he to judge a chick’s figure? Gimpy, however, looked ready to dive right into the water to get away from her.

  “Calm down, Gimpy. We aren’t here to bust your chops. We just need a lift.”

  The informant’s eyes darted back and forth between them. “What’s the catch?”

  “No catch,” Ruth stated. “Get us to the island, and the night is yours.”

  But Gimpy backed away, shaking his head. “You’re just gonna get over there, then call the Coast Guard on me.”

  Paxton caught Gimpy by the back of the shirt. “Don’t ferry us over, and we’ll call the Coast Guard over right now and search this tub. What would they find, Gimp? Huh?”

  As the boat rocked violently and Paxton got soaked for the second time tonight, the informant chewed his thumbnail.

  “Just taxi you over, right?” Gimpy asked.

  “You got it,” Paxton answered.

  “No bull? No FBI, no cops, and no Coast Guard?”

  Ruth put her hand on Gimpy’s shoulder, but Paxton doubted that the gesture gave the informant much comfort. “No—to all of the above.”

  Gimpy hobbled over to the railing and threw Paxton a line. “Tie that to the mast, and then get below deck.”

  Paxton did as instructed. Gimpy pulled the other lines as Ruth leaned into Paxton.

  “Sometimes you’ve got to love the criminal element.”

  If it was going to get Paxton across the lake faster, you bet he loved it.

  * * *

  Helen awoke to pain searing up her arm. She screamed as she found barbed wire tied around her wrists. She tugged at her arms, but that just dug the points in deeper. She screamed again. Helen knew that no one could hear her, not over the storm and the concert, but still she screamed.

  “Oh, just wait,” that damned mechanized voice taunted her.

  He then slammed a hammer into a spike that sliced through her skin. Through her muscles. Through her bone.

  Helen wailed as the usher swung the hammer again. The pain was so intense that no sound she made could ever hope to express it, so she simply descended into sobs.

  As the usher prepared another spike, Helen begged, “Please, no. No!”

  But the second spike drove into her left wrist. Her vision expanded and contracted. Her pulse raced. Her clothes were wet with sweat and blood.

  “Why?” she breathed out. “Why are you doing this?”

  The killer cocked his head at her. “It is not for us to ask why, Helen. Surely Sister Switzler told you that.”

  Of course she had. Helen’s head spun. Sister Switzler? How had the usher known her vice principal?

  “Oh, my God!” Helen stammered out. “You go to my school!”

  “And they all said you weren’t too bright,” the mechanized voice said. “We will see how the rest fare.”

  He swung the hammer again, shattering her wrist and all hope.

  * * *

  Cecilia stood four feet away from the buffet table. Michael had been gone awhile, and the crackers hadn’t lasted all that long. But still, she was loath to go to the food table. She had just gotten her stomach settled. She didn’t need fake leeches and intestines to unsettle it again.

  The speakers rattled overhead, broadcasting Diana Dahmer’s message of world peace and love. Yeah, right. While she wanted to know that Helen was okay, Cecilia was not quite sure how she was going to last an entire dance to this so-called music.

  But, no matter. She needed to eat. Scooting a step closer, Cecilia eyed the table suspiciously. Luckily, it appeared kids far braver than she had dug into the food, distorting its original, grotesque shape. It turned out that Frannie was right. They did have chicken wings. Gulping, Cecilia took another step closer. And what was once brain matter now looked more like egg salad.

  Cecilia grabbed for a plate, but someone grabbed her wrist. She turned to find John smiling a harsh grin down at her.

  “I see you finally ditched that loser.”

  Cecilia snatched her hand back. “Actually, he is checking on Helen for me.”

  “That redheaded bitch? You really need to ditch that crowd and hang with people who actually know how to roll.”

  “Like you?” she asked, as John beamed. “No thanks. I’ll take my chances with the demon worshippers.”

  John slammed his fist down onto the table hard enough to make the desserts nearly bounce off of it.

  “I am not joking.”

  “Neither am I,” Cecilia said, through clenched teeth. She glanced around. Where was Michael? Or even an usher?

  “Come with me. I’ve got something to show you,” John implored as he pointed toward the backstage area. “They’ve got these awesome rooms where we can be alone.”

  Cecilia noted a set of long scratches on John’s neck. Plus, images from the “torture” room were permanently etched in her brain.

  “I’ve seen what goes in those rooms, John, and I am not interested.”

  John stepped forward so that he towered over her. “You’re not the only girl here, you know.”

  “Thank Gawd!”

  Red flushed John’s checks as his fingers curled into fists. “You’re going to pay for that, bitch.”

  Cecilia had no idea what John would have done if an usher dressed as Frankenstein hadn’t walked up. “Hey, fresh chicken wings!”

  John turned on his heel and stomped off, leaving Cecilia shaken. Exactly how far would John go to end this rivalry?

  “So nobody’s sure who the girl…” Michael said from behind her, but once he saw her face, he frowned. “Cec, are you okay?”

  She put a hand on his arm. “I am now.” His smile helped warm her and shake off John’s fury.

  “You were saying something about Helen?” she asked.

  “Yeah. Security didn’t get the name of the girl, and the story is that one of the ushers let her back out into the crowd.”

  “So we still aren’t sure if it was Helen?”

  Michael shrugged. “It could have been Helen, or she and Quentin are holed up somewhere making out.”

  Cecilia felt like they should go out and look again. However, she really did not know how many of those “fun” rooms she could take. Plus, what if they ran into John again? Without a bat or an usher to keep the jock’s temper in check, who knows what could happen?

  “I know that I didn’t deliver Helen, but how about that one dance?”

  Cecilia looked out over the dance floor. The lights were dimmed as Diana Dahmer’s band struck up a softer tone.

  “This song’s got kittens in it,” Michael teased.

  Cecilia frowned. “To sacrifice.”

  Michael grimaced. “Maybe we won’t listen to the lyrics?”

  “Just this one,” Cecilia said, wanting to fulfill her obligation in case Helen showed up and they could leave this wretched island.

  * * *

  Ruth held onto the boat’s console as they hit another huge wave head-on. Water cascaded down, hitting the windshield and swirling on the deck. Now out in the storm, Ruth could understand the Coast Guard commander’s concern. Perhaps they should have waited. But with her son out there?

  On the one hand, Ruth was proud that Evan had done something—anything—a little bit brave. She knew she should be mad that he had lied to her and gone to this concert without permission, but she was having a hard time scrounging up the anger. After his father left, Evan had pulled into himself. He had never been a social butterfly, but the move seemed to shatter him.

  He was like a ghost walking in her son’s skin.

  O
f course, he decided to assert his rebellious streak right when a serial killer was on a rampage. But hey, at least he was coming out of his shell. Now she just had to make sure Evan was safe enough to enjoy it.

  “We’re going to get there in time,” Paxton whispered in her ear.

  She could only hope so. Ruth looked at Gimpy. As awkward as he was on his feet, the informant steered the boat with a sure hand. Even when it seemed certain that the next wave was going to knock them off course, if not capsize them completely, Gimpy stared straight ahead, watching for the next wave, preparing to hit that one square on as well.

  “Did you see that?” Paxton said, pointing ahead.

  A group of lights flickered in the distance, but then another wave rose up, blocking the view. But it was their first sighting to prove that Gimpy wasn’t just hauling them out to the middle of the lake to dump their bodies.

  “How much longer?” she asked Gimpy.

  “Depends on if we survive this next swell.”

  Ruth looked up to find a veritable wall of water in front of them.

  “Holy …” Paxton did not finish his sentiment. He didn’t need to.

  “Grab hold of something!” Gimpy yelled.

  Paxton wrapped his arm around Ruth and pulled them to the floor. Both of them grabbed hold of the railing. Glass shattered above them, spraying into them as the wall of water hit. The deluge drenched them. Ruth’s hand began to slip. She tried to regain her grip, but the boat bucked into another wave.

  Water poured into the bridge, nearly filling it. Ruth could hear the boat’s motor chug, then give out. With no forward momentum, the boat began to tilt back. The water tried to carry her and Paxton with it.

  But her partner’s firm arms were around her waist, securing her to him. His other arm held them fast to the boat.

  Gimpy cursed as blood ran down the side of his face. He tried to restart the engine as lightning flashed.

  Ruth panicked as she realized that they were nearly vertical to the water. One more wave… One more wave, and they would have an express water burial.

  But then the motor sputtered to life and lifted them up. Then the bow slammed back down onto the lake’s surface.