Fright Night (11 page)

I
t makes sense,
mused Peter Vincent,
in the most perverse sort of way. The Fearless Vampire Killer falls prey, in the end, to the most terrifying bloodsuckers of them all.

He held a handful of bills, all long overdue, many marked “last notice.” One was an eviction notice, in fact, giving him three days to vacate his apartment. It was just the sort of cheeriness he required to make his single worst day in history complete.

“Damn it all,” he announced to the room. The walls, and the endless memorabilia hanging from them, had no response. Evidently, over thirty starring roles in classics like
Blood Castle, Fangs of Night
and
I Rip Your Jugular
didn’t mean anything. Nor did five years as the only ghost host in American late-night TV who could show his own films. Nor did those same five years spent in the same apartment under the pretense that the rest of his life was taken care of.

Peter Vincent was scared. More than that, Herbert McHoolihee was scared. The man behind the pseudonym had been cowering since he first auditioned for a bit part in
Fingers of Fear.
He’d gotten a bigger part than he’d bargained for, and Peter Vincent had been born. Twenty years of relative success at the top of his field had submerged the insecurities of little Herbert.

But as the heroic mask eroded, he came more and more to resemble poor Dorian Gray’s portrait. His so-serious image had become ridiculous, even to his own eyes. His once-commanding features held no conviction. The weightiness of his former preeminence had become a 150-pound cinder block, attached to his neck by a stout length of chain and then lobbed into the river.

Herbert McHoolihee was drowning, and Peter Vincent couldn’t save him. Now, at last, the dream was over.

And the nightmare was free to begin.

There was a knock on the door. The landlord, no doubt, come to verify receipt of the killing document. Peter moved wearily across the room and let the door creak open.

There were a couple of teenage kids in the doorway. The boy was a bit on the freaky side; he had electroshock-therapy hair and a manic, slightly crazed expression on his face. The girl was much straighter, with short brown curls and wide green eyes gracing a virginal, prom-queen appearance.

“Mr. Vincent,” the girl said timidly. “May I speak with you for a moment?”

Peter got over his momentary surprise, assessed them briefly. They were clearly in earnest about something or other. Then he thought about the bills, and his empathy departed. “I’m afraid this isn’t the best time—” he began.

“Please,” the girl said, and there was no missing the desperation in her eyes, her voice. “It’s terribly important.”

“Ah, well,” he sighed. “Come on in.” A couple of minutes wouldn’t hurt, he supposed. Perhaps give the old ego a bit of a boost. He bade them enter with a sweeping gesture, closed the door behind, and led them into the heart of the living room.

“Now what can I do for you?” he continued. “An interview for your school paper? Some autographs, perhaps?”

“No,” the girl insisted. “I’m afraid this is much more important.”

“Oh, really?” Frowning slightly.

“I know you’re a very busy man, Mr. Vincent, but we’re trying to save a boy’s life.”

“Well, yes.” Harrumphing. “I can see where that might be more important. Would you care to explain yourself?”

“You remember a fruitcake named Charley Brewster?” the boy cut in. He had been gawking at the movie posters, with open admiration; now he stepped forward, focusing on the conversation. “He said he came to see you.”

“No,” Peter answered, wrinkling his brow with mock concentration as he shook his head.

“He’s the one who thinks a vampire is living next door,” the girl interjected.

“Ah, yes.” Peter grinned as he spoke. “He’s quite insane.” Then he flashed a look of fatherly concern and said, “Dear me, I hope he’s not a friend of yours.”

“She’s got the hots for him,” the boy said, leering maliciously. The girl blushed and smacked him in the arm with her fist. He yelped.

“We need your help to stop him, Mr. Vincent. You see, he really does believe that his next-door neighbor is a vampire. He’s planning to kill him.”

“With a stake through the heart,” the boy added, all wicked glee.

Peter stared at them for a moment. “You’re putting me on,” he said finally. The girl shook her head with total sincerity. “My God. Young lady, your friend needs a police psychologist, not a vampire hunter.”

“Please, Mr. Vincent,” she started to plead.

“I’m afraid not, my dear. You see, Hollywood beckons. I’ve been offered the starring role in a major motion picture. I’ve even had to retire from
Fright Night,
so—”

“You’re kidding!” the boy exclaimed. He looked suddenly crestfallen. It warmed Peter’s heart.

“I’m afraid so. Why? Are you a fan of the show?”

“Since day one,” the boy replied unhappily.

“Oh, my goodness,” Peter purred. “Well, we certainly can’t let you get away without an autograph, can we?” He started to rummage through the papers on his desktop in search of a pen.

“Mr. Vincent. Please.” The girl’s voice had taken on a sudden, sharper tone. He turned to her, startled.

“I’ll hire you,” she concluded. “I’ll give you money.”

“How much?” Peter interjected, quick as a wink.

“Five hundred dollars.”

“I’ll take it.”

Peter Vincent’s entire being transformed at the sound of those three magic words.
Five hundred dollars.
He could pay the rent and hold off the phone company, give himself time to find a new base of operations. There was a station in Cleveland that had expressed interest in him; God only knew how many other Saturday-night horror shows needed hosting by someone with his obvious gifts.

“So how do we go about curing your little friend of his delusion?” he began, all jolliness and willingness to help.

“I’ve got it all figured out,” the boy said. “We all go over to his neighbor’s house and run a little vampire test on him. You know, like in
Orgy of the Damned?”

“Ah, yes!” Peter was positively glowing now. “Would you believe that I still have the prop?” He reached into the vest pocket of his smoking jacket and pulled out a silver cigarette case. He flipped it open, revealing the white filter tips of his Carlton 100’s and the inside of the lid.

A mirror.

“You see?” he said, displaying it to Amy. “Most vampires don’t have mirrors in their homes. It would be a bit disconcerting, I’d imagine, to try to catch a glimpse of yourself and find nothing there.” He chuckled, flipped the case shut and put it back in his pocket. Then he turned to the boy and said, “It sounds fine to me, but has the neighbor agreed?”

The boy grinned. “I’ll take care of it. Umm . . . may I use your phone?”

Peter Vincent was more than happy to show him the way. The magic words were still high-stepping like chorus girls through his mind. He could scarcely imagine a more joyous piece of synchronicity.

All the clocks started ticking at once. The great grandfathers, the equally antique wall and desk models, all burst into perfectly synchronized motion.

Precisely at six o’clock.

In the front parlor, Billy Cole finished munching the last of his toast, took one final sip of tea and folded the newspaper neatly on the tray. He smiled, the tiniest flit across his features, as he glanced at the lurid headline:

RANCHO CORVALLIS KILLER STRIKES AGAIN
NUDE COED SLAUGHTERED
Details, pg. 3

Billy picked up the tray and made for the kitchen. His mind held only happy thoughts . . .

. . . Her name was Jeanette, and she really was a college student (or so she said), and she didn’t do this very often but she needed the money for the spring semester (student loan cutbacks, she said) . . . She was petite, but her breasts were very full and lush, they pressed against her bare forearm as he slipped the bag over her head and trundled her into the Jeep . . . She was still alive then, just barely, but no matter; it was a long drive to the quarry and he’d go slow. By the time he got there she’d be cooling and just right . . .

. . . Then he’d have his fun . . .

He puttered around the kitchen, tidying up. Dandrige insisted the place be kept spotless.
But not so bad, this work,
he mused.
Where else can one enjoy such delicacies?

Just short of 6:10, the phone began to ring. By that time, footsteps were already coming up the steps. Billy moved to the phone and picked it up, said “Yes?” into the receiver.

A moment passed, and Jerry Dandrige appeared at the top of the basement steps. He looked well-rested. He looked perfect, as usual.

“It’s for you,” Billy said.

Jerry nodded, entering the kitchen. He almost seemed to
glide
across the floor, though Billy knew that wasn’t exactly the case. It was just the unbelievable grace of their kind. For a second, he envied his master, then quickly clamped a lid on the thought. His role was different, by necessity. Their powers would never be his.

His powers were enough.

Jerry nodded politely and took the phone. “Yes?” he said pleasantly. Billy stepped back into the shadows and waited.

The master nodded, made little noises of amusement and agreement. It went on for about thirty seconds. Then he cleared his throat and said, “I see. Yes, of course. I’m always willing to help young people. But I’m afraid that the crosses just won’t do. You see, I’ve recently been born again . . .”

He grinned at Billy. Billy smiled back.

“Yes, exactly. I will not have the sacraments taken lightly in my presence. I must be very firm about that. My faith demands it.”

A second’s pause. “Yes, I’ll hold on.” A longer pause, followed by the little noises again.

“Fine,” he said finally. “As long as the water’s not sanctified, I see no harm in getting splashed a little. No problem at all.”

Another pause.

“Actually . . .” he said, drawing it out, “this evening would be perfect. We had a previous dinner engagement, but unfortunately, it’s been cancelled. A visit from you and Mr. Vincent would be wonderful. Please come . . . Oh, yes. Bring the boy and his girlfriend with you.”

Billy began to chuckle. Jerry waggled a finger at him, but the gesture had no authority. The master was desperately trying to keep from laughing, too.

“Yes, yes. Fantastic. An hour will be fine. I’ll see you soon . . . No, no, thank
you!
’Bye!”

He hung up the phone, and they looked at each other in the darkened living room. Billy shrugged and grinned, as if to say
Don’t ask me, Boss. I only work here.

“You know something, Billy?” the vampire said at last. “Sometimes I think that somebody up there likes me.” He pointed a long, bony talon toward the heavens.

Then they laughed, and they laughed, and they laughed.

“All set,” said the boy. “Now all we’ve got to do is get Chucko to join us.”

“I’ll take care of that,” the girl announced. She cast a slightly cold gaze at Peter and added, “If I might use your phone, now.”

“By all means,” Peter gushed, motioning her forward with a sweeping gardyloo. He recognized the expression on her face: the resentment, the grudging dependence, the godlike aloofness that came with holding the purse strings.

No matter,
he thought as she began to dial the number.
I doubt very seriously that I’ll have to put up with five hundred dollars’ worth of malevolent glances.

He had no way of knowing how entirely wrong he was.

FOURTEEN

T
hree studies in agitation: one contemptuous, one compassionate, one complete.

“It’s seven-oh-five,” Charley noted, somewhat twitchily. “He said seven, right? So where is he?”

“Don’t get your undies in a bundle, Chucko. The man said he’d be here. He’ll
be
here, fercrissakes.” Eddie turned and thrust his hands into the pockets of his flight jacket. “He better, for all the cash she’s dishing out.”

Amy kicked him, subtle yet hard. Charley paid no attention, utterly lost in his thoughts. “He’ll be here,” she said, touching her boyfriend’s shoulder gently. “I promise.”

Charley was about to respond from his bottomless pit of doubt when he saw the ancient Rambler chugging up the street. “He’s here! All right!” he yelled, rushing forward to meet it. Amy and Ed shrugged and fell in behind.

“He
is?”
Eddie was a little taken aback by the Great Vampire Killer’s seedy transportation. He expected a little more show for that much dough, even if it was somebody else’s.

The Rambler pulled up, shuddering to a stop. Charley bounced up and down like a cocker spaniel, scarcely able to contain himself. “Mr. Vincent, I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this.”

Peter Vincent climbed out of the car. He was dressed in full vampire-hunting regalia: a Victorian Harris Tweed suit, complete with mackintosh and cap. He shook Charley’s hand earnestly, laying it on with a trowel. “Not at all. Terribly sorry about our encounter this morning, but you must understand that I get similar requests constantly, and not all are as well founded as your own.” He looked at Amy. She smiled approvingly.